By lunchtime he hadn’t come home. Your father went out to look for him late in the afternoon. He’d hanged himself in the wood. Your father managed to cut him down but it was too late. He carried him home. He’d never have been able to do that before, but Tom was so thin. And your father said he couldn’t have borne to leave him in the wood while he went off back for help.
I looked everywhere for a note, Iris. But there is nothing. His bed was made. He’d packed his clothes into a case.
We won’t see his name on a memorial, but the war killed him just the same. We have lost, as so many people around us have, but I find there is precious little comfort in that.
Come home, my darling girl, for the funeral. We must all be together on that dreadful day.
Your mum
Tess
Iris was bathed in the watery winter sunshine, sat by the window, when Tess arrived. There was a brightly coloured crochet rug tucked over her knees; her hands were folded neatly in her lap. Tess smiled. Of all the things her grandmother had been able to teach her, of all the projects the two of them had worked on over the summers, she’d never managed to get her crocheting. Tess remembered watching the two hooks working furiously in Iris’s hands, blankets growing by the hour, while she grew frustrated by her own piece, the size of a beermat, more knot than anything else.
Iris didn’t move her head as Tess approached, her attention seemingly held by the garden, where a robin was at the bird feeder. There’d been a hard frost – the weak sun hadn’t made it across the whole lawn yet, so some of the grass was shimmery white, and there was still a deadly slick on the paving stones by the wall.
Tess would have come to visit her grandmother today, anyway. She came every weekend, and often during the week as well. But she’d felt adrenalin, this morning. This morning was not the normal Groundhog Day of these trips. Reading the letters had unlocked something magical for Tess, had transformed Iris again. Not back to the grandmother she remembered, the one she’d been mourning the loss of for so many months now. But to the girl Tess had never known. It wasn’t so much the secrets she wanted, intrigued though she was. She already knew the unbelievable sadness of it, and she ached with it – both that Iris had lived through it, and that she couldn’t share it with her. It was that glimpse of Iris that she really craved.
She knew that dementia patients often did better in the distant past than the recent past. She’d seen YouTube clips of people seemingly completely lost in the jumble of their own brains, brought back by a song, or a story. Not forever, not even for long, but for a moment … and she wanted that moment with Iris. It seemed important to try to get it.
‘Iris?’
Now her head turned, her eyes milky-pale. ‘Hello, Iris. It’s me, Tess.’ She kissed her powdery cheek.
‘Hello.’
Somewhere down the corridor, people were singing Vera Lynne songs in warbly voices. On the television in the corner, an old repeat of Saturday Kitchen was playing to a tiny audience of people who would never cook again, or worry much about what they ate. Rick Stein’s warm voice enthusiastically extolled the virtues of red-mullet soup in vain.
For a while, Tess just sat there with her grandmother. She’d brought the letters with her in a canvas bag, but she probably needn’t have bothered – she hadn’t seen Iris read anything in a long time.
They both watched the robin, until a grey squirrel swung on to the feeder, sending a scattering of seeds across the lawn, and the robin to the shelter of a nearby tree. Iris gave a little tut, her head bobbing almost imperceptibly.
‘You love the winter, hey?’ It was true. Autumn had always been Iris’s favourite season. But winter was almost as good.
Iris nodded, but didn’t answer.
‘I bet winters were hard, though, on the farm. You know, when you were young?’
Again, a non-committal nod. It was clumsy, and obvious. But Tess didn’t know any other way to do it. To try to take Iris back. And she so wanted her to go back.
‘With Tom …’
Iris turned her head sharply now, her eyes narrowed.
‘Tom.’ It wasn’t a question. She said his name slowly, as though she was testing it out.
Tess nodded eagerly. ‘Yes. Tom. Your brother.’ She searched Iris’s face for recognition, but Iris turned back to the garden.
‘The water in the troughs froze sometimes …’
A door had opened. Just a crack. Tess held her breath, and resisted the urge to push it harder.
‘We had to break the ice with a spade. For the animals.’ She lifted her hands, just for a moment, faintly aping a movement, a weak mime.
‘You and Tom?’
‘Mostly Tom.’ She smiled now. ‘I helped him. He hated the cold mornings.’
For maybe three or four minutes, Iris didn’t speak, and she held her face so that Tess couldn’t see her, staring out. The squirrel swung alarmingly on the feeder, but didn’t fall. It seemed like the door had closed again. Tess was about to give up. She told herself she could try another day, because hoping for a day when Iris might be more lucid was better than nothing.
Then, suddenly, Iris’s head dropped towards her chest, her face crumpling horribly. She visibly sank in the chair, like a deflating balloon, her neck at an unnatural angle, pushed into her shoulder. It was a violent gesture. For a second, Tess imagined a massive stroke was killing her. But it wasn’t that. Infinitely more frightening was the keening noise that came from her now. The sound of grief. It was as fresh, and as shocked and new, as if she’d just been confronted with it. Her voice was louder than it had been for as long as Tess could remember.
Loud enough to bring a nurse over, her face concerned.
‘Is everything okay?’
Tess was embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry … I was just talking to her.’ She sounded, to herself, like a child caught in a bad deed they didn’t want to confess to.
‘It’s okay,’ the nurse tried to reassure her. ‘It happens, sometimes.’
It hadn’t happened to Iris. Not as far as Tess knew. Not in front of her.
‘Some of our residents can get quite upset.’ The nurse bent over, a hand on Iris’s arm.
‘Ssh. Ssh now, Iris. Don’t go upsetting yourself. You’re all right. It’s me, Debbie. This is your granddaughter.’ She looked at Tess. ‘You’re Tess, right?’ Tess nodded helplessly. ‘Yes, see, it’s Tess. She’s come to see you … Don’t cry …’
It didn’t mollify her grandmother. If anything the sound was getting louder, and it cut brutally through Tess.
Everyone in the room was staring. A male nurse was coming over – two more had come to the door. Iris had pushed Debbie’s hand away, and she was holding herself, hands clamped tight on her upper arms. Tess touched her shoulder, horrified, but Iris shrugged that off too. Through the crying, Tess could make out one word: ‘Tom.’
The nurses were talking in low voices to each other. One left, and came back with a wheelchair.
‘We’ll take her to her room.’
Distress was evidently contagious. A couple of the other residents – the ones who had been calmly staring through Rick Stein a few minutes ago – were looking agitated at the noise Iris was making.
‘Is she going to be okay?’
The male nurse smiled kindly at her. ‘She will be. She’ll calm down. It’s just that in here –’
Tess put a hand up. ‘I know. I get it.’
Iris didn’t stop wailing while they picked her up – so easily – and put her in the wheelchair.
‘Should I come?’ She stood up and grabbed her bag.
‘Up to you. You might want to give us a minute … Have a cup of tea while we try to settle her. One of us can come and get you.’
She felt like a coward, staying behind. Debbie touched her arm. ‘I’ll stay with her.’ Tess nodded, gratefully.
She wanted to put her hands over her ears to block out the sound, but it gradually got quieter as they took Iris down the corridor towards her room. Tess felt
shaken, shocked. And horribly guilty. Did they have to do this often? She was gripped by the sudden fear that this happened regularly and that she was never here. The thought of all the pain made her want to cry.
She stared determinedly at the bird feeder in the garden, trying to focus, trying to control her breathing, which had become ragged. But taking deep breaths did nothing to stop the tears that ran down her cheeks.
She felt a gentle hand on her shoulder. She rubbed under her eyes with two fingers, pushing the tears away, and turned, expecting to see a nurse with an update. But it was Gigi’s son, Oliver. She sniffed hard.
‘Bad day?’
‘Not good.’ It was all she could manage. She heard the sob in her voice.
He walked around and sat in the chair Iris had been in.
‘I’m just going to sit here for a minute next to you …’
It might have seemed odd, but somehow it didn’t. It felt kind. He reminded her so much of Gigi. There was just … something about them. She nodded and smiled weakly. His not asking had the perverse effect of making her want to tell him everything.
Once Tess realized he wasn’t expecting her to speak, was just sitting beside her, she started to calm down. The sobs subsided, her breathing slowed. Her nose was still running, though.
Eventually she turned to him, and he smiled the big smile she remembered from the car park.
‘We’ve got to stop meeting like this.’ There was something like laughter in his voice, but it was gentle.
‘It’s not funny. You’re always finding me in a mess.’ She sniffed again.
‘I’m not laughing. Here, take this.’ He lifted one hip off the chair, pulled a blue handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to her.
‘You’re pretty old-fashioned, aren’t you?’
‘What can I say? Just like my dad.’
‘Thank you.’ She took it, shook it out and blew.
‘Okay?’
‘Better. My gran, she just had a … a turn, I suppose you’d call it.’
He nodded. ‘I was here. I saw.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘That’s an odd thing to say … What on earth would you have to be sorry for?’
It was my fault, Tess thought. You wouldn’t be so kind to me if you knew it was my fault.
‘I’ve seen it happen before. To other poor devils in here. It’s like … something suddenly haunts them, you know?’
‘Exactly.’ He’d got it completely right, without knowing a thing about the specifics.
‘It makes sense to me, in a way.’ She looked at him quizzically. ‘I mean, think of what your brain – your healthy, young brain – does to you at, say, 3 a.m., when you can’t sleep: you know how it magnifies stuff that you wouldn’t give a damn about in the day. Like it thinks – Oh, you can’t sleep – let me flood you with worries about everything you ever did, or didn’t do, or said …’
Tess laughed in spite of herself.
Oliver laughed too. ‘Self-sabotage. It makes damn sure you’re wide awake.’
She nodded.
‘So this is kind of the same thing … Do you see?’
‘I think so.’
‘I suppose none of us lives a life without regret, or without buggering something up.’
The sound Tess made was almost a snort. Oliver opened his eyes wide and smiled knowingly.
‘Those will be the things that come and mess with our minds, when we’re sat in places like this, in fifty years’ time.’
‘Wow. Way to cheer a girl up.’ But, somehow, he was …
He laughed again. ‘Yeah. Sorry. I suppose we must just resolve to live without regrets.’
He was looking at her closely.
‘Well … I already regret that you keep catching me in such a state. I’m not always like this, I promise.’
‘I can see that. It’s this place … it’s hard on all of us. If we –’
But then Debbie was back, with her kind face and her professional manner. ‘She’s calmed down a lot. You can come now, if you want.’ She saw Oliver then, and Tess swore her eyes lit up. ‘Oh, hello …’ She watched Oliver smile at her. It was the same warm, winning smile. The one that made you feel everything would be okay. The one that felt like it was just for you – like the beam of a bright torch. You daft cow, she thought. For a second, just then, she’d almost thought he was going to suggest seeing her away from this place. His ‘If we’ had been full of something … Delusional fool. Have you seen you? A weeping, foolish woman who can’t drive, with an ever-increasing muffin top. He’s just a kind, sweet man who feels sorry for you. Like his mum. Stop being pathetic. As if …
She looked ruefully at the balled-up handkerchief in her hand, as she stood up.
‘I’ll wash this and give it back to your mum.’
‘Or me.’
‘Thank you for being kind.’
She heard her tone. Dismissive.
If it confused him, he didn’t let on. ‘I’ll see you again.’
She nodded, backing away now.
‘I hope your gran is okay.’
‘Thank you, Oliver. Thank you …’
She didn’t see that he watched her until she turned the corner.
Gigi
Later that day, Gigi sat in a sandwich shop with Olly. They hadn’t planned to see each other. He’d reckoned on a quick run to Clearview, then back to town. But Gigi had agreed, happily, to meet him. The lunchtime rush was over, and there were only two or three other tables occupied. They ordered at the counter, and chatted about nothing much until the flustered young boy working there brought over a tray with their food and drinks on it. He was obviously new, and he made quite a performance of putting the right plate in the right place, and slopped coffee into Oliver’s saucer, apologized, and fussed around with paper napkins. Eventually, he retreated to behind the counter and left them to it.
Gigi reorganized the chaos he’d delivered, then looked at her boy.
‘You’re spoiling me with visits.’
‘And you should be spoilt.’
‘I can’t argue with that. This is lovely …’ She gestured towards her panini. ‘Melted cheese, hot chocolate and my boy. Three of my favourite things. Not necessarily in that order. But I only saw you a while back and here you are again. To what do I owe this honour?’
Oliver tried to smile, but didn’t quite carry it off.
‘Love?’ She knew her face was full of concern.
‘No fooling you, hey?’
‘Plenty of fooling me. But not from you. What’s up?’
He took a deep breath. ‘I think I’ve made a bit of a mess.’
‘Caitlin.’
‘You assume.’
‘Am I wrong?’
He smiled sadly at her. ‘Hardly ever …’
Gigi wanted to say a lot of things. How she’d known something was off. How worried she’d been. How she suddenly felt giddy with relief … But she didn’t say any of them. She slowly and deliberately cut her panini into squares, and stirred her hot chocolate, and left him the space to try to explain.
‘She’s a great girl.’
Gigi wasn’t convinced that was true, but it seemed inflammatory to say so. Either way, the sentence was damning on its own. You hung out with a great girl. You didn’t marry her. You married a wonderful, one-off girl.
‘I am really, really fond of her …’
There was such a ‘but’.
‘I mean, I love her.’ And a question in his voice, on the word. ‘She’s bright. She’s sexy. She thinks I’m the dog’s bollocks.’
‘Bee’s knees.’ She raised an eyebrow, mock-mother.
‘Bee’s knees. Sorry …’
‘And frankly, Golden Balls, she’s not alone in that sentiment. There’s always been something of an orderly queue.’
Oliver brushed off the maternal compliment. ‘We think the same about lots of things.’
Do you, do you really? Gigi thought. Do you feel the same about family? God – neve
r underestimate the colossal importance of a shared vision of your future …
She said the ‘but’ for him. ‘But?’
‘But I think I’m supposed to be feeling some things that I’m not sure that I am.’ He looked embarrassed.
‘Like what?’
‘Well, I’m supposed to be walking on air. Right? Obsessed. I’m supposed to want to be with her every minute. I’m supposed to not be avoiding any conversation about a date for a damn wedding. I’m supposed to be thinking that I couldn’t or I wouldn’t want to live without her. She’s supposed to be’ – and here he put out both his arms expansively – ‘everything.’
‘Yeah.’
‘That’s how you felt about Dad, right?’
‘When I married him?’ She thought about it. ‘Yes. It was.’ Her stomach twisted. She wasn’t sure whether it was for Oliver, or for herself. For them both, maybe.
‘And I’m not saying I’ll never feel like that … it’s just …’ He stopped, and thought. ‘It’s gone so fast. And she asked me.’ He shrugged. ‘She’s been let down, once too often. Mostly by men. Her dad, for a start.’
‘And you’d have been letting her down if you said no.’
‘Well, I would.’
‘Love. You can’t marry someone to be polite.’
‘I know.’
‘Or because you are kind, or because you are hoping for or expecting that the right feelings will follow afterwards. It’s hard, marriage. Hard work. If the right feelings aren’t there before you start, they won’t come.’
‘So how do you know?’
Gigi shrugged. ‘I think you just do. I think you said it already. I think you know what you’re meant to be feeling, and I think you’ve just told me you don’t.’
‘Maybe …’
‘Can you slow things down?’
‘That’s just cowardly, isn’t it?’
‘I can’t tell you what to do, Oliver.’
‘I know that.’ He sat forward, tapping his feet nervously against the floor, so that his knees shook. ‘Fuck. Fuck …’ He buried his face in his hands.
Letters to Iris Page 23