by M. A. Hunter
‘Well, I wouldn’t worry too much about it then. You’ve got enough on your plate already, which also reminds me, I was contacted by Reflex Media – the production company who adapted Monsters for television – and they’d like to option your account of Aurélie’s return.’
I can’t say this news is a surprise given the media interest generated in Aurélie’s return last year after fifteen years away. It feels almost inevitable that someone would request the rights to televise or trivialise the story. Since she returned to France late last year she’s been in isolation, avoiding the public eye, but I think part of that is because her father – the great politician Remy Lebrun – is coaching her on how to court the media.
‘My advice would be to hold out for more money,’ Maddie says, sliding on her tortoiseshell bifocals and studying the offer letter before handing it to me. ‘Any option money will have to be split with the Lebruns, so you have to think of the figure on the table as half of what is quoted there.
My mouth drops at the printed figure. Even a fifty per cent cut is more than was offered for Monsters.
‘I’m pretty sure they won’t be the only company interested either, so I should be able to play a couple of them off each other to get the price up. Leave it with me. Okay?’
I pass her the letter back and nod. ‘Thank you, Maddie. I don’t know what I’d do without you managing all these affairs for me.’
She beams at me. ‘That’s what I’m here to do. I just wish you’d let me handle your romantic affairs too.’
I return her chuckle, and await the inevitable interrogation about Jack and Rick.
Chapter Eighteen
Now
Weymouth, Dorset
Whenever I feel lost, or uncertain which direction to take, I know there’s somewhere I can always go to find some context, and ultimately prioritise the important stuff against the anxieties that I just can’t control. They also say mums give the best hugs. Watching my mum’s deterioration as a result of Alzheimer’s is something I don’t think I’ll ever get over. I’ve said before that it really is one of the cruellest diseases a person can be subjected to, and the effect isn’t just on the sufferer, but also on their loved ones too. I never wanted to see my mum end up in a nursing home before her sixty-fifth birthday (that’s not even an age, is it?) but it was what her physician recommended, and at least I know she won’t come to any harm.
Tragically, her condition has gradually worsened, and these days I’m lucky if I manage to time it when she’s having what the nurses refer to as ‘a good day’, which essentially means her memory is in better working order and she won’t mistake me for one of the nurses or – worse still – a total stranger. We’ve both learned to adapt to the situation, and when it isn’t one of the good days, I tell myself that next time might be better and play along with her view of who I am. I still get to talk to her about my life and immediate worries, and I think it helps that any judgement she confers she won’t remember anyway. I suppose that makes it easier for me to be honest with her about my feelings because the slate is wiped clean each time.
Approaching the wrought-iron gates that add a Gothic air to the listed building, I already know I can’t bring myself to tell her what was discovered at the Pendark site yesterday. At best, it isn’t Anna’s remains, and it would be cruel to worry Mum unnecessarily; and if the worst is confirmed, I will need to psych myself into breaking that news. I’m not ready for that today, but I have so many thoughts whizzing around my head that I just crave the chance to see Mum and reflect on a time when life just didn’t seem as complicated.
I usually pet the overweight ginger cat at the door before entering, and once I’m through I mention Ginger to the girl behind the desk, but she grimly shakes her head.
‘Got run over she did,’ she tells me. ‘Between you and me, some kid found her sprawled in the road just outside the entrance, squashed flat; all very messy.’
I grimace as I sign the visitor book. I don’t recognise the girl, so she must be new here, but I’m sure the Home Manager, Pam Ratchett, wouldn’t appreciate such candour with visitors. The girl is smartly dressed but can’t be long graduated from college, and by the look of boredom on her face, and the half-completed Sudoku puzzle on the page before her, I don’t think she’s found her vocation just yet.
‘I’m here to see Winnie Hunter,’ I announce, waiting to hear if she’ll give me an update on whether it’s a good day or not, but she simply nods, and points towards the corridor of private rooms.
‘Do you know where you’re going?’ she asks, her eyes reverting to the puzzle.
Luckily for her I do, and I’m in no mood to launch into an argument about manners and her not checking in what capacity I’m here to see one of the residents. Making my way along the corridor, I take my time, allowing my nostrils to acclimatise to the pungent aroma that clings to every surface here. It’s yet another reason why the staff here must be angels; I don’t think I could stomach the smell for eight hours a day as they do.
Knocking at Mum’s door, I’m surprised when she yanks it open and glowers at me. ‘Oh, it’s you – that’s all I need!’
I can’t remember the last time I saw Mum up and out of her hard-backed chair or bed, but she leaves the door to close by itself as she turns and stomps back inside. I wasn’t expecting her to roll out the red carpet, but this lack of welcome is unusually cold. Catching the door before it closes, I head in, immediately seeing the shards of broken glass on the carpet on the far side of the room, the fragments mingled with dead flowers.
‘Oh no, Mum, what happened to your favourite vase?’ I ask, moving across and looking for something I can use to safely pick up the pieces.
‘Bloody flowers give me hay fever, you know that! It doesn’t seem to matter how many times I tell these bloody nurses I hate flowers, they still put the bloody things in here!’
She is pacing backwards and forwards on the carpet between the television set and the door, and this aggression is making me nervous. I suppose it could be that she’s frustrated with herself for dropping the vase and her deteriorating mind is lashing out, but she hasn’t seemed this agitated in I don’t know how long.
In that moment, I’m suddenly back in our old house and I can see her pacing in a similar way – head bent forward, hands twisted behind her back – as she stares at a map of Dorset, trying to determine where they might have been holding Anna. The memory fades as quickly as it arrived, and I have to accept that although she’s recognised me, today is not a good day.
‘I didn’t know you suffer with hay fever, Mum,’ I admit, conscious that I’m the one who’d brought the flowers in last Tuesday.
‘What do you mean? Of course you know! I’ve suffered with it all my bleeding life.’
The pacing continues at quite a rate and I’m eager to calm her down and bring some tranquillity back to the room. ‘I tell you what,’ I try calmly, hoping she’ll reflect my pitch, ‘why don’t I get this tidied up and then maybe you and I could go for a walk somewhere?’
‘I don’t want a bloody walk,’ she snaps back, without looking up.
In fairness, our walking options would be relatively limited anyway. Whilst I’m allowed to sign her out for day trips and exercise, the home isn’t particularly close to any sites of beauty or parkland, and having taken her on a walk around the local housing estates shortly after she first arrived here, I don’t blame her for not wanting to go out. It’s also drizzling, and my coat is soaked through following the walk from the restaurant.
Finding an old magazine in the wastepaper basket, I fish it out, separate the pages from the staples, and tentatively drop each piece of glass into the makeshift parcel before placing it back in the carrier bag inside the basket.
‘I’ll need to get someone to dispose of that carefully,’ I tell her, standing and brushing loose hair and dust from my skirt where I’ve been kneeling.
‘Do what you like. You always do anyway.’
This really isn’t
like Mum at all. Clearly she’s got a bee in her bonnet about something and unless I can get to the bottom of it, neither of us is going to appreciate my visit. Moving across to her, I stop her relentless marching and take her hands in mine.
‘Can you tell me what’s upset you so much?’ She tries to snatch her hands away, but I hold them firm. ‘Please, Mum, I can’t help unless you tell me what’s happened. Is it just the vase breaking that’s upset you? If so, I can buy you a replacement vase. Accidents happen, and—’
‘It wasn’t a bloody accident,’ she growls. ‘I threw the bloody thing at the wall so they can’t bring any more flowers in here when I’m not looking!’
‘Mum, I brought you those flowers on Tuesday, remember? I didn’t realise you suffered with hay fever, otherwise I wouldn’t have got them for you. I was only trying to brighten the room. There really wasn’t any need to break the vase.’
‘Don’t treat me like a child! If I want to break a bloody vase then I bloody will.’
She is trying to pry her hands away again, and I’ve never felt so out of my depth. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her looking so angry, and my efforts to pacify her aren’t working.
‘I don’t know why you’re so worried anyway,’ she continues. ‘I’m sure I’ll be the last thing on your mind when you leave anyway. It’s so easy for you, isn’t it? Able to just get on with your own life without having the burden of me on your shoulders too.’
I can feel the sting of tears in my eyes. ‘Mum, how can you say that? I work so hard to afford this place for you, and I come and visit whenever I can—’
‘Why don’t you just go on your bloody way then? You’ve done your civic duty and now you can wash your hands of me once more.’
It’s all I can do to keep the tears at bay. There is such venom in her eyes that I can’t process what to do for the best.
‘You know I never bloody wanted to come here in the first place, but you couldn’t wait to get rid of me. You forced me in here and then you abandoned me, just like you abandoned your sister!’
I release her hands and allow her to pace again, unsure how else to react. Slumping down on the bed, I can’t look at her for fear of the floodgates opening.
‘It was your fault she ran off that day, into the arms of some pervert or whatnot. I bet she wouldn’t have shoved me in somewhere like this at the first sign of trouble neither.’
There is a knock at the door and I’m grateful when I see Pam Ratchett’s round face appear in the gap. ‘Everything okay in here, Winnie?’
‘No, it bloody isn’t. Your bloody nurses keep bringing in flowers and it’s doing something rotten to my hay fever. You’re in charge of this bloody place – make them stop, will you?’
‘Of course I will, Winnie,’ she says, even adding an empathetic smile, before turning to face me. ‘Would it be okay if we had a little word in my office, Emma?’
I nod and feel the splash of warmth on my cheek but quickly wipe it away before Pam sees. She leads me from the room and along to her office. She hands me a box of tissues as she squeezes into her chair, and I sit across from her.
‘Don’t blame yourself,’ she begins. ‘I overheard the end of your mum’s tirade. I had meant to call and advise you it might not be best to come in today, but what with one thing and another… I’m sorry. Today isn’t the first time your mum has become aggressive towards the staff and other residents. I’ve spoken to the doctor overseeing her Alzheimer’s and this level of hostility isn’t uncommon in the later stages of the disease. Unfortunately, there is a chance that we will see more outbursts of this nature as the disease continues to eat away at the synapses in her brain. The good news is we can manage some of it with medication, and from your point of view, you can phone us on the morning when you’re planning to come in and see her, and we can give you an idea of whether you should or not.’
I wipe my eyes with the tissue and blow my nose. ‘I’ve never known her be like that before. It felt like there was nothing I could say or do to help.’
The compassion is radiating off her in waves, and I doubt I’m the first relative she’s had to have this conversation with down the years. ‘I know you want to see your mum, and to help her, but on days like this your being here could actually do more harm than good. I’m sorry, I appreciate that’s not easy to hear.’
‘I genuinely had no idea she suffered with hay fever.’
Pam sits back in her chair and opens a large drawer in her desk, withdrawing a small photo album and sliding it across the desk towards me.
‘What’s this?’ I ask, but she merely indicates for me to look for myself.
Opening the album, I see it is filled with photos from a much brighter and evidently warmer day than today. The nurses are wearing short-sleeved versions of their uniforms, some of the older residents are wearing shorts and summer dresses, and the pictures appear to have been taken outdoors somewhere. I continue flipping through the photographs enclosed in transparent sleeves.
‘We had a summer party eighteen months ago. We took most of our residents on a coach trip down to Swanage for a look around the shops and concluded the day with a picnic in a farmer’s field we’d managed to hire. The weather was superb, and you could see how much everyone enjoyed the day out from the smiles and laughter we all shared.’
I arrive at a picture of Mum with the biggest smile on her face. Her mouth is open as if caught laughing raucously. She is holding a stick with pink candy floss and I think it may be the happiest I’ve ever seen her.
‘When we were on our way home,’ Pam continues, watching me carefully, ‘a number of our residents were complaining of itchy eyes, sore throats, and runny noses, and we had to make an emergency stop at a supermarket to buy some antihistamines. That picture of your mum with the candy floss, look at where she’s sitting.’
I look at the picture again, allowing my eyes to blur out her face and just focus on the background, which is filled with pretty flowers in rainbow colours.
‘She was one of the few who didn’t need any medication, and she probably spent more time smelling and touching those flowers than anyone else. I don’t think your mum suffers with hay fever, Emma. You really don’t need to blame yourself for today.’
I appreciate Pam’s efforts to ease my guilt, but not remembering whether Mum suffered with hay fever isn’t what is breaking my heart. It is what she said to me last: it was your fault she ran off that day.
Chapter Nineteen
Then
Hayling Island, Hampshire
She’d been determined not to cry again; didn’t want to give them the satisfaction, nor any reason to carry out their threat. Her new plan was simple: play along until an opportunity to get away presented itself. Clearly, Chez had earned the trust of Grey if he had a key to the caravan and seemed to be able to come and go as he pleased. If she could earn that level of trust, then maybe she’d find a way to escape and never look back. Whilst she didn’t know where she was, she was pretty sure she was still in the UK and so she’d be able to find someone to take her to the police. It was all about waiting.
When Grey had said to expect Chez back she’d assumed he would be back quickly, but it had to have been at least an hour, and with her stomach grumbling she made her way into the kitchen area and searched for any sign of food. Dragging over the stool that Grey had been perched on, she clambered up, having to stand on tiptoes to see into the cupboard above the small gas hob. She found more dried pasta and jars of tomato sauce, but nothing she felt confident about cooking alone.
Clambering down, she moved across to the tallest cupboard and opened it. She was surprised when the internal light came on, and realised it was in fact a hidden fridge. Not a cold fridge – clearly the generator wasn’t working again – but a fridge nevertheless. She found a block of cheddar, a jar of melting butter, and a carton of orange juice – not exactly a feast, but it would do to start. She carried the items to the table, returned, and continued her examination of the kitchen, usin
g the stool to reach the cupboards she otherwise wouldn’t be able to look in. Finally returning to the table, she was pleased with her finds. In addition to the cheese and juice, she’d managed to find a bag of prawn crackers, a packet of digestives, and a bottle of ketchup.
She was halfway through the feast when she heard the key rattling in the door, but this time she held her breath and didn’t immediately shrivel up in fear. Chez entered, quickly locking the door behind him. He turned and quietly observed her before his eyes lit up. She’d wondered whether he would be angry that she’d raided the provisions, but if he was he was hiding it well.
‘What’s all this?’ he asked, coming over, picking up one of the prawn crackers and dipping it into the splodge of ketchup on her plate.
‘I was hungry,’ she replied, slowly releasing the breath.
Chez smiled affectionately at her. ‘Looks like I’ve got myself a rival in the kitchen then. You’ve got all my favourites here.’
She could barely bring her eyes to meet his, the flashes of him pinning her feet while Grey injected her still fresh in her mind. It didn’t look as though he was carrying any guilt as he sliced off a corner of cheddar and threw it into his mouth. Maybe he didn’t think that what he’d done was wrong, or maybe he was hoping she’d already forgotten about it.
Think about escape, she reminded herself, finding the strength to offer a smile in return.
‘I’m famished too,’ he said, sliding onto the bench and taking a handful of the prawn crackers and shovelling them into his mouth like a hamster.