Vera opened the windows. ‘Off you go, Dennis,’ she said, talking not to the body but to the empty air above it. ‘No point you hanging round here.’ She walked over to the door. ‘Come on, Emma. Let’s leave his spirit to float out of here in peace.’
We went to the office and told Kegs about the death. A little while later, the undertakers arrived, armed with a wooden coffin. Once they’d placed Mr Reeves inside, they carried it along the corridor and past the dining room where most of the residents were eating breakfast. Some waved, one person clapped and another wailed. It reminded me of a contestant being evicted from the Big Brother house. I whispered this to Surinder as we walked behind the coffin and she giggled. Vera, Kegs, Memory and a few of the other care assistants appeared at reception, and we all stepped outside to watch the undertakers load the coffin into the back of a black van. Kegs stood parade-ground straight. I kept expecting him to salute.
When the van drove away, Surinder and I stayed outside to have a fag.
‘You must have got a right shock, babes,’ Surinder said. ‘Oh my God, totally.’
‘It still freaks me out when I see a dead body. I should be used to it by now.’
I wondered what Mr Reeves’s last breath had sounded like. Isobel had made a sort of choking sound.
A red Golf pulled up in the car park. John Palethorpe behind the wheel, his wife in the passenger seat.
‘Vera totally fancies him,’ said Surinder as John stepped out of the car. We both snorted with laughter. He opened the passenger door for his wife and helped her out. She didn’t bother to thank him. Her glossy dark hair glinted with copper highlights. She wore a stylish faux-fur jacket, black skinny jeans and her knee-length boots had a thin stiletto heel. As she got closer, I could see she was one of those women who would look younger from the back than the front.
‘Hello, girls,’ John said, as they passed us. The sour-faced wife said nothing. After they’d gone inside, Surinder informed me that Mrs Palethorpe owned the beauty salon on Waldon Lane.
‘She looks like a right miserable cow,’ I said.
‘She is. Hardly ever visits.’
Back inside Birch Grove, the atmosphere felt weird. A post-death aura hung over the place. I wanted to go and see my grandmother right away, but I had the tea trolley to prepare. The routine task soothed me. Emma loved routine. She liked fetching the steel flasks down from the shelf and counting out tea bags and measuring out spoonfuls of instant coffee. She always wiped down the trolley with antiseptic spray first, even when it didn’t need it. She took pride in these simple tasks. She enjoyed counting out cups, saucers and beakers and stacking them in the bottom half of the trolley.
I enjoyed these tasks too. More than I could have thought possible. Who knew menial work could be so rewarding? Such a healthy way to lose oneself. Isobel had never imposed any chores on me, but now I wish she had. Sometimes, while stripping and making beds, or folding up hot sheets straight from the tumble dryer, I would find myself in a trance. I’d told Dr Costello this in my last session, when he’d asked how my new job was going. He agreed domestic chores could be very therapeutic. I told him that in these trances I didn’t think about the past. Or about my mother. He sat up then and asked if I’d been thinking of my mother again recently. I said no, not really, but I’m not sure he believed me. Luckily, a fib about my working hours meant we agreed to limit our sessions to once a month for a while. Seeing as you’re doing so well with the job, he’d said.
***
By the time I wheeled the tea trolley to my grandmother’s room, she had a visitor. A plump woman with wiry grey hair had wedged herself into the armchair next to the bed, her wooden walking stick resting against her thigh.
‘I’m Margaret,’ she said, ‘one of Polly’s friends from church.’
Margaret accepted my offer of tea with enthusiasm and called me an angel when I passed her the steaming cup. While she slurped away, I perched on the side of Grandma’s bed and helped her drink her tea. In between sips she kept coughing, which worried me. What if she was coming down with something? She refused the biscuit I offered her. Wouldn’t take a bite.
‘Where’s the coffin?’ she asked, pointing to the door. ‘Where’s it gone?’
Margaret sighed. ‘She’s been saying that since I got here, poor thing. She’s so confused.’
‘The coffin’s gone now, sweetheart,’ I said and relayed the morning’s drama to Margaret. With teary eyes, she reached out and patted my grandmother’s hand.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t understand.’
Grandma squeezed Margaret’s hand in return. ‘Not your fault. I’m mad as bats.’
We all laughed. How amazing to have my grandmother fully present in the room, the TV forgotten for once.
‘Have you and my… you and Polly known each other long?’ I asked Margaret.
‘Gosh, yes.’ Margaret got nostalgic then, filling me in on all the fun stuff she and my grandmother had done over the years. Baking for church fundraisers—apparently Grandma made award-winning Victoria sponges in her day—singing at funerals, arranging the church flowers. They’d played bridge together too and, along with a few other friends, went on holiday once a year. ‘We went to Rome to see the Vatican,’ she said. ‘We flirted something rotten with the Italian waiters, didn’t we, Polly?’
My grandmother giggled.
I could have listened to Margaret’s stories all day, but after a while, my grandmother strayed back to the TV, and Margaret said she should be getting on.
After she’d said goodbye to Grandma, I guided her into the corridor. ‘You must know Polly’s daughter?’ I said.
‘Grace?’ Margaret couldn’t hide her disdain. ‘Not really. She never came to church, apart from the occasional Mother’s Day service.’
‘She doesn’t seem the religious type.’ I knew I should stop talking but couldn’t help myself. ‘She only visits once a week and last Saturday she didn’t even turn up.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ Margaret said, ‘they weren’t close. They hardly saw each other for twenty years. I think they had a falling out, but Polly never said what about.’
***
When I returned to my grandmother’s room, I found her weeping.
‘Bless your heart,’ I said, grabbing a tissue from her bedside table. ‘What’s all this?’ I dabbed her eyes and wiped her cheeks.
‘I’ll be in a coffin soon,’ she whispered.
‘No, you won’t.’ I held the tissue against her nose and she blew into it. ‘Good girl.’
‘Grace?’ she said.
‘Not today. Next week, if you’re lucky.’ I thought about what Margaret had told me in the corridor. ‘You fell out with Grace because of me, didn’t you?’
My grandmother moaned and sank back into her pillows, spent and meek. No way would I get anything lucid out of her now. I checked my watch.
‘I’ve got to get back to work soon,’ I said, ‘but I can read to you for a bit first.’ Picking up her Bible, I sat beside her on the bed. I quoted some stuff from Luke, including a good bit about Jesus bringing a girl back from the dead. After that, I read out a brilliant line from Matthew 10:26. ‘Whatever is now covered up will be uncovered, and every secret will be made known.’
My grandmother’s hands reached for my face, and her cold fingers smoothed my eyelids shut, the way people do to the dead. The way Vera did to Mr Reeves earlier. Neither of us moved, and in the stillness, I noticed the comforting ticking of the carriage clock. A nice moment, I thought, one I would always remember.
‘Grace is a sinner,’ she whispered, and the moment evaporated.
I opened my eyes. ‘So you’ve said.’
She pulled me close and only when my ear touched her lips did she speak again.
‘Grace killed her baby.’
28
Wednesday, 6 September 1995
Royal Edinburgh Hospital
I only stopped taking the pill because of Stella. Early Octob
er, a week into Agitate’s rehearsal period, she held a party at her town house. She swanned around her minimalist living room in a tight black dress that showed off her concave stomach and long, tanned legs. I spent the whole evening feeling fat and self-conscious in a vintage pencil skirt.
The next morning, hung-over in our drab, messy bedroom, I announced I was coming off the pill. Dan said it was my call, too busy getting dressed for his rehearsal to care. The cast were going out for the day in character, an exercise they did on a regular basis. Stella couldn’t get enough of improvisation it seemed. According to Dan, she could remain immersed in character in any situation. Nothing throws her, he kept saying. She’s fearless.
I said I’d give the coil a try, and he said to do whatever felt best.
That afternoon, I visited the family planning clinic and picked up a leaflet about the coil. It didn’t seem worth making an appointment right away. In three weeks’ time, the first leg of Agitate’s nationwide tour would begin, taking Dan away from home four nights of every week until Christmas. I decided to get the coil fitted in the New Year, certain we could manage our own precautions until then.
As soon as I stopped taking the pill, the pounds began to drop from my body, but Dan didn’t notice. Keeping his attention was becoming a struggle. When we were in bed together, I was sure he wasn’t thinking of me.
At the start of November, the morning of the day Dan had to leave on tour, a man from the electricity board arrived to fit a new token meter in our cellar. We sat at the kitchen table eating our breakfast as the man hammered and drilled beneath our feet.
Dan dared me to shag him right there and then. Challenged me to some role-play.
‘That’s your husband in the cellar,’ he said, ‘and I’m his best friend you’re desperate to sleep with.’
I recognised his dare as a test. The kind of test he thought Stella would pass and I would fail. Seconds later, I was on my knees in front of him, proving I could be fearless too. As soon as he got hard, I straddled him and told him to hurry before my husband caught us.
Surprise flashed in his eyes, just for a second, and I caught him glancing at the open door that led to the cellar. His hesitation made me feel powerful.
‘Is someone too scared to do the job?’ I said.
He grabbed my waist and soon had me moving at a rhythm that suited him. He whispered that I was a dirty little slut. We speeded up, the slap of skin on skin echoing round the kitchen. He said he was going to come inside me. Said that’s what dirty little sluts liked. Then he smirked, clearly expecting me to surrender and order his withdrawal, but I said nothing, just gripped him tight with my thighs.
Seconds later came the hot stream of his ejaculation. I had to put my hand over his mouth to stop him crying out.
He left two hours later, and I spent the rest of the day weeping at his absence, torturing myself with thoughts of him and Stella together. In the midst of my pain and self-pity, it didn’t occur to me to take the morning after pill. Two days later, my period started. Only light bleeding, but as stopping the pill had sent my cycle haywire, I never suspected anything.
After Christmas, I noticed myself carrying extra weight again. Festive excess, I thought. That and the comfort eating I’d indulged in for weeks to suppress my suspicions about Dan and Stella. After the tour started, Dan had shown little interest in me. We hardly ever had sex.
Two days after New Year, during a rare fit of housework, I came across the leaflet from the family planning clinic. As I browsed through it, one line in particular jumped out: Before making an appointment to have a coil fitted, please ensure there is no chance you could be pregnant.
That was when my tender breasts and weight gain took on a new significance. That was when I looked back over the past eight weeks and tried to remember if I’d had a proper period. That’s when I started to panic.
29
Friday, 27 November 2015
Dr Lucy Anderson GP—please, call me Lucy—is short with bobbed red hair and doesn’t look old enough to be a university graduate let alone a partner in a private practice and what am I doing here anyway?
‘You were telling me what you felt during this first incident,’ she says.
‘Sorry. Yes.’ The incident. I describe my racing heart, blurred vision, and the sensation of the world receding from me. I omit that the symptoms occurred after I stalked someone.
Lucy covers a lined A4 pad with vigorous scrawls. The scratch of pen on paper is the only sound in the tidy, sterile consulting room. Euston Street is only minutes away, but the din of the traffic doesn’t penetrate here.
‘Okay.’ She finishes her notes with an emphatic full stop. ‘You’re quite right, you did have a panic attack.’ She removes her rimless glasses and lets them dangle from her hand. The action looks rehearsed, as though she is still experimenting with the role of doctor.
‘Have you had panic attacks before?’ she asks.
‘No.’
‘Suffered from anxiety in the past?’
‘Not really.’ As a private doctor, Lucy won’t have access to my medical records. ‘No more than anyone else.’ I came here seeking a prescription for something to calm me down and help me sleep, but Lucy is intent on a thorough consultation first.
‘And you’ve had another attack since?’ she says.
‘Sort of.’ On Friday afternoon, after my visit to Brighton, I started drinking red wine at 5 p.m. I woke just after four the next morning, head thumping as fragments of the previous day assembled themselves.
‘And you experienced the same symptoms as the previous attack?’ Lucy asks, still scribbling away.
‘Yes.’ Not really. This time I lay huddled in bed, unable to move and not just due to the hangover. Sirens kept me pinned beneath the duvet. So many sirens. They never stopped, and they were all coming for me. By late afternoon, I knew what I had to do. My rucksack didn’t take long to pack and, after double-checking I had my passport and credit cards, I left the flat. Hurrying along in the dark, I couldn’t escape the sensation of being followed. Terror rose in my chest. I fought my way onto a cramped Tube train, recoiling as strangers pressed against me. I decided to turn up at Heathrow and see what flights were available. Kuala Lumpur maybe. From there I could reach the Perhentian Islands, rent a beach hut and go diving. Forget about Dan and Stella and everything that happened back then. At Paddington, I bought a ticket for the Heathrow Express and hurried along to the platform.
‘Are you experiencing an above average level of stress at the moment?’ Lucy says.
I tell her about Mum. The dementia, the process of getting her into a home and her slow deterioration.
‘And you’re dealing with all this on your own?’ Lucy’s pale blue eyes express genuine concern. ‘What about other family members? Can’t they help?’
‘There’s only me.’
‘That’s a lot of responsibility.’
‘I suppose.’
A train to Heathrow stood at the platform. Five minutes until departure. An elderly woman and her middle-aged daughter embraced by the train doors. My heart lurched as reality asserted itself. I couldn’t leave Mum. Not now.
‘I’m not sleeping well either,’ I say, ‘can you give me something to help?’
Lucy reads over her notes. ‘We’ll try you on a low dose of Xanax,’ she says finally. ‘One tablet at night as and when you need it. It’s more of a back up really.’ She insists I must make time for myself—have a massage now and again, maybe take up a new hobby. ‘There are plenty of carer support groups I could recommend.’
‘Not really my thing.’
‘Then try to build up your own support network. I’m sure people will help if you ask them.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You don’t have to go through all this on your own.’
She gives me that look of concern again. Who does she remind me of?
Do you consider yourself a criminal, Grace?
30
Thursday, 7 September 1995
Royal Edinburgh Hospital
My first scan took place early January. The sonographer, an efficient, tight-lipped woman, smeared cold gel on my stomach before producing a white, plastic object that looked like a microphone.
‘It’s called a probe,’ she said when I asked her about it, but she wouldn’t make eye contact.
As the probe roamed the surface of my belly, I prayed for a miracle. Prayed the woman would declare my womb empty. Nothing to see here. False alarm.
I don’t know what she saw in there. The screen of the scanner faced away from me. When I asked if she could tell the sex yet, she gave me a disparaging look and said it was far too soon to have any idea.
Not for me. I knew it was a girl. I didn’t realise I knew until after I’d shown Dan the positive pregnancy test and he was cramming his rucksack with essential possessions.
‘You’re really going to leave me with her?’ I said.
31
Saturday, 5 December 2015
My mother arrived on time. I waved at her as she entered the café, and she made her way to the two green armchairs I’d bagged at the back. I stood up when she reached me, as if receiving the Queen or something.
‘I got my favourite seats for us,’ I said.
She glanced around her. ‘Great.’
I could tell the busy Starbucks was the last place in Brentham she wanted to be. Starbucks wouldn’t have been my choice either, but I figured Emma would love the place. One day, my mother and I would linger in cafés like Aroma and discuss the subtle differences between blends of tea, but for now Starbucks would have to do.
‘You look nice, Emma,’ she said, as she wriggled out of her coat.
‘Thanks.’ Despite my mother’s recent misdeeds, I’d still taken ages getting ready in the staff toilet at Birch Grove before meeting her. Clean skinny jeans, a new pink polo neck and I’d tarted myself up with blue eyeshadow and pink lip gloss in true Emma style. My mother had made an effort too—red lipstick, eyelashes thick with mascara and musky perfume clouding around her.
She Chose Me Page 11