‘It’s all right for you, Cass.’ Lucas put down his can and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘You’re never here.’
‘That’s not fair. I come home whenever I can.’
‘Whenever you want, more like.’
‘And I suppose you stay at home out of the goodness of your heart, do you? Not by any chance because it’s cheap and convenient and Greta does all your laundry?’
‘Probably a bit of both,’ said Lucas peaceably. One of the infuriating things about Lucas is that he would never have a proper row. ‘But don’t worry, Cass. You know Mum. She’ll be OK. And of course I’ll look after her.’
‘And keep me posted?’
‘And keep you posted.’
But in spite of his reassurances, I felt uneasy, and when I said goodbye to Mum the next day she was still in bed, with The Dog curled at her side (never a good sign, for The Dog had not improved with age, and these days he was arthritic and not a little smelly; he occupied the bottom of the barrel where Mum’s sleeping companions were concerned).
‘Bye, Mum.’ I kissed her cheek. ‘I’m off now.’
‘Goodbye, Cass.’ She returned my kiss, absently fondling The Dog’s ears. ‘You will — you will come home again soon, won’t you?’
‘As soon as I can,’ I promised. ‘I’ll come home as soon as I possibly can.’
Thirty
It was with a sense of relief tinged with guilt that I returned to London after my emotional sojourn at home. At the hospital I had my friends and my work. I had my own little world, removed from the emotional problems of home, and if my social life was unexciting, then I had only myself to blame. Here in London I could truly be myself, and while I wasn’t always happy — is anyone? — my lifestyle and my choices were my own. For the first time in my life, I was beginning to feel like an independent adult, no longer defined as a daughter or even a sister. Homesickness had become a thing of the past, and while I loved my home and family, I could envisage a time in the not too distant future when I would no longer necessarily depend on them.
The situation on the boyfriend front was not improving. By now I had been out with several men, one or two of whom I had liked a lot, but I was unable to progress towards anything approaching intimacy. As soon as someone tried to kiss me or even put an arm around me, my body seemed to freeze, and with it any inclination on my part to take the relationship further. I became adept at sidestepping physical contact, and if anyone tried to kiss me, I found that gazing down at the floor often proved discouragement enough.
Of course, medical students had a reputation — Lucas had cheerily reminded me of that before I had even left home — and I found that many of them more than lived up to it. I very quickly learnt not to accept invitations back to student rooms ‘for coffee’ (at least one prospective seducer didn’t even possess a kettle), and endeavoured to stay in mixed company at all times. The result of course was that I was usually summarily dumped after a couple of dates, and would return once again to the uncoupled state.
‘What’s wrong with you, Cass?’ Angela asked, after I had been dropped by two men in rapid succession (by this time Angela had sampled more ‘coffee’ than could possibly have been good for her).
‘Nothing’s wrong with me. I just like being single,’ I replied, trying to sound convincing.
‘No one likes being single,’ Angela said. ‘We aren’t made to be single.’
‘Maybe I am.’
‘Of course you’re not. Come on, Cass. You’re an attractive girl. You’re young. You’ve got it all. What are you afraid of?’
‘Lots of people prefer to be single,’ I persisted. ‘Some of the ward sisters, for a start.’
Angela snorted.
‘Only the old ones, poor old trouts. Probably all lost their men in the war. In their day, I don’t suppose there were enough men to go around. Nowadays, there are plenty of spare men.’ She grinned at me. ‘We’re lucky, Cass. It’s a good time to be young.’
She was right, of course. In a way, our generation had it all. Far removed from such world events as the Vietnam War (of which, I’m ashamed to say, I knew very little), we had opportunities undreamed of by previous generations, and looking back, I think I managed to be happy much of the time. I had all the Beatles records, I had even come to enjoy dancing (especially as nowadays it was no longer necessary to have any contact with one’s partner; in fact sometimes one didn’t even need a partner at all) and I had the right sort of legs for a miniskirt. I just wouldn’t be needing the pill.
But part of me wanted a boyfriend. I wanted someone who was special to me; someone who was mine, if only temporarily; someone who would take me out on my birthday and send me flowers on Valentine’s Day. The annual Nurses’ Ball loomed, and I had no one to go with, while most of my friends had their partners already lined up and Angela appeared to have at least three candidates to choose from.
But in the event, there was to be no Nurses’ Ball for me, partner or no partner, for three days before it was to take place, I received a phone call.
‘Cass?’ Lucas’s voice sounded strained. He rarely phoned me, and I immediately sensed trouble.
‘It’s Mum, isn’t it?’ I said, after a moment.
‘Well, yes.’
‘Tell me, then. Don’t keep me waiting.’ What had Mum been up to now? A broken love affair? A bent Lodger? Or, worse, another unplanned pregnancy?
‘She’s depressed. She’s been really bad since Octavia’s anniversary, and she doesn’t seem to be coming out of it. I don’t know what to do.’
‘But she can’t be! I spoke to her two days ago, and she sounded fine. Why didn’t she tell me? Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I thought she’d come out of it. After all, she usually does. And besides, she didn’t want you worried. She’s so proud of you, Cass. You and your nursing. She said she didn’t want to — to disturb you, I think she said. So we thought we’d wait —’
‘We?’
‘Greta and I. After all, Greta’s very good with her, and she’s at home all day, and —’
‘But you should have told me! Of course you should. You had no right to keep something like this from me, Lucas. She’s my mother, too. I need to know!’
‘Do you? Do you really?’
I felt a sudden surge of resentment and anger; anger with Mum for failing to cope, anger with Lucas for being right, because of course I didn’t need to know about Mum’s problems, but also anger with myself for even having such thoughts.
‘You want me to come home.’ It was a statement rather than a question.
‘Would you, Cass? Just for a few days? You’re so good with her, and you’re — you’re —’
‘A woman?’ I said helpfully.
‘Well, yes. She doesn’t talk to me the way she does to you. You seem to understand each other.’
‘Does she want me to come home?’
‘Of course she doesn’t. Mum thinks you’re totally indispensable, and that countless lives will be lost if you desert your post for more than a day.’ He paused. ‘But she’ll be delighted to see you, I can promise you that. And I know you’ll make a difference. I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate, but I’ve tried everything, and I simply can’t get through to her. Greta’s out of her depth, and as for that new doctor, well, he’s useless.’
Not for the first time I thought nostalgically of Dr Mackenzie, who had been so efficient at dealing with Mum. But that good man was now enjoying a well-earned retirement, and his replacement — a spotty young man with the bedside manner of a shy teenager — would most certainly be unable to handle her.
Managing the time off proved easier than I had anticipated, and within hours I had packed a bag and was on the train home.
The scene which met me was not encouraging, but I wasn’t surprised, since it was always this way when Mum had one of her depressions. While she rarely actually did any housework herself or made any attempt to keep things in order, without her the whole place seeme
d to wilt. It was as though it required her spirit, her good cheer, to energize everyone else into making an effort. Now, the house was dusty and neglected, Call Me Bill was apparently away visiting a friend (how could he, at a time like this?) and Richard was at the kitchen table drinking coffee and reading the Daily Sketch. Greta was sitting beside him, knitting something long and shapeless in an unpleasant shade of green.
‘Where is she?’ I asked, after the formalities were over.
‘Iss in bed.’ Greta gave me a hug. ‘Iss not well,’ she added unnecessarily. ‘I take you up, yes?’
‘That won’t be necessary.’ I was annoyed with Greta, who was becoming lazy. She had enjoyed our hospitality for years now, making very little financial contribution. The least she could do now was to keep things in some sort of order even if she’d given up trying to cope with Mum herself.
I was hit by a wall of stale air as I entered Mum’s room, and when my eyes became accustomed to the gloom (the curtains were drawn) I could see her curled up like a child under the covers with The Dog lying across her feet.
‘Cass!’ She sat up and held out her arms to me. ‘What a lovely surprise!’
‘Hello, Mum.’ I kissed her, then went over to the window and drew back the curtains.
‘Oh, don’t.’ Mum held her hands up to her eyes. ‘It’s too bright!’
‘No, it’s not. It’s a beautiful day, and this room is disgustingly hot and stuffy.’ I flung open a window, then came back and sat down on the bed. ‘That’s better. Now, what’s all this about?’
Mum shivered and drew the covers up to her chin.
‘You’re being all hearty and firm,’ she said reproachfully.
‘Well, someone’s got to be hearty and firm.’ I pushed The Dog off the bed, and he slunk off into the corner, whimpering with indignation. ‘Have you seen the doctor?’
‘Oh, him! He’s quite useless. He wouldn’t give me any pills, so I told him to go away. He said that in that case he had patients who really needed him, and I haven’t seen him since.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ I said, revising my opinion of the youthful GP.
‘Well, he could have called back. To see how I was.’
‘But you told him to go away!’
‘I didn’t mean it. I was just — testing.’
‘Mum, it’s no good playing silly games with the doctor. He hasn’t the time even if you have. Look ...’ I stood up. ‘I’ll go and run you a nice bath, and we can talk while you’re having it.’
‘But I don’t want a bath.’
‘Mum, you need a bath. No arguing. Then I can change the sheets on this bed and give it a good airing.’
‘Is this the way you treat your patients?’
‘Oh, I’m much worse with my patients.’
I ran a deep bath, and poured into it the contents of several nearly empty bottles and jars, producing a great deal of foam and an interesting but not unpleasant-smelling cloud of steam.
‘Ugh.’ Mum hovered in the doorway. ‘What’s that smell?’
‘Essence of Roses, Jasmine Garden, Lemon Soufflé and Eastern Delight,’ I read out the labels on the bottles. ‘Who thinks up these ridiculous names? Now, in you get.’
I closed the door and whipped off her nightie. Obediently she stepped into the warm water. I noticed that she had lost weight.
‘Mmm. Not bad.’ Mum lay back in the bath, and there was a shadow of a smile. A sea of foam trembled up to her chin, and the sunlight filtering through the bathroom window caught the red of her hair. She looked like a tousled film star.
I reflected that it would take more than a bout of depression to cause Mum to lose her looks.
‘Now talk to me.’ I sat down on the bathroom stool.
‘It’s Octavia.’
‘Of course it’s Octavia. But what’s brought this on now?’
‘I didn’t know anniversaries would be this bad,’ Mum said. ‘I thought this time would be better. I wanted to celebrate her, remember her, but not — not feel like this.’
I knew what she meant. We could go on trying to tell ourselves that an anniversary was just another day, but the time of year, the June sunshine, the roses in the garden — they would always be a poignant reminder of that awful day three years ago. How could they not be?
‘Maybe one day we’ll be able to celebrate her,’ I said gently. ‘But it’s only been three years, Mum.’
‘Oh, Cass. What am I going to do?’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Whatever shall I do?’
‘You’ll just go on, Mum. As you have been doing. And there’ll be good days and bad, and eventually there will be more and more of the good days. Then one day you’ll be able to look back and remember Octavia and smile. And be glad you had her.’
‘Are you glad, Cass? Are you glad we had her?’
‘Yes. Oh yes.’ Funnily enough it was a question I had never asked myself, but now I found myself replying without hesitation. The baby who had been neither planned nor wanted had become central to our family, and although we no longer had her with us, her place in the family was assured for as long as we were around to remember her. ‘How could I ever regret knowing her, having her for my sister? She was — she was just perfect,’ I finished lamely.
‘She was, wasn’t she?’ Mum seemed pleased.
‘Of course she was. And now she can never be anything else. A perfect, happy baby.’
When Lucas got home from work that evening, he was impressed to find Mum sitting up in bed between clean sheets, eating supper off a tray. I probably should have persuaded her to get dressed and come downstairs, but I reckoned that the bath was victory enough for one afternoon.
‘I knew you’d be able to do it, Cass,’ he said. ‘I knew we could depend on you.’
But for how long, I wondered some time later, as I took The Dog out for his late-night pee, lingering beneath the huge silent arc of a star-studded sky, smelling the scent of damp grass and flowers. For how long would I have to continue to take responsibility for my family? For my mother?
The winking lights of an aeroplane crossed slowly overhead; The Dog, mission accomplished, whined and licked my hand; Greta called from the back door that she had made me a cup of cocoa and it was getting cold.
I sighed, and turned back towards the house.
Thirty-one
‘Has she come yet?’ My mother’s voice is as faint as the whisper of dried leaves, yet it startles me, for these are the first words she has spoken for hours.
‘No. Not yet. But she will. She will come.’ I take Mum’s hand and stroke it. I thought she had forgotten, but once again, I have underestimated my mother. ‘She’s on her way. She’ll be here as soon as she can.’
Mum nods, and closes her eyes again. She doesn’t have to say who she means and I don’t have to ask, but I’m relieved that I know now what it is — who it is — that Mum’s been waiting for. But please, please let it be soon, for even Mum can’t hang on indefinitely.
It’s strange how, at the end, people so often seem to have control over the timing of their death. Some, like Mum, wait for a particular person to come before they can finally let go, while others will hang on until a person close to them has gone home, or perhaps merely left the room for a few minutes, and thus spare those closest to them their last moments. Or maybe they simply want to die in privacy, claiming the last prerogative which is truly theirs, for dying can be an undignified business as well as a lonely one.
Outside the door, the ward is slowly coming to life after the relative peace of the night. A telephone rings, there is the brisk sound of daytime footsteps, laughter, the rumble of a trolley. An orderly brings in a cup of tea, then remembers, and makes to leave the room.
‘Please?’ I hold out my hand. My mouth is dry, my head aches and I am groggy from lack of sleep. ‘Is it OK if I have it?’
‘Sorry. Of course.’ She places the cup on the locker. ‘Can I get you anything else? A piece of toast?’
‘No thanks. Tea will be fine.’
>
Dark brown, stewed hospital tea. But this morning, it tastes like nectar, and I drink it gratefully, watching as the new day washes the colour back into the room; the pale green of the walls and the darker tiles of the floor, the white sheets, the blue of my skirt. Lucas’s flowers red and white and yellow, a horrible combination — are in a vase on the locker, already wilting from the stuffiness of the central heating, and outside the window the maple leaves continue to drift and swirl on their downward journey.
Mum is sleeping again, her breathing shallow, one hand twitching slightly outside the covers. Even now, it seems odd to see her within the narrow confines of a single bed. I doubt whether my mother has occupied a single bed since she was a child, and it must seem strange to her, too.
I wanted her to be allowed to die in her own bed and in her own home. I wanted to look after her myself. It didn’t have to be like this, I told her.
But Mum had been adamant.
‘You’ve your own life to lead, Cass. The least I can do is to die in hospital. Tidily. After all, lots of other people do, so it can’t be that bad. You can visit me,’ she had added, as though this were a novel idea. ‘You can come and see me in hospital. I’ve been enough trouble to you over the years. Quite enough trouble.’
But has she really been so much trouble? Or could it be that my need to take care of her has been at least as great as her need to be taken care of? I may not have seen it at the time, but I didn’t have to keep running home to her. She certainly never asked me to. And she would have coped. For in a way, Mum has always been on her own, and even if she hadn’t had Lucas and me, she would have got by somehow.
But in the first two years of my nursing training, I must have made at least half a dozen mercy dashes home, including the case of the thieving Lodger (who I’m pleased to say ended up behind bars), Greta’s appendicitis, another of Mum’s depressions and the death of The Dog.
The Dog had become increasingly decrepit over the years, and must have been quite an age, although given the circumstances under which we had acquired him, there was no way of knowing exactly how old he was. Various organs were beginning to fail, his hearing and eyesight were poor, and his bodily functions unreliable. The vet, a no-nonsense man who Mum said would have been better suited to working in an abattoir, recommended that we have him put down.
The Frances Garrood Collection Page 18