Tread Softly

by Wendy Perriam

  If only she could relax, like other people. The Citroën-driver on her right had been chatting and laughing on his mobile for the last half-hour, so maddeningly cheerful he probably wouldn’t turn a hair if the entire motorway network shut down. And to her left the family in the Volvo estate also seemed to be coping. Admittedly the children were getting restive and the boisterous black Labrador was steaming up the windows, but the parents hadn’t yet murdered either each other or their brood. At first she had exchanged occasional smiles with them, but now she stared miserably ahead, resenting their forbearance.

  ‘… plump, tender and ready to …’

  Turkeys meant Christmas, and Christmas meant uncertainty. Where might she be by then? Would the business be solvent? Would her foot be better at last?

  Judging by how much it hurt at the moment, the answer would seem to be no. And her back was aching hideously after sitting cramped up for so long. Also she was plagued by a vision of the rear end of the lorry expanding before her eyes, looming over her car and about to descend and crush it to a pulp.

  Quickly she ran through her anti-panic techniques: breathing, relaxation. Apart from anything else, she owed it to Ralph to keep calm. In her absence he’d been working all hours, and without his usual whisky to sustain him. She tried to drum up Ms Unflappable for moral support, but the character kept guttering like a candle in a draught, and although Ms Courageous proved slightly more substantial her voice was soon lost in another gale of mirth from the Citroën-driver.

  Ha ha ha ha ha.

  Angrily she reached for her mobile. She would ring Ralph. Not for a laugh – little hope of that – but just to feel less alone.

  ‘… cannot take your call at present. Please leave a message after the tone.’

  He couldn’t still be at the dentist’s, could he? If so, he’d be in no state to enjoy a celebration dinner. Nor, for that matter, was she. And as for sex, she simply wasn’t in the mood. She had planned to feed him steak and strawberries to an accompaniment of soft, romantic music, then coax him up to bed. Now all she wanted was to go to bed to sleep.

  She leaned across and helped herself to a couple of the strawberries. If only Oshoba were here he could lift her spirits: he would stroke her gently all over, kiss away her tiredness. But she was on her way to Ralph and had no right to be even thinking about Oshoba. She hadn’t caught an infection, thank God, nor had he made her pregnant, but she still went hot with shame recalling the night in his flat. Yet the memories persisted – indeed, became increasingly erotic as she imagined the two of them back on that sofa (no guilt, no sullen brother) and Oshoba crushing strawberries against her lips, trickling wine from his mouth to hers. Yes, she was in the mood, willingly surrendering as his tongue made …

  There was a peremptory hooting behind. She opened her eyes. The traffic had begun to move, as unaccountably as it had ground to a halt a century ago. Hustling Oshoba out, she turned on the engine, determined to concentrate on the road.

  Expecting only stop-start progress, she was heartened when all three lanes gradually picked up speed. Soon the traffic was flowing freely and, with a triumphant toot of her horn, she overtook the loathsome turkey. Without further delays she might be home by ten – a bit late for dinner, but perhaps she could persuade Ralph to crush strawberries against her lips, trickle wine from his mouth to hers. Unlikely in the extreme. But then so was his suggestion that they spend all night together. Ralph rarely asked for a present – however exhausted she might be, this was one he must have.

  It was ten past ten when she rang the bell. Rather than let herself in, she had decided it would be more of a surprise for him to find her on the doorstep with an armful of presents and food and wine. She took a breath, preparing to sing him ‘Happy Birthday’.

  No one came. Surely he wasn’t out. He loathed going out in the evenings. Besides, the lights were all on downstairs and Ralph didn’t waste electricity.

  She rang again. Still no answer. Perhaps he was in bed already. But he never went to bed before midnight, least of all when he had trouble getting to sleep.

  She found her key and unlocked the door. ‘Ralph?’ she called.

  Silence.

  She put the shopping down and looked around. The carpet hadn’t been hoovered, the hall table was cluttered with newspapers, and there was an unpleasant smell of pipe-smoke. Ralph knew all about the psychology of house-selling. OK, he might not remember the extras, like fluffy towels in the bathroom and gleaming kitchen tiles, but the least he could do was keep the place reasonably tidy.

  Snatching up the papers, she went into the sitting-room. Ralph’s chair was empty, but on the table beside it was a glass half full of … No, it couldn’t be – not after all he’d said. She picked it up and sniffed. Unmistakable.

  She stalked out to the kitchen. He wasn’t there, but a bottle was poking out of the bin, a full-sized whisky bottle.

  ‘Ralph?’ she called again, as she stumbled up the stairs. The lights were on there too.

  His bedroom door was ajar. She found him lying on the bed, fully clothed. His eyes were shut and his mouth gaped open, emitting phlegmy little snorts. A drool of saliva had dribbled from his mouth and there were stains on the front of his jacket. On the bedside table stood another glass, again half full of whisky. An ashtray had been knocked on to the floor, scattering black gunge and broken matches.

  ‘Ralph,’ she said, more sharply.

  His eyelids flickered and he muttered something indecipherable, then turned his head away.

  She walked over to the bed and stood motionless a minute, looking down at him. His suit was creased, his hair clung limply to his forehead; there were dark rings beneath his eyes, a grey scurf of shadow on his jaw. He smelt of sweat and booze.

  This was her husband. Her protector.

  ‘Ralph,’ she said, ‘how could you?’ Her voice sounded unnaturally loud in the silence. ‘Were you lying to me on the phone?’

  As he shifted on the bed, she noticed a tiny brown-edged hole in his shirt, where a speck of hot ash must have dropped from his pipe.

  ‘How can we go on living together if I can’t trust a thing you say?’

  The hypocrisy suddenly hit her. She had conveniently forgotten that he couldn’t trust her either. And breaking a promise to give up drinking was nothing compared to sexual betrayal. Shouldn’t she offset his offence against hers?

  She leaned over to loosen his tie. He looked uncomfortable trussed up in his business suit, but when she tried to remove the jacket he was a dead weight in her arms. Instead, she unlaced his shoes, placing them side by side on the carpet: well-polished leather brogues now showing their age. ‘Ralph, what are we going to do? I love you. And I’m terrified of being on my own.’

  He grunted and his hand groped out as if reaching for her, before flopping uselessly back.

  She was on her own already. More alone than ever. He hadn’t heard a word she’d said.

  She picked up the scattered matches and put them in the ashtray; took the glass of whisky and poured it down the basin in the bathroom. She refilled the glass with water and left it by the bed. The counterpane lay jumbled on the floor. She shook it out and spread it over him. Then she drew the curtains and turned off the main light – the glare would hurt his eyes when he awoke.

  ‘I’m sorry’, she told him, ‘for what I did. And for what I’m doing now. But it’s over, isn’t it? I don’t want to hurt you, darling, but we can’t go on like this. I’m leaving, and I’m not coming back this time. Do you understand?’ She smoothed his hair from his forehead, kissed the palms of his hands. ‘Don’t forget I love you. I always have. I probably always will. Goodbye, Ralph.’

  She closed the door, switched the downstairs lights off and went out to her car.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  ‘Vicky, may I help this time? I feel I shouldn’t leave my aunt – not even for half an hour, in case …’

  ‘Of course you can help.’ Vicky wrung out the flannel from the plastic bo
wl beside the bed and passed it to Lorna. ‘We usually start with her face and hands.’

  Lorna dabbed the flannel tentatively against the sunken cheeks. Agnes could no longer speak and the veins on her forehead were bluer and more pronounced, perhaps from the strain of her laboured breathing.

  Lorna cradled each claw-hand in hers and gently sponged it clean. The skin on the hands was also bluer, with similar rope-like veins. As Gwen lifted her from the pillows, Agnes put her thin arms around Gwen’s neck and clung to her like a baby. She looked troubled, startled, as if unsure of what was happening. Just being washed must be something of an ordeal for so limp and helpless a body, and even having her nightdress removed was a difficult manoeuvre, requiring Gwen’s and Vicky’s joint efforts.

  Lorna averted her eyes from the flabby breasts, the sparse wisps of pubic hair and the incontinence pad spread above a waterproof sheet. It seemed a terrible intrusion to see her fastidious aunt in this naked, pitiful state. On previous occasions when Agnes was being washed and changed she had tactfully withdrawn and waited outside; now, though, she was desperate to be included in these last intimate rituals.

  While Gwen washed Agnes’s legs and back, she went into the en-suite bathroom to scrub her aunt’s false teeth with the denture brush and paste. She had never known that Agnes wore false teeth, just as she had never known about her money worries or her grief and fear. Throughout her life her aunt had hidden pain. Lorna cleaned the teeth without revulsion – indeed with the utmost care and tenderness. Then, returning to the bedroom, she slipped them back into Agnes’s mouth, hoping she would forgive this further encroachment into her privacy.

  Gwen and Vicky were unfolding a clean nightdress. To avoid the distress of pulling it over Agnes’s head, they slit it up the back with a pair of scissors and slipped her arms into the sleeves from the front. Her eyes were fogged and unfocused, but Lorna could imagine her appalled reaction were she aware of what they were doing: ‘Cutting up good clothes? Whatever next!’

  Lorna no longer resented the nurses’ youth and vigour; indeed, she had come to admire their strength – not just their physical dexterity in handling and lifting patients, but their emotional strength generally in caring for the dying. Over the past two days she had watched them tending Agnes, invariably calm and loving as they did everything – and nothing. Nothing could save her now. In fact several members of staff who’d gone off duty had said goodbye and given her a kiss in case it was the last chance they had. Already she seemed to have retreated to some distant place, as if desiring to be rid of her burdensome body: the stick legs and skeletal feet, the loose sack of a stomach and shrunken ribs.

  Lorna helped make the bed, lifting her arms in tandem with Gwen’s as she smoothed blankets and tucked sheets. She had learned so much from the nurses: a slow, calm rhythmic way of working, accompanied by a simple explanation in case the patient could hear and understand.

  ‘We’re making your bed now, Agnes. It’s nice and fresh, with clean sheets. That’s it, lie back and rest.’

  While Vicky cleared away the basin, Lorna took the baby’s brush and drew it through Agnes’s straw-like hair, careful to avoid the cut on her forehead. ‘That’s better, isn’t it, Aunt? I know you like to be tidy.’

  Gwen and Vicky peeled off their rubber gloves. ‘See you tomorrow, Lorna.’

  Lorna nodded. All three knew perfectly well that Agnes might not be here tomorrow.

  ‘Goodbye, Agnes.’

  ‘Goodbye, Agnes.’

  Lorna bit her lip as each nurse kissed the withered cheek. There could hardly be a greater contrast between the Oakffield House regime and this haven of love and affection.

  When the nurses had left, she sat on the bed and held both Agnes’s hands. ‘Aunt, I’m still here. I want you to know that I’ll be with you … all the time.’

  Agnes half opened her eyes. She looked startled again, bewildered.

  ‘I’m here, Aunt,’ Lorna repeated. ‘You’re not alone.’

  A lie. Agnes had to pass that final barrier totally alone. No one could die with her.

  She licked her lips several times, as if thirsty. Lorna reached for one of the tiny sponges on sticks, moistened it in a glass and slipped it between her lips. Agnes was surviving on nothing but a few paltry drops of water. It was two days since she’d eaten, and then only a couple of mouthfuls of soup.

  Lorna settled herself in the chair. Yesterday they had brought a put-you-up into the room for her, so she could get some proper sleep rather than dozing intermittently. But it seemed wrong to lie down when she was here to keep vigil. There would be time enough to sleep.

  Strange, though, how slowly the hours passed, especially as everyone else was so busy. She was aware of constant activity outside: Pam with the tea-trolley, Carla with the mobile shop, Dr Stevens talking to a relative, Megan on her rounds. Even Agnes was occupied with the business of dying. As Lorna listened to her jagged breathing, she was struck by the thought that dying was in some ways akin to childbirth. In each case you were impervious to anything beyond the confines of your own body and consumed by immense physical changes you were powerless to resist. Eating and excreting shut down as you lay in thrall to nature’s whim. And, however many people might be on hand to help, none could really ‘come near’ as you struggled to expel the baby or to expel your final breath.

  Looking at Agnes, who had never gone through childbirth, she remembered her own first miscarriage: the terror (and outrage) she had felt at the fierceness of the pain. It had lasted eighteen hours – agonizing contractions whose only outcome was a mutilated foetus. Ralph had brought her flowers, a bowl of white gardenias, whose heavy scent was for ever after linked in her mind with bloody, half-formed limbs.

  She got up and walked to the window. Whatever happened she mustn’t think of Ralph, or she would unleash a tide of anger, pity, worry. She needed all her strength for Agnes.

  In the garden squirrels were darting about beneath the trees, an aggressively energetic one chasing its smaller rivals. And a pair of wood-pigeons rustled among the branches of the holly-bush, foraging for the last of winter’s berries. All creatures seemed to be busy. She alone had nothing to do.

  Except wait.

  The click of the door woke her. It was Emily – the softly-spoken night nurse.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Lorna, but I need to check the syringe-driver.’

  Lorna nodded, watching as the morphine was topped up – a drug she both blessed and loathed. It prevented Agnes feeling pain, but the increased dose made her nauseous and so prevented her from eating: killing her while keeping her alive.

  ‘Were you dozing?’ Emily asked after she had settled Agnes down again.

  ‘Yes,’ she admitted guiltily. Now that Agnes could no longer truly wake, she felt she had no right to truly sleep. They were both existing in a limbo where night and day meant nothing. ‘What time is it?’ she asked.

  ‘Ten to three. Would you like me to sit with you for a while? Things are fairly quiet just now.’

  ‘It’s kind of you, but I’m OK on my own. Honestly.’

  ‘Well, ring the bell if you change your mind. And please do call me if Agnes’s breathing becomes shallower, or there are longer gaps between her breaths. All right?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘And how about a cup of tea in the meantime?’

  ‘Lovely. Thanks.’

  As she sipped the tea, she noticed Agnes making tiny movements with her lips. Was she thirsty again, or could she be about to speak – the first time since yesterday? She put her cup down and placed her ear close to Agnes’s mouth. ‘What is it, Aunt? What are you trying to say?’

  ‘I … I want to go home.’ The words were little more than a whisper.

  ‘Home, Aunt?’

  ‘Home to … Margaret.’

  ‘Yes. Of course. You’ll … see her. Soon.’

  ‘Be sure to wake me when we get there.’

  ‘You are awake, Aunt.’

  ‘
Am I? I can’t tell.’

  How disorienting, Lorna thought, to confuse the boundaries of wakefulness and sleep, of life and death. Was Agnes frightened of dying? Should she ask, offer words of comfort? But she had none – the very notion was arrogant. Besides, fear was a subject she dared not broach: the terror of her present homeless, husbandless existence was coiled like a snake, ready to rear up and strike. ‘It’s all right, Aunt. You’re safe now.’

  Another lie. But how could she not lie? Just as Agnes had done – reassuring an orphan child that everything was fine. Had it ever been?

  Agnes gave a sudden feeble cough.

  ‘Aunt, are you OK?’

  Agnes coughed again and tried to swallow, then said with obvious difficulty, ‘I’ve got loud … noises in my throat.’

  ‘I’d better call Emily.’

  ‘Emily? Are there other people in the room?’

  ‘No. Just us.’

  ‘Us? Who do you mean? I can’t remember names.’

  ‘Do you remember Lorna?’

  For a moment Agnes seemed puzzled, then she gave the ghost of a smile, ‘My little Lorna?’

  ‘Yes. She’s here.’

  ‘Well, she ought to be in bed. It’s very late. Has she finished all her homework?’

  ‘Yes, all done. You don’t need to worry about her any more.’

  ‘I’ll always worry about my little Lorna.’

  She smeared a dab of Vaseline on Agnes’s dry, chapped mouth. As she leaned over, she saw her aunt’s lips move again and strained to hear the slurred, drunken-sounding murmur.

  ‘Is this the day that Margaret died?’

  ‘Yes. Just dawning. I’ll draw the curtains, so you can see. There, look at the sky – it’s beginning to lighten and the birds are singing already. It’s going to be a lovely day.’ She stood listening to the bold notes of a thrush bidding the world awake as the last stars faded and a faint ochre haze on the horizon gradually encroached on the darkness. Soon she could make out the forms of trees – trees still bare but promising spring leaf, magnolia in bud, the gold gleam of daffodils. A flight of rooks wheeled across the roof-tops on their way to the fields to begin their busy round.