Mr Thompson was in his garden behind hers, pruning something. She didn’t go beyond pansies and bedding plants in her little patch, and keeping the grass cut. His was bountiful and loved, a different kind of garden, a different kind of life. He worked there daily, his gnarled hands never still, pipe clenched between his teeth. The tobacco scent drifted over the fence towards her. Fiercely against smoking, Margaret nevertheless did not mind Mr Thompson’s pipe in the open air. He was too kind and Mrs Thompson too shrewish, for her to feel anything but fondness for him.
He nodded a good morning. Margaret waved, ‘Lovely day!’
‘Aye,’ he said, ‘it is that.’
She was pegging out a towel when she heard the telephone ringing through the open back door.
It was Esther.
‘I was going to call you later,’ Margaret began. ‘I wondered if you’d – ’
‘It’s Mum. She’s had a stroke, she’s in hospital.’
‘No – oh God, how bad is it?’
‘I don’t know, I’m heading there now. Lou’s driving me, she arrived yesterday.’
‘What happened?’
‘It seems she fell in the kitchen and one of those Social Services people found her. Do you have a phone number for Caroline? Lou tried the mobile number but it doesn’t seem to be switched on – or maybe not working, I don’t know – we’re not even sure she has a landline in Ullapool and I don’t have time to look – so – ’
‘I might have it. Which ward? I’ll get there as soon as I can.’
‘Yes, come. If you can’t track Caroline down, we’ll do it later, I’m sure she’ll be all right, it’s just we don’t know yet – ’
Margaret heard Louise’s voice in the background and Esther said, ‘I’m coming.’
‘Off you go – I’ll see you there.’
Hastily, Esther told her the ward number, and hung up.
For a moment Margaret stood by the telephone, not moving. Here was a new fear. They knew they were losing Janet, she was less herself every time, every visit and phone call. But not this, not this. She would look for Caroline’s phone number, then go straight to the hospital.
Margaret knew where everything was in her tidy house. In the hall as she passed it she touched Anna’s photograph on the small beechwood bookcase, Anna captured by a friend when they were in Greece, aged eighteen. A fair vivacious Anna in cut-off jeans and yellow vest top was looking over her shoulder, behind her the Aegean and a low white building dazzling in sunlight against blue sky and sea.
The bungalow with its deep roof cavity had a floored attic with a skylight window and a loft ladder she could easily pull down. From time to time, having gone up there to fetch something – Christmas decorations, spare blankets – Margaret would find herself sitting on in a kind of dream in the hush and coolness of the roof space, listening to a drip of water in the tank or a seagull thudding about on the tiles. This time she went straight to the box with last year’s Christmas cards and The List. She updated The List in November every year, checking it off against last year’s cards, incorporating new addresses, scoring off old ones and sometime scoring off people who had died during the year or simply gone so far out of her life she could see no point in sending them another card. There was the sad card that was signed, for the first time for many years, ‘Love Esther’. She’s like me now, Margaret had thought, opening it, she sends cards on no one else’s behalf.
Here was The List, and here was Caroline’s name: Dr Caroline Livingstone, Garve Cottage, near Ullapool. No telephone number. She scrambled down the ladder with the list in her hand, and went straight to the laptop set up on her dining table to switch it on. It was an elderly computer, so while it went through its lengthy warm-up she washed the dust from her hands. When she tapped in the name, it occurred to her that it would be just like Caroline to be ex-directory.
The number was there. That was her, it had to be. She was shaking when she called it, shaking not just because of Janet, but because she never called Caroline, and Caroline never called her. They did not speak. There had been no quarrel or misunderstanding. Caroline had withdrawn from them all, but from Margaret most completely. She knew why, or thought she did, but it was another thing she did not allow herself to think about.
The ringing went on in Caroline’s empty cottage until the electronic voice cut in and told her there was no one available. Briefly, so that she would not sound as if she were trembling, though she was, she left a message and her mobile number.
Then she went to get her coat.
It was Sunday evening when Caroline appeared in the ward. They were all three by Janet’s bed, and though she had been awake for a while, knowing they were there, even trying to smile and speak, she had just fallen into a doze. She was in a single room, but was to be moved to the ward next morning.
‘She’s doing very well,’ a young doctor had told them that afternoon. ‘It’s not a major stroke, but she is having some difficulty with speech and there’s a definite weakness on the left side.’
‘What does that mean?’ Louise had asked. ‘What sort of recovery – ’
‘Too soon to tell,’ the doctor said, smiling as if to soften this.
Caroline pushed the door open and said, ‘How is she?’
They looked up in unison.
‘Oh,’ Esther breathed, ‘I’m so glad you’re here.’
‘I’ll find another chair,’ Louise said, going out. Margaret sat still, holding Janet’s hand.
‘Thank you.’ Caroline came in pulling a small suitcase on wheels. She tucked this behind the door and took the chair Louise had been in, next to Margaret. ‘I got home quite late last night so I didn’t pick up your message till morning, I’m so sorry. I set off as soon as I could, but with trains as they are, it’s taken me all day.’
‘She was trying to talk to us earlier – she’s not long fallen asleep,’ Esther said.
‘I suppose it’s too soon to tell what the damage is?’
‘That’s what they say,’ Louise agreed, coming in with another grey plastic chair. She set it down next to Esther. Caroline opened her black coat and shook it off her shoulders.
‘How hot hospitals are,’ she said. ‘I ought to know that, but you forget.’ She leaned forward to look at Janet. ‘She’s going to be ninety this year, isn’t she?’
‘I’m surprised you remember,’ Margaret said.
‘I’m not good at birthdays, but I always remember Janet’s.’
‘We were thinking we’d have a wee party, but lately I’ve wondered if she would even like it,’ Esther said.
‘That’s a nice idea. We’ll just have to wait and see.’
Margaret, resenting the ‘we’, shifted her chair a fraction closer to the bed.
Louise glanced at her watch. ‘They’ll be throwing us out soon.’
‘Where are you going to stay?’ Esther asked. ‘Do you want to come out to Braeside? Lou’s staying with me. Or – ’ she glanced at Margaret, suddenly doubtful but unable not to say, ‘or maybe Margaret could put you up?’
Margaret, flushing, said, ‘If you like.’
Caroline shook her head. ‘I thought I’d go up to Harrowden Place and stay there, if it’s all right with you? I don’t want to put anyone to any trouble, and I’ll be able to get to the hospital easily.’
‘Good idea,’ Louise said. ‘Then there will be someone in the house. How long can you stay?’
‘As long as I need to. I’ve no animals or small children – or men – to miss me.’ She smiled. ‘I’m free.’
‘You were away,’ Margaret said.
‘It’s all right, I’ve no more trips or commitments till the spring.’
Janet made a small sound and moved her head on the pillow, but she did not wake.
‘I think we should go,’ Esther murmured. ‘It would be a shame to disturb her now, when we have to leave anyway.’
As they got up and moved the chairs away from the bed, Caroline went closer to it, leaned down and put a
gentle hand on Janet’s arm. ‘See you tomorrow,’ she said softly. Janet moved her head again, muttered something, but went on sleeping.
They said goodnight, touched her tenderly, and left as quietly as they could.
At the hospital entrance, Caroline said, ‘Will you all be here tomorrow afternoon? What about coming to Harrowden Place afterwards for something to eat? There’s such a short gap between afternoon and evening visiting, and you can hardly go back to Braeside. Even Westhill – are you still there, Margaret? Anyway, I’d like to see you all.’
What could they say but thank you, yes, that would be fine? They were all exhausted, and Caroline must be too, having travelled from Ullapool. They stood around for another moment or two, unable to think how to part.
‘What about a key?’ Louise asked. ‘For the house.’
‘I still have one. Unless – you’ve had the locks changed?’
‘Definitely not!’
‘Ok. Fine. See you here tomorrow?’ Caroline turned to Margaret. ‘Will you give me a lift? It’s not out of your way, is it?’
‘You don’t have a car?’
‘No. As I said, I had to rely on Scotrail to get here today. And taxis.’
Has Margaret forgotten, Esther wondered, that Caroline never drives, never has?
Margaret indicated her car, aimed the key at it to unlock the doors, and got into the driving seat, saying only, ‘Yes, ok.’
‘Wait,’ Louise said. ‘Let’s check we’ve got the right mobile number for you – we couldn’t get through on the number I had. We can text, if anything changes – ’
She and Caroline, heads bent over smartphones, keyed in numbers. Esther thought, we’re in touch now, that’s it, for good, and tried to smile at Margaret, but she turned her head away.
As Margaret and Caroline drove away Louise unlocked her own car. ‘Poor Tilly, left with no choice. You never know, do you?’
‘About what?’
‘Cousin Caroline. She looks pretty good, I must say, for her age.’
Esther would have laughed at that, if she had not been so upset about her mother. That took over everything. How white she was, and that dragging at the corner of her mouth, the limp arm.
‘Granny died of a stroke,’ she said. ‘If she has another one – ’
Louise opened the passenger door for her. ‘Come on, you’re shattered, let’s go home.’
As they drove away from the hospital in silence Margaret seemed to give herself a shake, making an effort.
‘Are you sure about going back to Harrowden Place on your own? I don’t even know what sort of state the place is in. We were going to go in tomorrow to get more things for Janet, maybe tidy up if it needs it.’
‘It doesn’t matter. As I said, it’s near the hospital – I can get there without being dependent on anyone else.’
‘Why didn’t you bring your car?’
‘I don’t have one.’
‘You still don’t drive? All those years?’ It was out before she could stop herself. Glancing sideways, she saw that Caroline, however elegant, was an old woman. It wasn’t just years – it was a lifetime.
‘No, I never have. In London it scarcely mattered.’
‘But you’re living in Ullapool!’
Caroline almost laughed. ‘Yes, I admit that’s more of a challenge. But I’m not going to start now.’
‘How do you manage?’
‘Taxis, public transport . . . I walk a lot.’
As Margaret drew up outside the familiar house, all in darkness, they fell into silence, the engine switched off, the street empty and quiet.
‘Better go in, I suppose.’ Caroline put her hand on the door. ‘Do you want to come in for a cup of tea or something?’
I have been rude to her, Margaret thought, guiltily. It was churlish, it’s all so long ago, and she’s had her separate life, I’ve had mine. It doesn’t matter now, does it? For all that, it was difficult to say, ‘Yes, thank you. Just for a wee while, before I head home.’
‘Good.’
Margaret had her key out first and opened the front door, switching on lights as she went through the hall. The house smelled stale. A film of dust coated the mirror on the hallstand, the parquet was dull, unpolished, and there was the sound, from the kitchen or scullery, of a tap dripping. Except that the central heating had been left on twice a day and it was not quite cold, the house might have been empty for weeks.
‘You put the kettle on,’ Margaret said, determined not to comment, however much this change upset her, that she had been aware of for months, but not felt so strongly till now, with Caroline beside her. ‘I’ll just nip upstairs to the loo, and I’ll see if the bed’s made up in the spare – in your old room.’
The bed was stripped and bare. Janet did not have visitors now who stayed overnight. Margaret was relieved to find the linen cupboard still faintly warm and sweet smelling. She made up the bed quickly and put out fresh towels.
Downstairs, Caroline had put the central heating back on and the boiler was humming loudly in the scullery, the kettle switching itself off in the kitchen.
‘Tea?’ she said as Margaret came in.
‘Yes, that’s fine. I wonder if the milk’s ok.’
‘Does she still manage by herself?’ Caroline asked as they took their mugs through to the den.
Margaret, leaning down to switch on the gas fire, which was old-fashioned and troublesome, pressed the starter switch several times. ‘Damn. Right, that’s it, I think. Why on earth did they never get a new fire? This one’s quite dangerous.’
She sat on the Windsor chair next to the fireplace. Caroline, poised on the edge of the sofa, said, ‘But Janet copes with it?’
‘I suppose so. She has people coming in now, twice a day, but we’ve been wondering how much longer . . . We’re worried she’ll leave something on the cooker, or gas herself with this blooming fire.’
‘Has she had a diagnosis?’
‘Some kind of dementia.’
‘She’s been assessed?’
‘Ask Esther. She knows more.’
A pause. They drank tea they did not want.
The room was warming up now and they had taken off their coats. Caroline leaned back on the sofa, not the same one she and Daniel had lazed on, reading and planning and talking, but another, moved out of the sitting room when it was replaced there. Still, it was quite like the old sofa, comfortable and sagging. She could imagine it was the same.
‘I sometimes think,’ she said, ‘now I’m in the cottage most of the time, am I going to be one of those old women you read about in the newspapers: former distinguished consultant, specialist in neurological disorders . . . found bludgeoned to death in a remote cottage.’ Seeing Margaret’s startled expression, she laughed. ‘Maybe not as dramatic as that. Found dead . . . had lain there for weeks . . .’
‘Someone would – I mean, you have friends who – ’
‘I was only joking,’ Caroline said. ‘But the point is, Janet has you and Esther close by, Louise in regular contact. She has people calling in daily. So she didn’t lie for a week before she was found and taken to hospital.’
‘Why are you living in such a remote place?’
‘I still have a flat in London. I should probably sell it.’
‘You don’t live there any more?’
‘I’m usually in London most of the winter. Ullapool’s for finer weather. But I spent Christmas and New Year at the cottage, so I just stayed on. Then I had a meeting in London, but I thought I’d come back and close up the place properly, till May or June. I don’t know, maybe I just felt I wanted to go north again. When you can do anything you like you dither more, become less organised.’
‘Why are you still going to meetings? You’ve retired, haven’t you?’
‘Years ago, but I’m still involved in various things. Committees, panels . . .’ She sighed. ‘You know, I think I might just go to bed.’
Margaret had put on the overhead light, when perhaps lampli
ght would have been better. In this harsher glow, Caroline did look old, the lines round her eyes etched more deeply, her skin, though skilfully made up, not as fine as it had been. Her hair was white, but cut in the same way, that sharp bob, jaw length.
‘I’ll go now,’ Margaret said, but neither of them moved.
We are two old women, Margaret thought, at least, one old and the other middle-aged, who have nothing in common except that they grew up in the same family, a family who were the closest relatives of neither. What else do we have in common?
Daniel.
They had once loved Daniel more than any other person, Daniel their brother. Not that this had made them close. They had moved away from each other steadily throughout their lives, Caroline moving faster and more surely. The old doubt that shifted uneasily under her ribs, had returned. If anyone knew in this world, anyone you could safely ask (not Janet any more) it was Caroline. If she was ever going to find out, it was now.
‘Janet,’ she said, ‘was my mother, is my mother, more than Diana ever was. That’s why I worry so much about her, feel responsible.’
‘She and Harry thought of themselves as your parents,’ Caroline said. ‘Janet said once to me, “Margaret’s special to us.”’
‘Special!’ She did not want to be special, included, taken in to the fold. She wanted to be there already, integral.
‘I’d better put my things upstairs.’ Caroline had laid her coat on the sofa next to her, and she began to gather it up.
‘Is there something I don’t know?’ Margaret asked, her heart thumping. Now or never, if I don’t ask now, I never will.
‘About?’
‘Our family. Dad. Diana – any of it. Or about Daniel.’
There, she had said his name, he was brought into it at last.
Caroline smiled her remote, reassuring, consultant’s smile. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Nothing at all. You were loved, we all were. Any breach is my fault, not Dan’s, not Dad’s. Mine.’ She got up. ‘Now, I’m not chasing you away but you have a drive yet, don’t you?’
Outside, sitting in her car, the house door closed against her with a wave from Caroline, Margaret sat burning with anger. Chasing me away – from my own home, my safe place, where I grew up and was loved and looked after and that you abandoned and betrayed.
The Treacle Well Page 31