by Lulu Taylor
‘It would be easy enough if she could let us know everything was better,’ the nurse said. ‘But she can’t, poor love!’ Then she peered closer at Buttercup’s face. ‘Are you all right, dear?’
‘I’m fine. Just a slight cold.’ She smiled. ‘I’m not infectious any more.’
‘All right then. Go along and see her but we’re serving dinner in twenty minutes.’
Buttercup went in, and saw her mother lying there exactly as she had been on all of her recent visits. The sight was, somehow, comforting. She seemed peaceful, her leg moving in its familiar rhythm – rub, rub, rub, against the left one – her hair clean and with a ribbon tied in its white locks.
I want to tell her. But I can’t. Just in case she can hear me and she understands. I can’t hurt her. I have to bear this on my own.
So instead she talked in a brittle, merry voice about Christmas at home, how Milky was getting on, the visit from Gawain Ashley, and everything that was on her mind except the awful thing that weighed her down like a rockfall.
The desk nurse put her head around the door. ‘It’s dinner time, love. We’re coming to take your mum to the dining room.’
Buttercup nodded. ‘That’s fine.’
She didn’t want to leave, though, and instead she watched while they moved her mother off her daybed and into a wheelchair. She was strapped in securely, her body held upright within the sides of the chair, and then they pushed her out into the corridor, her eyes still closed, her head lolling.
‘Come on, dear, off we go!’ said one of the nurses, a young girl with heavy eyeliner and a pierced nose. She glanced at Buttercup. ‘Are you coming?’
‘Oh – yes. Yes, I will.’ She followed them along the corridor to the dining room. Inside, the staff were corralling a crowd of elderly people, evidently in different stages of dementia. Some were docile and obedient, others confused, some truculent. The staff moved among them, talking and gently manipulating them into chairs. Buttercup’s mother appeared to be the most removed from the world, although the noise of the dining room and the heavy, savoury smell of dinner seemed to wake her and stimulate her into remembered activity; her eyes opened and her mouth moved.
‘Dinner time, love!’ the pierced nurse said gaily, and wheeled the chair over to a table, where she proceeded to tie a giant bib around Buttercup’s mother’s neck. She glanced at Buttercup. ‘Better safe than sorry, eh?’ She settled herself beside her in a chair and picked up a bowl of puree. Buttercup sat down opposite her mother and watched as the nurse scooped up a spoonful of brown puree and inserted it gently between her mother’s lips. ‘There, that’s nice, isn’t it? Do you like that?’
Her mother seemed to be awake, blinking slowly as she sucked at the puree-covered spoon and swallowed the contents.
Like a great big baby, thought Buttercup. She stared at the bowl of puree as the nurse lifted another spoonful. Then she said, ‘Will you let me do that?’
The nurse looked surprised, then said, ‘Be my guest, love’ and held out the spoon. Buttercup moved round to the other side of the table and pulled up a chair next to her mother. She took the spoon and the bowl and carefully gathered up a quantity of the puree. Then she held it out to her mother and pushed it gently into her mouth.
She must have done this for me once. It’s only natural that I do it for her now. It seemed like the human pattern: the strong caring for the weak, who became strong as the strong became weak and the care was reversed. Buttercup fed her mother another spoonful. She seemed to eat it with enjoyment.
This will never change. It’s all she has. This is her life, until it ends. The only pleasure left to her is the taste of food on her tongue. That’s all she can respond to.
A thought struck her suddenly, cutting through the blackness inside her like a lightning bolt searing a night sky.
But I’m still strong. I’m not weak yet and I have power. I can change. I can make things happen. I can escape if I want to.
A load seemed to lift off her shoulders in an instant.
Yes. I can do it. And I will do it.
She glanced up at her mother and, to her astonishment, her mother was staring back at her, looking at her directly for the first time in years. And, briefly but assuredly, a smile crept over her lips as she looked into Buttercup’s face.
Buttercup drove into Cambridge and booked herself into a hotel by the river not far from the city centre. It was comfortable but not particularly beautiful, each room cheaply furnished and functional. It was a world away from anything Charles would ever have chosen. He would not have been able to stand the polished pine in the bar, the hectic carpet and the clashing green of the furniture. The dado rail and striped wallpaper would have offended him. The Christmas decorations and the easy-listening carols would have irritated him beyond words.
Who cares what he thinks? Not me.
She ate dinner in the restaurant, managing to make inroads into a salmon salad, despite a complete lack of appetite. She hadn’t eaten since the previous day but the food was tasteless in her mouth and she pushed most of it away.
Her phone was off in her bag. No one knew where she was, and there was no way she could be traced. She was free. From here, she could go anywhere, she could start afresh if she wanted. Her passport was in her bag – why, she couldn’t remember – so she could drive to the airport, leave the car and take a flight somewhere, to a new life, if she felt like it.
There’s no hurry. I don’t have to do anything at all.
Buttercup slept long and late, and then lay in bed in her room until almost lunchtime. After a bath, she got dressed and walked into Cambridge, cutting through a shopping centre and emerging in the heart of the town, where she wandered for an hour before finding her way to the Backs. It was even colder by the river and she wished she had warmer things with her. Her phone was in her pocket but still switched off. She knew that people would be calling her: Charles, Rose, Elaine, maybe Carol. Where are you? Why don’t we know where you are? How dare you go off radar like this? Come back at once.
A naughty child, slipping out of school. Going AWOL. Scarpering.
She laughed grimly to herself.
They can fuck off. All of them. Every last one of them who knew and let me go on like this without telling me.
Eventually, freezing to the core, she went back to the hotel. ‘I’m going to stay another night,’ she told the receptionist. ‘Is that okay?’
‘That’s absolutely fine. Would you like to book a table in the restaurant?’
Buttercup thought of the empty tables the night before. ‘No. I’ll just rock up if I need to. Thanks.’ Then she went to her room, curled up in bed and watched a movie until she dozed.
My lost weekend, she thought as she hovered on the brink of sleep. My run for the border. My escape.
In the morning, when she woke, she realised that she’d been having a happy dream. Her father was alive again, her mother back to her old self, and they had surrounded her with love and care. At first, awake in her hotel bed, she felt the stab of loss when she remembered that she was alone, but then she recalled the delicious warmth she had felt in their company, and the joy of being in their arms. She remembered her mother’s smile in that dining room of the nursing home, a tiny flicker of connection, if that were possible. Whatever it was, it was all that was left.
I think she saw me, properly. I believe it.
It gave her a strength she hadn’t felt in a long time.
I owe it to them to be happy. It’s all they wanted for me. But I can’t slink out of my own life. I have to go back and face this. Face him.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The next morning, Buttercup checked out of the hotel. In the car, she switched on her phone for the first time in over forty-eight hours and immediately a torrent of notifications flooded in. Texts flashed up, dozens from Charles:
Where are you? Call me at once.
And there were messages and emails from the house and office, asking where she was. She s
kipped the voicemails and flicked through the emails. Sometimes they said that Charles was ill and needed her; sometimes that Charles was well and needed to talk to her.
Well, which is it?
She turned the phone off again, and started for home. It was a long drive back to the south-west and she stopped often to sip coffee in service stations and steel herself for the return to the house.
As she turned into Corten Lacy, it seemed as if nothing had changed. Then she saw the lights on in the pub, lights twinkling outside, Christmas trees projecting out at angles all along the roof and sparkling with fairy lights. It was comforting, somehow, to see it alive and welcoming, speaking enticingly of hot food and good drink. It seemed busy, too.
Happy people. Normal lives.
A little further along the lane she saw the gates of Charcombe Park, the stone greyhounds standing on their pillars on either side, impervious to the dark winter weather.
I’m back, she thought, trying to stifle the sense of dread that was growing inside her. She had likened it to a prison last time she entered these gates. Now it seemed like a dungeon, a repository for rotting dreams.
I think I actually hate this place. I wish I’d never seen it, never come here. I wish it didn’t exist.
She drove through the gates, went slowly up the drive to the garages at the back, and brought the car to a halt there. She got out and went to the stables, where Milky was standing patiently in her stall. Going to her, Buttercup rubbed her nose and patted her, inhaling the comforting smell of straw and warm animal.
‘There, there, old girl. Have you missed me? Shall we go out for a ride, huh? It’s cold but you won’t mind that if you can have a good gallop and then some hot mash, will you, sweetie?’
‘BC? Is that you?’ Phil had come quietly into the stables and was standing just inside the doors, a bulky dark shape against the light of the doorway.
She looked round. ‘Hi, Phil. Yes, it’s me.’
‘You’re back then?’
‘Yup.’
There was a pause as Phil frowned at the stable floor. Then he said, ‘Everyone’s been going bloody frantic since your disappearing act. They thought it was the same thing all over again, like when Ingrid left. And nobody wanted that.’
‘No, I can well believe it.’ Buttercup rubbed Milky’s velvet nose. ‘I almost left myself.’
‘I almost wish you had.’
‘Why?’
Phil shifted uncomfortably. ‘None of us liked the way Ingrid was treated. We all saw it. But sometimes relationships are toxic and they’ll never work, no matter what. Something about the chemistry just doesn’t play. We all need our jobs, so we gave Mr R the benefit of the doubt. I suppose I can tell you now that we were all on Ingrid’s side because we saw how hard she tried, how much she put into bringing up those kids, and what frustration she felt, trying to live with someone like the boss. It was best for her to go, and we all knew it.’
Buttercup had gone quite still, listening hard. ‘I shouldn’t be surprised that you saw it all. Everyone here knows more than they say, I understand that now.’
‘When you came, we thought you might be the answer. Maybe you’d got his number and had made a bargain: I’ll live the way you want in exchange for . . .’ Phil hesitated, then gestured with his arm at the stable and towards the house. ‘Well, I have to be blunt – for all this.’
‘For the money.’
‘The security, maybe.’ Phil shrugged. ‘It’s a tough world out there. No one’s saying you didn’t love him, but it crossed my mind that you knew what kind of man you were taking on, and that was a price you were willing to pay.’
‘Then you found out that I didn’t.’
Phil nodded, his eyes sad. ‘It was the same thing all over again. I could hardly bear to watch.’
Buttercup nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
Phil sighed and said, ‘I can see you’re in a state, but I’m glad you’re back.’
‘For the moment.’ She looked at him beseechingly. ‘Don’t say anything to anyone, will you, Phil?’ Milky shifted and stamped in her stall. ‘This party tomorrow night. It’s going to be noisy. Lots of children. Would you mind taking Milky and the others in the boxes down to the Herberts’ yard? I think it might disturb them to be here.’
Phil looked surprised. ‘All right. If you’re sure.’
‘Yes,’ Buttercup said firmly. ‘Take them all there.’
‘Okay.’
Buttercup smiled weakly. ‘You’ve been a good friend to me, Phil. Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome.’ He gave her a solemn look. ‘We do understand, you know. If you have to go.’
‘Yes. That helps. I’d better go in and face the music.’
‘All right. Good luck.’
Carol was coming out of the kitchen in a rush as Buttercup walked back from the stables towards the back door.
‘You’re home!’ she cried. ‘You’re all right!’
‘Yes, I’m fine.’ Buttercup raised her eyebrows. ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘You haven’t answered your phone! No one’s heard of you or seen you for three days! We’ve been worried sick.’
‘I’m a grown-up and I’m perfectly okay. I needed some time to myself.’ Buttercup walked past her and into the kitchen. ‘How’s Charles?’
‘His health is all right, if that’s what you mean. He’s over his flu or whatever it was, but he’s been going out of his mind with worry.’
‘Where is he?’ She went to the fruit bowl on the table, picked up an apple and inspected it. Then she took a bite.
‘He’s in the study, where he’s been most of the time when he hasn’t been pacing about, worrying.’
Buttercup leaned against the table, chewing her apple insouciantly, while she stared at Carol, who gazed back at her, puzzled. ‘I suppose he’s had the team out looking for me. No doubt he’s been pulling strings with his important friends, trying to get me traced.’
‘He was worried about you,’ Carol said firmly. She picked up a tea towel and folded it in an agitated way. ‘I don’t understand. What’s got into you? Aren’t you bothered about all the worry? If you’d seen him, the state he’s been in . . . He’s on the brink of cancelling the party tomorrow!’
‘Oh dear. I’m sure he’s worked himself up good and proper.’ Buttercup took another bite of apple and, when she’d eaten it, she said, ‘I think it’s time for you to decide whose side are you on.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘You heard. Are you on Charles’s side, or mine?’
Carol laughed nervously, refolding the tea towel, hanging it over the rail of the cooker, and taking it off again to fold once more. ‘I don’t know what you mean. I don’t take sides. I’m here to support you both, equally. So is Steve.’
‘I don’t know your husband. He keeps himself to himself. He’s outside, you’re inside. You know about what goes on in here.’
‘What I know, Steve knows,’ Carol said shortly. ‘We’re a team.’
‘Yes, but are you Team Charles, or Team Buttercup? It’s that simple. I know you spy on me, I’ve seen your reports. That’s surprised you, hasn’t it? Oh yes, I know all about those reports, telling the Hub what I had for breakfast and if I’m feeling a bit off colour and whether I’m pregnant or not.’
Buttercup watched a flush spread over Carol’s face as her mouth fell open. The other woman looked astonished and shamefaced, unable to form a reply.
Buttercup said, ‘Obviously that’s all going to stop. But are you going to turn informant? Double agent, perhaps?’ She took another bite of the apple and chewed it slowly, staring at Carol, who had now gone pale, her eyes wide. ‘Here’s something that might help you decide. Imagine you have a dream, a huge desire in life. And someone decides to deprive you of that thing. To take your dream and smash it up and destroy it forever. But here’s the thing – they don’t tell you what they’ve done. They pretend you still have a chance, when the reality is that you have nothing to ho
pe for. That way, they get to keep you on their terms, and you’re completely in the dark. Imagine that, Carol. Doesn’t it sound pretty bad?’
Carol had gone still and quiet. ‘Yes,’ she said at last, her soft Scottish brogue grave instead chirpily cheerful as it usually was. ‘Yes, it’s pretty bad.’
‘What should happen to that person, do you think? What punishment is bad enough? Do you think that maybe having their hopes and dreams destroyed is only fair?’
‘I don’t know. I’m sorry. I can’t answer that.’
‘I don’t know either,’ Buttercup said. She tossed her half-eaten apple into the compost bin. ‘I thought that was good, but it turned out to taste bad after all.’ She went towards the door. ‘I’m trying to work it all out. But in the meantime, I guess we should all start concentrating on the lovely party we’re going to have tomorrow night.’ She turned back to stare at Carol. ‘So give it some thought, Carol, and maybe let me know what team you decide on.’
In the hallway, she almost bumped into Elaine, who was coming downstairs talking frantically into a mobile phone but stopped short when she saw Buttercup. The phone dropped from her ear and she gaped at her, then gathered herself together and said, ‘Look, the situation has changed. Mrs Redmain is here. I’ll call you later.’ As she clicked off the call, her lips stretched into a huge smile. ‘What a relief to see you! Are you all right?’
‘I’m perfectly fine, thank you, Elaine,’ Buttercup said coldly. She knew which team Elaine was on and always would be. Perhaps she’s the only person in the world Charles can truly trust. But then again, she doesn’t have to be married to him. ‘I’m a grown woman, you know. If I want to go away for a few days, I can.’
‘Of course you can.’ Elaine took a step towards her as if approaching a wild animal that she intended to capture. ‘But you ought to have let someone know your plans. We’ve been worried about you.’