Untitled Book 3

by Susan Elliot Wright

  But most of the couple of years in between is still a blur even now, a jumble of images and half-memories that she still struggles to put into any sort of order. She knows she did lots of bar work because you could usually live in if you worked in a pub, but when she was waitressing or serving in cafés, she just slept in the camper. That postcard she found in the sideboard upstairs, the one saying she was working in a pub in Derbyshire, is postmarked August, so it must be one of the first places she’d worked after she left here. But even now she has absolutely no recollection of how she got there. She drove the camper, of course, but had she known where she was going, or had she just driven aimlessly? Her only solid memories from those first few weeks are of watching people going about their business. Men working on building sites, whistling; women chatting with the checkout girls as they packed their shopping and planned what to make for dinner; children skipping or playing football in parks and playgrounds; and, worst of all, television presenters wearing nice clothes and heavy make-up, smiling, being witty and entertaining. And she remembers being incredulous that these things were still happening, that all around her people were going to work or peeling potatoes or reading newspapers, as if nothing had happened.

  *

  It is gone midnight when she goes back upstairs. That long sleep earlier must have fortified her – she’s usually ready to fall into bed by ten. She makes a mug of hot chocolate to take to bed, then goes around switching off the lights. In the living room, her phone flashes in the darkness. Shit. She’d forgotten to take it downstairs with her. She unlocks the screen; five missed calls. The voicemail icon is lit, and her heart thumps as she waits for the message to play.

  Eleanor, the present

  The doctor reassures Eleanor that she has nothing to feel guilty about. ‘In fact,’ he says, ‘if your mother had been at home when this happened, she wouldn’t have received medical attention so promptly and the damage may well have been more significant.’ They’ll need to keep her in hospital for a while, he says, but he’s optimistic.

  Marjorie was in the residents’ sitting room taking part in a singalong when it happened, and the staff recognised the signs immediately. A nurse was by her side within seconds and the paramedics arrived in seven minutes. ‘All our staff are thoroughly trained,’ the matron says when Eleanor calls the home the next day to thank everyone for their quick actions. ‘The first half-hour or so is crucial, you see. Do you know about FAST?’

  ‘Yes,’ Eleanor says. ‘They gave me a leaflet.’

  ‘Good. Remember, time is of the essence.’

  *

  Later, when she calls in to pick up her mum’s suitcase, the receptionist apologises. ‘We usually make sure ladies’ handbags go in the ambulance with them,’ she says, ‘but it might be because it all happened so quickly. Or maybe it was because the clasp is broken.’ She looks at the handbag as she hands it to Eleanor. ‘They’d have been worried something might fall out, I suppose. Anyway, it’s been in the safe, so everything should be there.’

  Eleanor assures her it’s not a problem, and thanks her again. She puts the suitcase containing the four days’ worth of clothes, toiletries and medication in the boot and places the open handbag on the passenger seat. All her life, her mother’s handbag has been sacred. It was drummed into her as a small child that she was not to touch it, much less look inside, and here it is, tantalisingly open next to her. As she’s driving back across Blackheath, a young fox appears out of nowhere and darts across the road in front of her. She slams on the brakes, shooting everything off the passenger seat and into the footwell. The terrified animal freezes, yellow eyes flashing in the headlights; they stare at each other for a second before it runs off across the heath into the darkness.

  After a moment, she sets off again, sticking rigidly to the speed limit and concentrating on not allowing her mind to wander. She pulls up outside the house, takes the suitcase out of the boot and then bends to pick up the contents of her mum’s handbag. She shoves everything back rather haphazardly, half expecting to be shouted at for touching it. There is a battered leather wallet that she doesn’t recognise. Maybe it belongs to someone else at the home and has accidentally got in with her mum’s things. She opens it, and there is the black-and-white photo she hasn’t seen for thirty years – the one she was looking for at the exact same moment her mother was having a stroke.

  *

  After the first week or so, Marjorie seems to be recovering well, and she appears reasonably lucid today, so Eleanor takes advantage, handing her a series of photos, one at a time, the safe ones first: herself as a child, Marjorie as a child, Peggy, her mum and Peggy together. Marjorie smiles and nods, occasionally mutters, ‘Peg,’ or ‘That’s me.’ She slips in one or two of her dad and Marjorie still smiles and nods. ‘Your dad,’ she says, then looks puzzled. ‘He’s not been in today.’ Eleanor says nothing. She hands Marjorie the photo she found in her bag. ‘Who’s in this one?’

  Marjorie smiles. ‘That’s me.’ She points. ‘And there’s you. And poor Peter.’

  Eleanor’s heart starts to thump. ‘Can you remember what happened to Peter, Mum?’ She braces herself.

  ‘Drowned,’ she says, matter-of-factly.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. It was very sad, wasn’t it? Can you remember the day it happened? Was I . . . was I playing with Peter?’

  Marjorie is staring at the photo, no longer smiling. A tear runs down her papery cheek. ‘Same as Maurice.’

  ‘Maurice?’ That name again; the one she said she’d been told never to mention. She’d forgotten all about that. ‘Mum, who was Maurice?’ Marjorie closes her eyes and begins to rock back and forth, more tears trickling down her face. ‘Ohhh,’ she wails, louder and louder.

  ‘Mum, it’s all right.’ She reaches out, but Marjorie snatches her hand away and begins pulling at her hair. The noise she’s making is terrible, like an animal caught in a trap.

  Eleanor looks around frantically for a nurse. She should never have shown her that picture. Further along the ward, another elderly lady starts to shout and pull at her clothes in distress. Oh, God, what has she started? ‘Nurse!’ she calls, and a tiny nurse who looks about fifteen walks calmly towards them. ‘What’s the matter, Marjorie?’ she shouts, taking hold of her hands. ‘Stop pulling your hair, now. Come on, stop that! And look now, you’re upsetting the other ladies.’

  One of Marjorie’s hands flies out of her grasp and she raises it as though she’s going to hit the nurse.

  ‘Oh, Mum, stop it, please.’ Eleanor moves nearer to try to help but the nurse shakes her head. ‘It’s fine. Don’t worry. Best if you wait outside the ward for a minute.’

  She hesitates. Is there something she doesn’t want her to see? Is she being a bit rough? You hear about these things in hospitals. But then it dawns on her. She’s being asked to wait outside because her presence is making her mum worse. Another nurse comes hurrying past her to deal with the old lady three beds down who is now swearing heartily and throwing anything she can lay her hands on.

  She hovers near the nurses’ station but Marjorie is already calmer, and the nurse is making soothing noises and asking if she’d like a drink of water. ‘Yes, please,’ she hears Marjorie say, ‘you’re very kind.’

  She walks along the corridor and out into the car park. She’ll give her mum five minutes to calm down, then go back in. What did she mean by Same as Maurice? She studies the photo again. There’s a framed shot of her dad on the wall in the background; could that be what she meant? But before she can think about it any more, she spots Peggy walking across the tarmac towards her.

  ‘I’d thought you’d be gone by now,’ Peggy says. ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘Bit of a drama just now, but I think she’s calmed down again.’

  ‘Oh, no, really? This is happening quite a lot now, isn’t it?’

  A couple of days ago, Eleanor arrived at the hospital to find Peggy outside the ward in floods of tears. Peggy had taken in some of the fresh stra
wberry ice cream that Marjorie liked so much to try to encourage her to eat, but Marjorie had grabbed it and thrown it at her, screaming at the top of her voice that Peggy was trying to poison her.

  She sighs. ‘Yes, it seems to be.’

  As they go back into the ward together, she wonders whether her mum will remember she’s here. Marjorie looks up as they approach. ‘I won’t stay now Peggy’s here,’ she says, taking her car keys out of her pocket, ‘but I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye.’

  Marjorie appears not to have heard. ‘Peg.’ A smile spreads across her face as Peggy sits in the chair opposite. Then she looks at Eleanor, leans towards Peggy and whispers, ‘Who’s that woman?’

  Peggy looks mortified.

  ‘Mum, it’s me, Eleanor.’ She waits. Before now, it has sometimes taken a moment for her mum to recognise her, but never this long. ‘Your daughter,’ she adds. But there is no hint of recognition in Marjorie’s eyes.

  *

  That evening, unable to face being downstairs on her own, she sits in Peggy’s kitchen, sipping the generous gin and tonic Peggy has poured her.

  ‘At least she recognised you when you went back in the evening.’ Peggy pours herself a more modest amount.

  ‘True, but—’

  ‘Sorry, that’s not much comfort, is it? I hate seeing you like this, Ellie.’

  She gives a small smile. ‘Thanks. Even I’m quite shocked at how upset I was; I knew it would happen at some point, and it’s not as if she and I were ever close. But it was the way she looked at me, so politely, as though I was a total stranger.’ She sighs. ‘I suppose this’ll start happening more often.’

  They sit in silence for a moment. Then Peggy says, her voice unusually low and quiet, ‘I miss her, Ellie; it feels like she’s already gone. Sometimes I wonder if it wouldn’t be . . .’

  She pulls a tissue from her sleeve and dabs at her eyes. Eleanor feels her own throat tighten, then Peggy blows her nose and shakes her head. ‘If I ever get this bloody Alzheimer’s, shoot me, would you?’

  Eleanor

  She feels guilty thinking it, but she’s quite glad Marjorie hasn’t been discharged yet, because it means she can have a leisurely lunch with Jill, who’s down on one of her regular visits to see Dawn. Usually she only just about has time for a rushed coffee, so this is a real treat. ‘The rehab’s gone well, so they want to discharge her soon.’

  ‘What about the dementia?’ Jill says.

  Eleanor sighs. ‘It’s getting worse. Apparently, it’s not unusual for that to happen after a stroke. Physically, though, she’s almost there.’

  ‘Have you thought any more about homes?’

  ‘I’ve seen a couple, and the place she was in for respite is brilliant but I’m not sure she’s quite at that stage yet.’

  ‘I’m not just saying this because we want you back – although we do, of course – but don’t give up your life entirely. No one can say you haven’t done your duty.’

  ‘Well, anyway . . .’ She reaches for the wine bottle and tops them both up. ‘It’s all gone well, but she’s still having trouble walking. She’ll never manage the stairs, so I’m going to turn the dining room into a bedroom, for the time being at least. It needs redecorating anyway. I’m dying to get rid of that gloomy wallpaper – I’m sure I remember my dad putting it up, so that’s how long it’s been there.’

  ‘Sounds like a good idea,’ Jill says. ‘Dawn and I can give you a hand if you want to make a start tomorrow.’

  ‘Seriously? Oh, Jill, that would be brilliant, but what about Dawn? I don’t want to eat into your visit.’

  ‘To be honest, I think she’ll be more than happy to come over to you for a few hours.’ She smiles good-naturedly. ‘She doesn’t know what to do with me after the first couple of days, especially now Flora’s settled into a routine.’

  ‘How old is Flora now?’

  ‘Three and a half months. I thought I’d spend the best part of my visits looking after her so Dawn can get on with things, but she’s as good as gold; sleeps like a little lamb.’

  ‘That’s good,’ she murmurs.

  Jill looks at her. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says gently. ‘I sometimes forget how much it still hurts.’

  ‘Don’t apologise. It still surprises me at times how raw it feels. It passes, though.’ She takes a breath and smiles. ‘Anyway, if you’re sure Dawn won’t mind, it would be wonderful to have you there, even if it’s just moral support. There’s so much in that house that has stayed the same for donkey’s years, I feel like if I move anything I’m going to disturb some sort of, I don’t know, dormant misery.’

  Mostly, the house has become more comfortable and familiar over the last six months, but every now and then, she touches or looks at something that zooms her back to childhood. She shudders now as she remembers her mother’s dark days, when black despair seemed to flow from her and seep into the carpets and up the walls.

  ‘Don’t worry, I can do moral and practical support! We’ll be round first thing.’

  The following morning, she gets up early to move the smaller items of furniture into the living room. The dining table and sideboard will have to stay put for now, but she can push them into the middle and cover them with dust sheets. The oak sideboard is heavier than she thought, so she needs to empty it before she can move it. She takes out the drawers, still stuffed with papers, and is just carrying them through to the living room when the doorbell rings. That’ll be Jill and Dawn. As she sets the last drawer on the coffee table, she notices a piece of paper caught at the back. It’s slipped through a gap where the wood has split, probably from being pushed up against the radiator for so many years. She plucks it out – it’s a plain white envelope, sealed but with nothing written on it – and tosses it on top of the other papers to look at later.

  ‘Here we are,’ Jill says when Eleanor opens the door. She’s holding a plastic bucket full of decorating equipment in one hand and a broom in the other. ‘Team Charlie, ready for action.’

  Charlie bounces in, carrying a miniature wooden toolbox with a red handle. ‘I putted my old clothes on,’ he says, ‘so I can be a helper.’

  ‘Wonderful.’ She smiles. ‘I certainly need some help today.’

  ‘Daddy’s looking after Flora,’ he continues, walking into the dining room. ‘She can’t help because she’s too little. Only big boys can do working.’ And with an air of great importance, he places his toolbox on the floor.

  ‘Right,’ Jill says, hands on hips. ‘We’ve brought some stuff with us, but we need one more wallpaper scraper, a couple of brooms and some buckets or bowls of water. My father was a waste of space in many ways but he showed me how to strip wallpaper before he buggered off and left us – without repapering the room, I hasten to add.’

  Eleanor goes down to the utility room to fetch what they need, and then Jill shows them how to use the scrapers to make criss-cross scores all over the wallpaper to allow the water to soak in properly.

  ‘Now comes the fun part.’ Jill points to the buckets and bowls of water. ‘What you do is take your broom,’ she pauses to pass a handbrush to Charlie. ‘Here’s yours, sweetie. And then you dunk it and slosh it up the wall as far as you can, like this.’

  Charlie squeals as water splats onto the floor.

  ‘We give it a good coating, then leave it about ten minutes, then do the same thing a couple more times. After the final soak, we’ll go and have a cup of tea and by that time it’ll have soaked right through the layers and it’ll scrape off easily.’

  ‘Give us a broom,’ Dawn says, holding her hand out.

  ‘You don’t have to help, Dawn,’ Eleanor says. ‘You’re a new mum; your job is to chat to us while we’re working to keep our spirits up.’

  ‘No, I came to help – I’ve been looking forward to this. When else do you get the chance to chuck water all over the place, eh, Charlie? And it’s a good excuse to leave Madam with her dad for a few hours so we can have some Mummy and Charlie time, isn’t
it, pickle?’ Charlie nods, already dunking his handbrush and happily sloshing water over the lower part of the wall, the floor and much of himself.

  The water running down the walls is the colour of tea, Eleanor notices. According to Peggy, Marjorie only gave up smoking a few years ago, so the paper is probably suffused with forty-odd years’ worth of nicotine.

  Half an hour later, the radio is on and Jill, Dawn and Charlie are singing along to the theme from Frozen as they start on the final soak. It feels good to have her friends here, laughing and singing; maybe some of this cheerfulness will soak into the walls, too.

  Peggy, who’s come down to help in a ‘tea-making and supervisory’ capacity, appears in the doorway, brandishing a large white paper bag with telltale grease spots at the bottom. ‘Who’s for tea and doughnuts?’

  ‘Me!’ shouts Charlie. He’s drenched from head to foot.

  ‘Me, please,’ Jill says. ‘Good grief!’ She laughs as she looks at him. ‘You’re like a drowned rat! Good job Mummy brought some other clothes.’

  ‘Come on, Charlie Farley,’ Dawn says. ‘Let’s get you into some dry things.’

  Dawn takes Charlie off to the bathroom, while Jill goes into the kitchen to help Peggy with the tea. Eleanor is about to join them when the landline rings. She hurries through to the living room, trying to negotiate a path through all the extra furniture crammed in here. In her haste she bangs her knee hard against the corner of the coffee table. ‘Shit!’ she rubs her knee with one hand and manages to grab the phone with the other, just in time to hear yet another automated message telling her she can make a personal injury claim if she’s had an accident at work. She swears loudly, slams the handset back in its cradle and is picking her way back through the room when she spots the white envelope that was caught in the back of the drawer. She’d almost forgotten it. She picks it up, sits down on the sofa and turns it over in her hands. The envelope is dusty and feels brittle with age, and there is definitely something inside. Tentatively, she opens it and slides out several folded pages. It’s a letter, dated 17 June 1984: