Choral Society

by Prue Leith

But David was dead. And now, since the incident on the station, Lucy was again anxious. Until then, the fear had come and gone, interspersed by long periods of relaxed confidence. But right now she felt she faced only three options: ruining Grace’s life by burdening her, living out her days with other mad old women in a nursing home, or seeing herself off with an overdose. Who would not choose the latter?

  As the tests progressed, Lucy was convinced she was doing badly, even on tests she’d performed well before, like joining dots in number or letter order, or spotting anomalies in drawings, or doing Kim’s game: remembering a selection of animals, tools, gem stones, etc.

  She was hopeless at numbers; always had been. She could feel herself losing concentration as she tried to do mental arithmetic or remember strings of digits. The process did not test your innate ability, but only indicated deterioration or improvement since the last time, so this did not worry her. But the effort tired her and her performance depressed her. By the time she saw the consultant, a rite that took place when they’d had time to compare her scores with her last session, she was feeling frayed and close to tears. God, she thought, I must not cry. I’ve blubbed more in the past year than in my whole life.

  Dr Wilson always looked exhausted, but his eyes were steady and kind.

  Lucy, not waiting for the formality of smiles and greeting, plunged in. ‘Not good news, is it?’

  Would she feel devastated or relieved at knowing the worst, her fears confirmed? She swallowed.

  There was a tiny pause as he considered her, and then, ‘Why do you say that? There’s no cause for concern at all.’

  Lucy could feel the sting of tears behind her eyes and kept them open. Blinking would expel the tears, and then she’d not be able to stop.

  ‘There’s some deterioration in concentration, that’s all,’ Dr Wilson went on. ‘Which is very common with bereavement. How long is it since your husband died?’

  ‘Almost a year.’

  It was no use. She fumbled for a tissue, could not find one. She pulled off her glasses and used the backs of her fingers to stop the flow.

  He pushed a box of tissues towards her. She grabbed at it gratefully, forcing a smile. ‘You’re prepared for hysterical women, I see.’ She blew her nose, her head down.

  ‘You are not hysterical. You are suffering from grief. It’s normal. It will affect your moods, your concentration, your confidence.’ She could feel him watching her. ‘But it will lessen in time.’

  ‘Will it?’ She raised her head. ‘I hate being so hopeless.’

  Then she told him about the incident on Paddington Station, and he listened attentively. He told her that sometimes people in a tired or anxious state focused on one factor, excluding all others, as she had on her watch, so the brain could not make a proper judgement.

  ‘Were you anxious about the meeting with your friend? Was it something that seemed very important?’

  ‘Well, oddly, yes, I think it was. I was excited and a bit nervous. She’s a fairly new friend, and very smart and competent – a businesswoman – and I didn’t want to look like a Bohemian writer or country cousin, I suppose. And the Palace Tea Room is stuffed with Notting Hill young women in designer gear with investment banker husbands making zillions. So yes, for some reason I did feel a bit anxious.’

  ‘Yes, that might explain it. Your confidence is obviously not very high at the moment, but I’m fairly sure your problem that day was more to do with grief than anything.’

  ‘Really? Why would grief affect my ability to absorb information?’

  ‘I’m not sure why, I’m not a psychiatrist. But I do know it does.’ He smiled at her. ‘Sadly, we see a lot of widows in this clinic and our statistics show that concentration, and the ability to process information, is affected by grief. And grief, because it causes anxiety, affects memory function too. The situation almost always improves by the next assessment.’

  I believe him, thought Lucy, he’s not patronising with that irritating reassurance: trying to con you into believing what you both know is not true. Dr Wilson continued.

  ‘If that sort of incident, the loss of time at the station, happens repeatedly, and is still happening in a year’s time, then, I agree, we need to take it seriously.’

  ‘But maybe my lack of concentration is caused by growing dementia, not grief?’

  ‘That is not my judgement.’ His formal, but gentle manner pleased Lucy. ‘You are not showing the pattern I would expect with early dementia or Alzheimer’s.’

  Lucy nodded, a wash of gratitude making it difficult to speak. She thought, I’d like to ask him if this rollercoaster of blubbing, feeling fine, feeling dead, feeling indifferent will lessen too. Or ask him if my gaining weight is caused by grief, and the pounds will fall off as time passes. But he will tell me he is not a psychiatrist.

  The thought that he would not pacify her with psychobabble, would not stray out of his area of expertise, comforted her. She felt both cheered and strengthened. Of course I’ll stop blubbing eventually. Everyone does. And I’ll lose weight when I stop stuffing my face.

  The thing to remember, she thought as she walked to her car, is that this happens to everyone. Loved ones die, brain cells drop off, waists thicken. Either you the young, or you get old first and then you die.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Three weeks after the board meeting at Greenfarms, Joanna had again gone north, this time for a follow-up meeting with Caroline and Stewart. It had been tough going and she was glad that her return train was half empty. She found a first class seat at a table for two, confident she would have it to herself. She stretched her legs out under the table, easing her stiff knees. She had been gardening at the weekend, kneeling on the stone terrace while she weeded and planted and her knees were protesting. Sometimes, when she got up in the night, she had to make an effort not to hobble to the bathroom like an old woman. That was another boring thing about getting older – going to the loo in the night.

  She opened her laptop and went to Slides. She had a PowerPoint presentation to complete for this evening when she was due to persuade a group of high-net-worth oil traders to put their spare cash with Innovest.

  But she did not look at the screen. Her mind returned to the meeting. Caroline had been openly hostile and had implemented none of the new strategy. She’d not attached the costs, actioned the redundancies or changed any suppliers, and Joanna had had to insist. She disliked being the hard-hearted banker, cold and determined. The truth was she wanted Caroline and Stewart to like her, especially Stewart. But of course they hated her. She stared out of the window as the train left Wakefield station and made an effort to think of something else.

  But immediately the thought of her friend Lucy deepened her frown. The poor woman had been in such a state after that mad thing on Paddington station, where she’d resolutely refused to accept the evidence of her own eyes and ears or draw the logical conclusion that her watch had stopped. Poor Lucy! It had taken the combined hugs, clucking and soothing of both Rebecca and herself, not to say a large glass of Chardonnay, to get her to join the class.

  Mind you, thought Joanna, I don’t blame her for falling apart. If that had been me I’d have checked myself into the madhouse.

  Joanna could not imagine not being on top of what she was doing. She always knew exactly what time it was and could probably operate without a watch at all. But maybe, she thought, that was because her life was chopped into meetings all day every day, or just about, and Lucy’s – since she’d lost her job – had no structure to it at all.

  Lucy had seemed fine when they’d first met in the spring but over the summer her widowhood seemed to weigh on her more. Last week she had not turned up at the singing class and she wouldn’t answer her telephone, though she did respond to text or email. Joanna thought she knew what Lucy was up to: you can write a cheerful little text: All well. Sorry so out of touch. No offence meant —just trying to meet a deadline. Lots love. XX and that way no one would hear the misery in her v
oice.

  Joanna was trying to help Lucy without it showing. She and Rebecca had been to stay with her a couple of times and she’d suggested that Rebecca drag Lucy round some designer shops and beauty therapists, which, if only Lucy would agree to go, might do her good. Rebecca was such fun and Lucy could do with a bit of self-indulgence. She needs lightening up even more than I do, thought Joanna.

  She returned to her laptop and tried to concentrate. But it was no good, her mind would keep coming back to Lucy or Greenfarms. The very word Greenfarms made the unease and vague feeling of guilt return to squeeze her gut. Yet she had behaved with exemplary professionalism. Her research was thorough, her argument good, and she had never once let the matter get personal. But she kept seeing Stewart and Caroline’s faces as she’d explained that if Caroline did not implement the agreed strategy Innovest would refuse further funding, the company would be liquidated and Caroline would lose her job, her company and her house. Caroline’s face was pale and blank, Stewart’s stony with suppressed anger and derision.

  Of course if it ever came to that, Stewart would bale his daughter out, of course he would. If he really believed in the organic local route, why didn’t he back her himself anyway? He’d got mega-millions.

  Joanna’s troubled thoughts continued to churn until they pulled into Doncaster, when she made an effort to concentrate on her presentation.

  She ran through her slides, making small changes, until someone dumped a briefcase on the table behind her open laptop and a grey worsted jacket brushed her shoulder as its owner stretched up to cram a raincoat into the rack above her head. Irritation flared: why could he not sit somewhere else? The train was hardly full. She looked up in annoyance and was met by the smiling face of Stewart.

  ‘Whew, that was a bit close,’ he said. ‘My driver had to race the train from Wakefield.’ He eased himself into the seat, and then immediately stood up again. ‘I’ve got a better idea,’ he said. ‘Lunch.’

  What was he doing here? He’d not said anything about catching the London train. He sometimes did, it’s true, if he had business in London, but then they’d be chauffeured to the station together.

  ‘What … ?’

  ‘Come on Jo, we need to talk. But let’s do it over lunch.’

  Joanna shook her head, about to say she had to work, but he said, ‘I need a drink, don’t you? That was a bit of a sticky meeting.’ He lifted the armrest on Joanna’s seat and stood back, giving her no choice but to consent or seem ungracious.

  As she hesitated, he leant over and closed her laptop without bothering to close it down, and slipped it into his briefcase. She watched in indignation and surprise as he then stuffed the briefcase under his raincoat on the overhead rack and said, ‘I’ll go first, shall I, and hack a path through the masses.’

  ‘Hey!’ she said, but then faltered: he was already halfway down the aisle, oblivious of any offence. She followed, torn between indignation at his taking her consent for granted and his closing her laptop without a by-your-leave, and concern that his briefcase, and more importantly her computer with tonight’s presentation on it, might get stolen.

  She considered sitting down again and refusing to follow him, but dismissed that as childish. She had to hurry to catch up with him which annoyed her too. Walking behind him (like a good squaw, she thought) she noticed that the heels of his shoes were as polished as the leather, the creases in his trousers were perfect and his jacket was, as always, elegant and expensive. Probably makes the life of his valet hell, she thought – and those of his driver, secretary, and the rest. The trouble with the super-rich is they are too used to having their own way.

  Once they sat down, his good humour slowly dispersed both her indignation and her angst. He might be a touch too masterful, she thought, but here he was, smiling, full of goodwill, apparently unaffected by the tensions of the meeting. Could she have imagined the derision on his face?

  He ordered smoked salmon salad, and Joanna followed suit. Then he asked the waiter for a bottle of champagne.

  ‘Not for me, Stewart,’ she said quickly, ‘I’ve got work to do. I’d fall asleep.’

  ‘OK,’ he nodded, and changed the order to half a bottle.

  How can he be so equable and relaxed? wondered Joanna. Not two hours ago he was tight-lipped with anger.

  The waiter arrived with the fizz and two glasses, assuming they were to share it. On Stewart’s urging, Joanna gave in and accepted a glass. She reasoned that she might need it if they were to talk Greenfarms and supermarkets.

  She took the plunge and said, ‘OK, shoot, what’s on your mind?You do know that Innovest won’t reverse their decision?’

  ‘I agree, but let’s not talk about that yet. Let’s give ourselves a lunch-break first.’

  He smiled at Joanna and she found herself smiling back, relieved. We are, she thought, like two conspirators playing truant. They ate in silence for a minute or two, then he said, ‘You know, I know next to nothing about the real Joanna. What do you do when you aren’t working?’

  ‘What everyone does,’ she said, a little defensively. ‘I go out with friends. Dinner. The theatre. Watch television. Fix my house. I like gardening …’

  ‘Do you?’ He leant forward. ‘What kind of garden?’

  She found herself telling him about her classy little Chelsea garden, with its round lawn in the middle and triangular beds at the corners, bordered with box. How the planting was all white and grey, and formal. How the beds that surrounded the paved grey terrace were sunk so that the white Kent roses held their flowers at ground level and looked like a carpet.

  ‘That’s interesting,’ he said. ‘Does it work?’

  ‘It does, yes. You prune them flat on top, like a hedge, a good foot below the level of the paving, and when they bloom, they are pretty well level with it.’

  He pressed for more information and she went through her flowerbeds.

  ‘Well, I’ve got white hydrangeas in the shade, those ones with huge mop-heads; clematis, climbing roses and jasmine – all white varieties – up the trellised arbour at the back. And white tulips in the spring followed by big white peonies; lilies and phlox in summer … Do you really want to know all this?’

  ‘Yes, I do. Go on.’

  Joanna laughed. She was enjoying herself. ‘OK, you asked for it. There’s lots of grey-leafed stuff that likes the sun — white lavenders, cistus and santolinas nearer the house—’

  ‘But,’ he interrupted, ‘santolinas don’t have white flowers, do they? Don’t they have bright yellow buttons?’

  So, he’s a gardener too, thought Joanna. ‘They do but I never allow them to flower.’

  ‘You’re a control freak, that’s what. I can just imagine it. Not a weed allowed; every box hedge clipped; the tulips standing to attention, not daring to sway with the wind; out with anything that dares pop up the wrong colour.’

  He said it kindly, it was a joke, but Joanna did not like it. It was too close to the truth. He seemed to sense this, and put a hand on hers, just for a second.

  ‘You remind me of Elaine. You never met her, did you?’

  Joanna was not sure who Elaine was, so she just shook her head. He said, ‘My wife. She died two years ago.’

  Joanna started to murmur the usual platitudes of condolence, but he shook his head, silencing her.

  ‘She was a wonderful gardener. Had our garden organised to within an inch of its life. Paths deep in gravel, lawns edged, beds weeded, flowers deadheaded. It’s got rather wilder and woollier under my direction though. My excuse is that Caroline explodes if I use insecticide or pesticides – she was always lecturing her mother, who took not a blind bit of notice. Elaine was brilliant at both ignoring her daughter and loving her to distraction. A remarkable woman.’

  Joanna did not know if she should encourage him to talk about Elaine or not. Lucy had told her that the bereaved needed to be allowed to talk about the dead, and that they resented the fact that no one let them. But Joanna wanted him to s
tick to gardening. His gardening or hers, but not Elaine’s.

  Maybe he sensed this, for he ran his fingers up and down the stem of his empty champagne glass and said, ‘I prefer the garden as it is now, though. Rather disloyal I suppose, but it’s good to have some part of one’s life that’s not organised, that can surprise you. Under Elaine’s regime I never knew that poppy heads made great seed pods, that rugosa roses had wonderful hips, that grasses looked so beautiful in the frost. She’d have had the lot off as soon as they’d bloomed.’

  Joanna was surprised, and rather elated. She had always admired Stewart and in the last six months of knowing him personally, she’d got to like him a lot. But she’d not had him down as a gardener.

  She’d only had one glass of champagne but a pleasant sense of relaxation had crept over her. She gazed at the passing countryside. The autumn sun was on the fields, highlighting an orderly pattern of combed brown plough and pale stubble, with occasional squares of green pasture dotted with sheep.

  Stewart ordered another half bottle of champagne and Joanna did not object. She waved her hand at the view. ‘Lovely, isn’t it?’

  ‘Indeed, the smiling English countryside, nothing better.’

  This led the conversation to English churches and then to medieval villages in Tuscany crowning vineyards and olive groves, and to the Alps in May with wild flowers thick underfoot. ‘I’ve got a chalet in St Moritz,’ he said, ‘but I seldom ski. Elaine got me hooked on walking in the mountains. So I go more in the summer. Caroline and Mark and Alasdair all ski, and sometimes I join them for Christmas or New Year.’ Joanna told him that for the last few years she had taken herself off on walking holidays rather than sitting on a cruise deck or a beach drinking margaritas served by a uniformed flunky. She did not tell him that now her hiking days could be over on account of her knees.

  She tried questioning him in turn, but he brushed enquiry aside, insisting on talking about her. It was a very long time since anyone was interested enough to question her about anything other than business and Joanna was flattered. She told him about the singing group.