Where The Light Gets In

by Dillon, Lucy

  It left Lorna with nothing to work on herself, since Joyce’s knitting was way too complex for her to tackle, so she racked her brains for some conversation to fill the silence.

  ‘So, we had a busy weekend in the gallery!’ she said. ‘Thank goodness for Valentine’s Day. We sold a lot of cards and almost all the silver jewellery. We even sold a few paintings.’

  ‘Ones you liked?’

  ‘Um, yes.’ They’d all been from the bland end of the spectrum, but they were money in the till.

  ‘And you’re closed today, I suppose, to recuperate from your sales drive?’ Joyce frowned at the stitches, then poked the needle into the first loop and began unpicking Lorna’s uneven work.

  ‘No, the gallery’s open as normal. My friend Tiffany’s helping out for a few hours.’

  ‘And who is Tiffany?’

  ‘My old flatmate. She’s a live-in nanny – well, she was until the family she was working for broke up and she was out of a job.’ Something about the rhythmic clicking of Joyce’s needles encouraged Lorna to carry on talking. ‘It’s an awkward time to look for a full-time position, apparently, but she’s got some savings, and she’s good at talking to people – so the gallery suits her.’

  ‘And are you enjoying having her stay? You told me the other day that you wanted some time to yourself.’

  ‘Um … yes.’ That sounded less than enthusiastic. Lorna hurried to justify the ‘um’. ‘To be honest, it was nice being on my own, but Tiff and I have lived together before, so I’m used to sharing space with her. We don’t get under each other’s feet.’ Apart from the pyramid of toiletries crammed on to the bathroom windowsill, and the heap of laundry piled on top of the washing machine. ‘Well,’ she conceded, ‘she’s more of a piler, whereas I’m a putter-awayer. But there’s lots of space so it’s not so bad.’

  Joyce flicked and pulled the loops on the needle. ‘Describe her to me, would you?’ she said, without looking up. ‘I like to picture people in my head.’

  ‘Well, Tiff’s shorter than me, dark red hair. The colour of black cherries. She’s had it all colours of the rainbow since I’ve known her, though.’

  ‘And what was your favourite?’

  Lorna was surprised by the question; Joyce didn’t often ask questions during their conversations. ‘Candyfloss pink. She looked like a merry-go-round horse. But when she started her nanny training they made her dye it brown.’ She racked her brains for piquant details, since Joyce probably wouldn’t accept Tiff’s star sign. ‘She tries to juggle things you shouldn’t really juggle, like raw eggs, and when she’s drunk, she thinks she can speak Spanish. She can’t speak Spanish. When I think of Tiffany, I smell Chanel No. 5. She wears it because it was her nan’s favourite,’ she added, ‘not because she thinks she’s Marilyn Monroe.’

  ‘So …’ Joyce turned the jumper over, and inserted a needle meticulously into the next row. ‘In this flat above the gallery, there’s you, and there’s this runaway Mary Poppins, and your German sausage dog. What else?’

  ‘Nothing, just another two bedrooms upstairs. I’ve got the master bedroom with an original coal fireplace,’ she continued. ‘Tiff’s in the spare room, which has roseprint wallpaper and a view of the church spire. It’s cosy. Then there’s another room with old stock in that I should probably get a bed for, in case my niece comes to stay again. My niece Hattie stayed this weekend,’ she added, hoping she was creating an interesting mental collage for Joyce. ‘She’s sixteen, blonde, legs like Bambi, eyes like Snow White. Then one more bedroom that I’m saving as a creative space.’ Lorna counted on her fingers to make sure she hadn’t left anything out. ‘And there’s a box room between the two bedrooms on the top floor. An estate agent would count that as the fifth.’

  ‘So you’ve had quite a houseful this weekend!’

  ‘I did. But it was … quite nice,’ said Lorna. ‘Except there was a bit of drama with Hattie. She lives near Evesham – she hadn’t told my sister she was coming. And between them, they used all the hot water but I didn’t have time for a bath so …’

  Out of the corner of her eye, Lorna saw the blue uniform of the nurse appear at the other end of the ward, with doctors ready to do the rounds. She checked her watch. It was nearly three.

  ‘Sorry, I’m going to have to go in a minute. I promised Mary and Tiff I’d be back before the end of the day. We’re hoping to do some last-minute Valentine’s business before the shop shuts! Is there anything else you need?’

  ‘Yes.’ Joyce glanced over to the door, and saw the nurse. ‘There is something actually.’ She sat further upright in the bed, wincing with the effort.

  ‘If it’s Bernard, then it’s really no problem,’ Lorna started, but Joyce stopped her.

  ‘I know what’s happening, I’m not gaga quite yet, so please hear me out.’ Joyce’s eyes darted to the door, then fixed on Lorna. ‘I overheard Keir and the nurses talking about me while they were here earlier. I pretended to be asleep, of course. The plan is for them to send a team of do-gooders into my house to check it’s safe for me to return. Without even asking me!’

  Lorna tried not to react too much; had Joyce really heard this? Or had she been asleep? ‘That’s good, though, isn’t it? They want to make your house safe so you can go home.’

  ‘No, that’s not it, don’t interrupt.’ The hand was raised again. ‘It’s going to take a while, by all accounts, Keir having to tick every one of his ridiculous boxes, so in the meantime they want to send me to Butterfields for what they called “respite care” – you’ve heard of Butterfields?’

  ‘Is it the care home on the outskirts of town? With the long drive that you can see from the road?’

  ‘Yes, it was a very elegant house once upon a time.’ Joyce’s eyes turned distant. ‘Some beautiful carved oak panels. My husband used to know the owners. Anyway,’ she recovered crossly, ‘it’s not very elegant any more. It’s run down and awful and doctors send you there to die . I have no intention of setting foot over the threshold. I’ve known friends have “respite care” in those places, perfectly fit and healthy when they go in – and they haven’t come back.’

  ‘But if Keir doesn’t think Rooks Hall is safe …’ Lorna’s brain was skipping ahead, trying to work out what Joyce wanted. ‘It would be awful if you tripped again and hurt yourself this time. Surely it’s better to let them fix what needs fixing so you can stay there as long as you can?’

  ‘Lorna, I intend to stay in Rooks Hall until they carry me out, feet first.’ Her stiff fingers tapped the bed sheet emphatically. ‘I am not going into that care home. Or, even worse, Monnow Court, where they won’t let me take Bernard with me, and in any case, I just … I won’t.’ A shadow of fear broke through her determination, and Lorna could tell the old lady was scared. Scared of dying, of frailty, of her dignified independence being stolen from her. A cold finger traced down Lorna’s spine.

  The nurse was approaching now, and she caught Lorna’s eye and pointed to her watch.

  Lorna made a ‘two seconds?’ face. The nurse nodded, and turned to the first bed, picking up the clipboard at the foot of it, and pulling the curtains around to murmur at the sleeping patient in a tone Joyce would have called patronising if she’d had more energy.

  ‘So what would you like me to do?’ She leaned forward. ‘Talk to Keir about staying in here until the house is ready?’

  Joyce wrinkled her nose in horror. ‘I can’t stay here; they need the beds for old people. No, I will give you any painting of your choice from my house … if you let me and Bernard stay with you, in the flat above the gallery, until we can go home.’

  It took Lorna a moment to process what she’d just heard. She stared at Joyce, unsure whether she meant what she was saying.

  ‘Any painting,’ Joyce repeated in a low, clear voice. ‘Or if you wanted to hold that retrospective you were talking about, I will lend you as many paintings, on a temporary basis, as you require.’

  ‘But …’ Lorna’s brain spun. Joyce? In her
flat? Lorna wasn’t sure that was going to work. It was hard enough sharing space with Tiff, someone she’d known for years – someone who’d known her for years too. Joyce was a stranger, and elderly, and vulnerable. And would Bernard get on with Rudy full time? Would Joyce need medical care? What if she fell? Would she be responsible?

  But the paintings, roared a voice in her head. Come on, Lorna, the paintings . This is a gift from the gods!

  The nurse was approaching the second lady in the ward; Joyce would be next. ‘Do we have a deal? I’m mobile, I’m coherent, I don’t need looking after.’ Joyce smiled, a thin, bittersweet smile. ‘One meal a day and you can have whatever sleeping pills they give me. We’ll split any codeine.’

  It was a flash of naughtiness that Lorna hadn’t been expecting, and it cracked something inside her.

  ‘You don’t have to give me a painting.’ It felt wrong, taking something valuable in return for a favour she should have offered freely. An old lady, scared of her own fragility – hadn’t she seen that time and again in the hospice? Hadn’t she always wished she could help? ‘If it’s only for a few days …’

  ‘No.’ Joyce’s finger jabbed the bedclothes. ‘It has to be a proper arrangement, Lorna. I will not have anyone feeling sorry for me, thank you very much. You can do something for me, and I will do something for you.’

  ‘Can I think about it?’

  Joyce leaned to one side, and grimaced towards the door. ‘Time’s up.’

  ‘What?’ Lorna twisted round, and yes, there was Keir in his parka, talking to another nurse while juggling a huge file. Papers were spilling everywhere, and the nurse was helping him catch them. ‘Oh … typical.’

  ‘It has to be your idea.’ Joyce arched an eyebrow. ‘If he thinks I’ve bullied you into it, he’ll say no. So make it convincing.’ And she sank back into her pillows, and smiled.

  Lorna could hear Keir’s approach before he reached the bed; he was apologising in his familiar rambling manner.

  ‘… so short-staffed right now, with Jackie on maternity leave again, it’s taken me for ever to deal with the paperwork. Oh, hello, Lorna!’ Keir seemed pleased to see her when she turned around. ‘Joyce, you’re looking so much better.’

  Lorna noticed he didn’t call her Mrs Rothery and, for once, she didn’t enforce it.

  ‘So how are we feeling?’ he enquired.

  ‘I am feeling bruised but positive, and Lorna here is feeling delighted with her gallery sales,’ said Joyce. ‘I can’t say how you’re feeling, of course.’

  Keir made an ‘oh, you’ face, and went on, ‘I’ve got some details with me, you’ll be pleased to hear – firstly about the aids we can supply to your house, and secondly, a brochure about your minibreak. I’m afraid Butterfields was full but I’ve pulled some strings and managed to get you a special room with a garden view at Monnow Court – that’s nice, isn’t it? You can watch the birds having their lunch. The staff put out fresh seed every day …’

  Joyce made a strangled noise. ‘There’s been a development on that front, Keir.’ She turned to Lorna. ‘Lorna’s made the most generous offer.’

  ‘Um, yes.’ Two pairs of eyes were fixed on her. ‘I thought, rather than go to the expense of Mrs Rothery taking up a care-home room, she could stay in my flat. While her accommodation is being assessed.’

  ‘What?’ Keir corrected himself almost immediately. ‘I mean, are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ What am I doing? ‘I’ve got lots of space and the bedroom and bathroom are on one level so much easier for Mrs Rothery to manage. You can check it out if you want.’

  ‘But …’ He seemed flustered. ‘Normally we’re happy to discharge patients to family members but you’re not …’

  ‘My family are all dead,’ said Joyce briskly. ‘And I don’t have any medical requirements, you said so yourself. The district nurse can visit if she cares to.’

  Keir looked at Lorna and then back at Joyce again.

  ‘It would be an honour to have the gallery’s most famous artist to stay with me,’ Lorna explained. ‘I’m hoping Mrs Rothery can advise me about our Art Week exhibition and perhaps go through some of the portfolios I’ve been sent.’ She glanced at Joyce. ‘I would appreciate her expertise, as well as her company.’

  Lorna knew she was pushing it, but she sensed Joyce was amused. Well, hadn’t she wanted a deal?

  ‘If I feel up to it,’ Joyce sighed. ‘I might be able to glance through a portfolio or two.’

  ‘Good,’ said Lorna.

  ‘Good,’ said Keir but he sounded very confused.

  ‘Good,’ said Joyce, and touched the postcard Lorna had propped against her water glass. It was one of Cathy Larkham’s inky sketches from a Welsh beach.

  When Lorna got back to the flat there was a red envelope lying on top of the junk mail behind the door, and her heart leaped into her throat.

  Even though she told herself she didn’t want a card from Sam because that would just complicate things, Lorna’s hands trembled as she turned it over to check the address.

  Was it from Max the chef? Had he found out where she’d moved to? Despite her rational thoughts about commitment, she felt a twinge of pleasure that someone had cared enough to find a card, put it in the post.

  And Sam had been in the shop. He had seen what amazing cards they had …

  The writing on the front was unfamiliar but the writing inside wasn’t.

  It was from Jess. As per their arrangement for the past twenty-one years.

  Lorna tried to ignore her own disappointment as she trudged upstairs to the sound of two hysterical dogs running circuits round her flat.

  Chapter Eleven

  Keir Brownlow came round the following morning with his safety checklist, and admitted that he had some concerns about Rooks Hall, and whether it could be made safe for Joyce to go home.

  ‘I’ve said for ages that the house won’t meet safeguarding criteria,’ he said, drinking tea while Lorna moved her things out of her bedroom to make space for Joyce and the mobility aids Keir had dragged upstairs. ‘The place is freezing at the best of times, the ambulance team thought they could smell gas, and Joyce refuses to let anyone in to check – we spoke to the landlords and apparently she makes it impossible for them to do much.’

  Lorna put a vase of chalky white tulips on the bedside table. ‘But if she’s a private tenant, aren’t her landlords legally obliged to make it safe?’

  ‘They are, yes, but I don’t know if she’s even got a formal tenancy agreement – she’s been there years. A colleague who lives nearby says the landlords who own most of the houses down Joyce’s lane are turning their housing stock into holiday homes. So they’d probably rather Joyce moved into sheltered accommodation anyway.’

  Lorna frowned. ‘So where are the locals supposed to live, when all the pretty cottages are holiday homes?’

  ‘Don’t start me,’ said Keir forlornly. ‘I’m stuck with my parents. Believe me, no one’s praying for a housing crash harder than my mum.’

  After he left, Lorna carried on making the room, with its small en suite, ready for Joyce. She put a radio by the bedside, moved an easy chair near the window so Joyce could read and see over the rooftops, but she hesitated over the art in there. What would she like? Was there any point trying to guess? Was she revealing too much about herself in the Queen of Cups, in the soft abstract?

  Lorna decided to leave it exactly as it was. Let Joyce read into it what she wanted.

  Tiffany came upstairs shortly afterwards to find her making up the spare sofa bed with new linen for herself. She seemed touchy.

  ‘Can you help me with this duvet?’ Lorna asked. ‘Or are you watching to see how it’s done?’

  Reluctantly, Tiff took a corner and started pulling the cover over. ‘Keir says Joyce Rothery’s moving in with us – is that right?’

  Lorna let the with us go for the time being. ‘Yes, just for a day or so, till she can go back to her own house.’

  ‘Why
?’ She widened her eyes until she looked almost cartoonish. ‘What happened to I want to be alone ? What happened to all that aggro you gave me about bathroom rotas? And not leaving junk in your Thinking Room? And not using your good coffee?’

  Tiff had been in a funny mood ever since the roses arrived – and she still hadn’t told Lorna who they were from, which had put Lorna in her own funny mood.

  ‘Because Joyce is scared of going into the care home, even for a few days. And I don’t blame her.’ She shook out the pillowcase. ‘It’s only until her landlords fix some handrails and checks the gas. She won’t be here long.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s a good idea?’ Tiffany seemed less than enthusiastic. ‘Sophie’s grandmama came to stay while her kitchen in Paris was refitted. She was there four months . The entire house smelled of mothballs by the end.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure. Joyce is an amazing artist, and an interesting woman, and she doesn’t have anyone else,’ said Lorna sharply. ‘It’s all right for you, with your huge bunches of Valentine’s roses – not everyone has a rich boyfriend to take care of them.’

  Tiffany went red.

  ‘Still no idea about who they were from?’ Lorna pressed on. It came out more pointed than she’d meant, partly because Tiff had been so coy about them, partly because she didn’t see why she should have to justify her favour to Joyce, but Tiffany suddenly squinched her eyes shut and clenched her fists.

  ‘What? What did I say?’ Lorna felt bad immediately. She reached out and touched her friend’s arm. ‘Tell me – what’s up? Who sent you those flowers?’

  ‘I can’t tell you. You’d … Forget it.’ Tiffany pulled away, and gave Lorna a sorrowful glare that she couldn’t read. ‘I’m taking the dogs for a walk,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘Rudy! Bernard!’

  Rudy was curled up on a pile of blankets. He looked up at Lorna, and then towards Tiffany, and bravely followed her out on to the landing.