The Last Day

by Claire Dyer

  We sit for the most part in silence until Boyd comes back and he too buys something to eat and the three of us wait for the much-advertised Visiting Time to start.

  ‘How did you get on?’ I ask as he sits down, his as-yet uneaten panini on a plate in front of him.

  ‘OK. One step forward, two back.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Honey leans over and touches his arm.

  He looks at her and back at me. It’s like he’s watching a tennis match, I think.

  ‘I saw a doctor, but he’s not her doctor. All he could say was that her doctor should be on the ward sometime this afternoon and to try and catch him then. You’d think I’d have a right to know what’s happening to my own mother, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘But you know what she’s like,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, I guess I do. I had thought though, that just for once, especially now, she’d thaw a little, take me into her confidence.’

  Honey and I exchange a glance as Boyd says this. He takes a bite of his panini. Swallows. Wipes his mouth on a napkin.

  It’s as though both Honey and I are waiting for the other to react, to get up and put our arms around this bear of a man whose heart, it seems, is breaking. I believe it should be Honey who does this, but I want it to be me.

  The last day

  Graham Silverton has been doing this job for ten years. He’d once hoped to spend his time doing something more extraordinary, like digging wells in Africa or discovering a ground-breaking cure for some unspeakable disease, but he hadn’t worked hard when he’d been at school, preferring to play the fool and impress the girls than get to grips with algebra and the subtexts in Shakespeare’s plays. And then came marriage and a mortgage, children and Henry the cat and so now he’s a driver for a builders’ merchants, plays darts down the pub on a Friday night with his mates and spends Saturdays on the touchlines of football pitches watching his son not quite being the brilliant player he’d dreamed he might.

  As Graham drives he glances at people’s houses and gardens. He studies the faces of the people in the vehicles next to him at traffic lights and junctions and he listens to the radio, wondering whether there’s another life out there he could be living. Sometimes he sees a beautiful woman on the pavement and thinks thoughts he shouldn’t think about hot skin and risky sex but then he remembers his wife, his kids, his house, mortgage and cat and becomes the perfectly ordinary man he mostly believes himself to be.

  On the last day, as he’s driving along the ring road, an Aston Martin sweeps by him, all sleek and shiny. He watches it disappear round the bend and then checks the time. He’s running a little late with this delivery so decides to take a short cut through town. He knows the way so doesn’t need the satnav. He indicates and switches lanes ready to take the next exit.

  Boyd

  When at last he’s allowed on to the ward, Boyd’s first thought is how tiny his mother looks in the hospital bed. He pulls up a chair and sits, placing his hands on his knees. Her bed is next to the window and, outside, the clouds are steely and bulbous. It’s an ugly autumn day.

  ‘You needn’t have come,’ she says.

  ‘We wanted to.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Yes, Vita and Honey came too.’

  ‘Why would they come? Especially that woman.’

  Boyd hesitates for a second, not totally sure which woman his mother is referring to, but then says, ‘If you mean Honey, well, she wanted to come. She wants to have the chance to meet you, you know before …’

  He tails off and his mother jumps in with, ‘… before I snuff it, you mean.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t have put it quite like that.’

  ‘Mmmm,’ she closes her eyes and turns her head away. ‘I’m tired,’ she says. ‘Not sure if I’m up to visitors today.’

  ‘Oh come on, Mum,’ he says. ‘We’ve come specially and Honey’s got a broken ankle. That’s why I was here yesterday.’

  Without her make-up and clothes, his mother is a different person: gone is the aura of pretence she’s always worn, the pretence that says everything is fine, when really it isn’t. Of course Boyd has always known this, but like the rest of the world he’s been beguiled by the image his mother has put across. She’s always had the ability to make him feel like he doesn’t deserve to breathe the same air as her, as if she’s in some way superior to him. The only time he’d seen her unmasked was at William’s funeral. Then she’d been pale, subdued, overwhelmed, as had he and Vita, of course, but it was odd seeing his mother like that; it had made him wonder whether the fact he’s not seen her clearly all these years was actually not her fault, but his.

  Perhaps he had just been looking at her from the wrong angle.

  And now she’s here, pale and overwhelmed again, dressed in a white cotton nightie, the skin around her neck mottled and wrinkled, her hair flattened on one side from when she’d been sleeping. The perfectly dressed and coiffured woman of yesterday has, it seems, been replaced by a stranger, much like she’d appeared to him all those years ago when she’d made him promise not to find his father …

  She hasn’t replied to Boyd’s comment about Honey’s ankle and so he continues, ‘I was hoping to speak to a doctor while I was here.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To find out what’s going on. How I can help.’

  ‘You could ask me. I’m not dead yet.’

  She’s picking at the bedclothes with her fingernails and then winces.

  ‘You in pain?’

  ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me sooner? About the cancer I mean. You should have told me.’ He hadn’t wanted to say this, not this afternoon, not on this first visit, but he knows he has to sometime and so he does, he has.

  ‘What would have been the point? You couldn’t have done anything.’

  ‘Not medically perhaps, but we could have talked about it.’

  ‘There wouldn’t have been any point in that either. There’s nothing to say. I’ll stay here while they get my medication sorted and then they’ll find somewhere for me to go for the palliative bit. It’s quite simple.’

  Boyd really can’t fathom his mother. It’s as though she’s talking about a neighbour, not herself, and so he blurts out, ‘Aren’t you cross?’

  And then Belle looks straight at him. There is, he can see, some of her famed beauty left. It’s in the directness of her gaze, the way her mouth moves. Somewhere deeply hidden are remnants of the woman in the photographs he’d pored over as a boy.

  ‘Of course I’m cross,’ she says. ‘I’m bloody furious. But it’s happening and I can’t stop it. I just wish …’

  ‘Yes?’ He leans in; he feels huge next to her. His mother had always been a large presence in his life. She might have been small in stature but her presence had made her loud, difficult and permanent. And now? Now there is something temporary about her; as if her colours are fading, like how book covers bleach if they’re left too long in the sun.

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter.’ She puffs out a breath and grips on to the blanket again.

  ‘I’ll get a nurse,’ he says.

  ‘Don’t fuss. For heaven’s sake, Boyd. Just leave it.’

  They fall silent for a moment or two and Boyd’s aware of the other patients on the ward, the purposeful stepping of the nurses, the bleep and drip and shuffle of medical paraphernalia, the distant sound of sirens, and he thinks about all the dramas being played out across the country; the tiny ones and the vast. He thinks of the births and of other deaths and of hearts being broken and of people making love in hotel rooms, people who have left their real lives behind them for an hour or so.

  Then his mother says, ‘Vita! How lovely to see you.’

  ‘Hope you don’t mind,’ Vita says as she approaches the bed. ‘I was anxious to know what was happening. We drew straws, Honey and I, and so I’m here to find out.’

  Boyd watches Vita; she is terribly recognisable and yet unfamiliar in this strange setting. He has the overpowe
ring urge to feel her body against his, tucked in by his side like it used to be.

  For a moment, this triangle – him, her, his mother – is making sense again and he’s back in his mother’s house: it’s the afternoon, he’s coming in from mending a fence and finds his mother and Vita talking about biscuits and babies.

  But he mustn’t think this and so he says, ‘How is she? Honey, I mean?’

  ‘She’s fine. She was on the phone to Trixie when I left her in the restaurant.’

  ‘I’ll go and get her in a bit, bring her up here.’

  ‘You can go now if you like,’ Vita says. She’s taken her glasses off and is cleaning them with the hem of her top.

  ‘You’re still doing that then?’ Belle asks.

  ‘What?’ Vita replies.

  ‘Cleaning your glasses like that.’

  ‘Guess I am.’

  Boyd’s wife and mother smile at one another and Vita moves a blanket from the armchair next to Belle’s bed and sits down. ‘Right,’ she says, ‘tell me what bollocks the doctors have been telling you then, Belle. Moan as much as you like. I can stay all afternoon if you’d like me to.’

  Yes, thinks Boyd, this is how to treat my mother. He’s always pussy-footed around her far too much, been too needy. Perhaps if Vita had been around more during these last few years, he and his mother wouldn’t have got into this impasse and, shit, he thinks, I still have Honey to consider. How on earth is all that going to play out?

  He leaves them chatting, or being as chatty as Vita and Belle can be. Vita had told him that her relationship with Colin was no hearts and flowers thing and, come to think of it, Vita’s never had a hearts and flowers relationship with anyone, not even him. She’s always been muscular, unforgiving, principled, fearless: the absolute opposite of Honey.

  Honey

  It’s a relief to be alone for a bit. The past twenty-four hours have, if she’s honest, been a bit of a challenge.

  When she had eventually got through to Trixie, she’d sounded a bit odd – flustered and out of breath – but had said she’d been tidying up a bit, so maybe that was why.

  Honey slips her phone into her bag and leans back in the chair. The last coffee Vita bought her has gone cold but that’s OK, she’s happy sitting here watching the world pass by. She sees children and pensioners and harried medical staff in white coats with stethoscopes around their necks, she sees busy receptionists and volunteers driving mobility buggies. It’s its own world in here: it has its own ecosystem, its own sets of rules. She is just a visitor, a passer-through.

  Her leg is hurting and so she props it up on a chair and, for want of anything better to do, plucks her phone back out of her bag and unlocks it. There’s a text she must have missed the last time she checked. It’s from a number she doesn’t recognise and yet, instinctively, she opens it.

  It says, ‘How are you today? Regards, The Boatman’.

  She drops the phone on to the table top, the plastic cover makes a slapping sound. Such is the force of its fall that the phone spins for a few seconds until it settles and stills. However much she stares at it though, however quietly it is sitting on the table, the message on it will still be there.

  Why did she think that just by blocking the first number he would stop? After all, wasn’t he there watching her as they drove away this morning? Didn’t Elizabeth say he’d find her in the end? It’s easy to buy another pay-as-you-go phone and it’s easy to keep on buying them and sending texts. And she can’t change her number without Boyd getting suspicious. A heavy weight settles in her stomach, she lowers her head and is aware that she’s twisting her hands again. It’s not going to be long before Vita realises that there’s more to this than Honey’s told her. She is, she realises, starting to let the cracks show. She knows she’s never going to be free of her past, not until Reuben Roberts holds her to account or makes sure she stays quiet for good. After all, he’s lost something precious. He needs someone to blame and it was her fault, all of it was her fault. She wants to run, but obviously she can’t. ‘Fuck,’ she says out loud. ‘Fuck.’

  ‘Honey?’ Boyd is walking towards her. She looks up, startled. ‘You OK?’ he asks.

  She swallows hard, reaches out for her phone and puts it back in her bag. She imagines the text has burnt a hole in the screen.

  ‘Of course,’ she says. ‘As OK as I can be. My bum’s gone numb from sitting here for so long and I’m desperate for a wee.’

  She’s acting and she knows it and it’s taking up every ounce of her energy and concentration. She really wishes it didn’t have to be like this.

  ‘Come on then hop-a-long,’ he says, helping her up. ‘There’s bound to be a loo on the way to the ward.’

  ‘I’m going to meet her now?’

  ‘Yes. Vita’s sitting with her at the moment, but said she’d make way for you when you arrive.’

  ‘That’s kind.’

  Honey’s nervous, stupidly nervous. She feels dishevelled and far too young to be going through all this. She wants to run away from this, too, and obviously, she can’t.

  Boyd is helping her into the wheelchair; he’s putting her bag on her lap and is resting a huge hand on her arm. His touch is warm and reassuring and it reminds her how much she loves him. She thinks back to that time in the car wash, the first time they made love, she thinks of the nights falling asleep next to him and the mornings waking up with him there.

  She thinks about the grief she’s helping to shelter him from and the decision he made to leave Vita, she is helping him here too; it is her job to make sure he is as happy as he can be with what he’s got now. Boyd is no hero, not in the Hollywood sense of the word, but he is a good man: a good, loyal, steadfast, honest man who wears his heart on his sleeve. She owes it to him, she tells herself, to see this through.

  They’re making slow progress and stop off on the way. She struggles into the cubicle in the Ladies’ and then touches up her make-up and runs her fingers through her hair.

  ‘How is she?’ she asks when she’s back in the chair and once again Boyd’s pushing her along. Her crutches are tucked down by her side and the handles are pressing into her thigh.

  ‘Who? My mother?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Angry, and afraid.’

  ‘This must be so hard for you. I can’t imagine what you’re going through.’

  But she can, just a little. She’s imagined meeting her mother over and over again and, since her session with Elizabeth, now knows that it’ll never happen, that whatever chance she had to know her own mother has gone. At least Boyd’s had a history with his. He’ll have some memories to hold on to.

  As they journey through the hospital’s corridors she’s aware of her phone and the text on her phone and the thought strikes her that maybe she’s been doing this all wrong. The thought shocks her. She’d been so sure she was doing the right thing in keeping her past a secret from Boyd. But what would happen if she told him everything? If he loves her, surely he’ll understand? She shifts in the seat, fusses with the strap of her bag and can hear Boyd breathing as he pushes her along.

  ‘Here we are,’ he says as they arrive at the doors to the ward. ‘You ready for this?’

  ‘Not in a million years,’ she says, trying to laugh but it comes out more like a strangled sob.

  He leans down and kisses her full on the mouth. She loves the way he kisses her, he tastes of coffee and cheese and Boyd.

  They leave the chair in the corridor and she hobbles in to the ward. His mother’s in a bed by the window and has her eyes closed.

  Vita stands as they approach and says, ‘Right, I’ll wait in Main Reception. You can pick me up on your way out, OK?’

  ‘Thank you, Vita,’ Boyd says, touching her briefly on the arm.

  She shrugs him off and says, ‘Pah! No need to thank me.’ And then she bends over the bed and says, ‘I’ll be off now, Belle. I’ll see you again soon.’

  Belle nods, but doesn’t open her eyes.

 
Vita looks at Honey and gives her a small, tight smile and then she leaves. Honey misses her immediately. She’d provided a buffer between her and Boyd’s mother. Without her, Honey is in uncharted waters.

  ‘Here,’ Boyd says, taking her crutches off her. ‘You sit down, between Mum and the window.’

  She sits.

  Belle still hasn’t opened her eyes.

  ‘Mum?’ he says. ‘Honey’s here.’

  Belle must once have been beautiful. There is a soft majesty to her features, a kind of Vogue glamour thing. Even without make-up, and with her hair squashed on one side and the neckline of her nightie having slipped to show a thin, freckled shoulder, Honey can understand how Boyd’s mother would once have commanded the room, that whenever she walked in, men would stop what they were doing, fix their eyes on her and watch as she walked by.

  When Belle says, ‘I know she’s here,’ it takes Honey by surprise. She hadn’t realised Belle had heard Boyd.

  Tentatively Honey places her hand on Belle’s, fully expecting her to pull it away, but she doesn’t. They sit there for a long minute and then finally, Belle lifts her head and looks straight at Honey.

  It’s like she can see right through to her thoughts and is busy reading them. Honey feels vulnerable and exposed and very, very known.

  ‘So,’ Belle says, ‘you’re the other woman.’

  ‘She’s the only woman, Mum,’ Boyd replies. He’s sat down in the chair Vita had been sitting in and so his mother would have to turn her head to look at him. She doesn’t. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong. You know that. Vita and I …’

  ‘Vita and you are still married in the eyes of the law,’ she says.

  ‘But in name only. She’s totally cool with the situation and she and Honey get on well, don’t you?’

  He looks at Honey as he says this and she nods. What else could she do? They do get on well. Honey likes Vita and thinks Vita likes her too, she is painting Honey’s portrait as a surprise for Boyd, Vita has Colin and a life of her own and has, Honey believes, moved on.