by K. L. Slater
I leave out the fact that I took Fiona back to the house, because I know Maura will give me grief over that; she’ll probably even agree with Henry in his waifs-and-strays assessment. I begin my story at the point when Ben, Amber and the boys arrived for lunch.
Maura’s mouth literally drops open at the news of their impulsive engagement. She shakes her head and rolls her eyes as I tell her about Amber’s unofficial ADHD assessment for Noah, how I accidentally cut my hand, and the ban on the boys eating sugar, imposed by their new stepmum, as Ben now allows her to refer to herself.
She widens her eyes in horror when I tell her about Noah’s E. coli infection and the fact that Ben is refusing to let me care for him while he is off school recuperating.
‘Try not to worry, though, Jude. I’m sure Noah will be fine now if the doctors say he’s out of danger,’ she comments. ‘But I know it must feel like a slap in the face for you, after everything else Ben and Amber have stopped you doing.’
‘Thanks, Maura.’ I snivel gratefully into my tissue. It feels so nice to have someone understand and be on my side for once. ‘I texted Ben asking him to let me know how Noah is throughout the day, but he hasn’t replied yet.’
Then I remember the missing necklace that mysteriously reappeared in my jewellery box. I quickly relay the story to Maura.
‘Don’t take this the wrong way, I’m not suggesting you’re losing it,’ she nudges me playfully, ‘but is there any chance at all the necklace could have been tucked behind your other pieces and you just didn’t spot it?’
‘Zero chance,’ I say firmly, shaking my head. ‘When I opened my jewellery box, there it was. Right on top. I couldn’t have failed to see it before if it had been in that position. There’s just no explanation other than that Amber put it back again.’
Maura looks at me but doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Then she shakes herself.
‘Tell you what.’ She speaks in the same bright tone one might use to encourage a child to cheer up and forget their troubles. ‘Pop in the back and freshen yourself up. You can use my hairbrush, it’s on the shelf under the mirror. I’ll make us a cuppa and then we’ll let the stampede in.’
I nod and smile at Maura’s diplomatic way of telling me I look a mess. Walking in this morning without an umbrella, I never gave a thought to how my hair might look when I got into work.
Later, when Dr Latif calls Maura in to brief her on the patients’ hospital referral letters and, mercifully, there’s a short lull on reception, I access the patient database.
I type in ‘Fiona Bonser’ and her file immediately pops up. I double-click on the link, scan the file and select the last two pages of notes to print, together with her personal contact details.
For the few seconds it takes the printer to crank up, I glance around guiltily, my heart knocking on my chest wall. When it’s finally finished, I stand up and grab the sheets from the printer, folding them tightly and stuffing them down the side of my handbag.
‘Judi?’
I jump in my chair and look up to see Maura standing behind me. My face heats up as I wonder if she saw me pushing the wodge of paper into my bag.
‘Don’t look so worried.’ She grins. ‘You jumped a mile there. Good news, you can get off an hour early. I need to do some file updating on the server, so I might as well sit on reception and do it. Carole will be in soon; she’s usually early.’
‘Oh! Are you sure?’ I immediately think of what I’ll do if I get off early.
‘Don’t talk me out of it.’ She laughs. ‘You get off.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, grabbing my bag and logging off the system.
I don’t need telling twice.
54
Amber
Judi had acted like one of Ben’s sons: a spoiled brat who didn’t know how to handle the fact that she couldn’t do as she wanted any more.
But Amber had been proud of the way Ben stood up to her. They’d already had a lengthy conversation about how she might react, at the hospital during the hours they’d waited around for Noah.
Amber could clearly see that refusing to let her look after Noah had caused Judi immense pain and frustration.
Still, she wasn’t hurting enough for Amber’s liking. There was a long way to go before she reached her goal.
Judi liked to stand around the edges of her family, playing the ‘poor me’ role, but a thread of steel ran through the woman and Amber knew she’d do well never to underestimate her.
Instead, she would keep chipping away at the core of her, taking away the things that mattered most to Judi little by little until one day she would wake up and realise she had nothing left in life. Until there was only one sweet relief left for her and finally, they’d all be free of her and Amber would sleep again at night.
Yes, she’d focus on the smaller actions that would bring her down and ultimately destroy her.
Like a boxing match, where the consistent body blows did the real damage – not as flamboyant as the knockout punch, but just as deadly if sustained over time.
55
Judi
As I walked in this morning, I call a cab to take me home. It feels like an extravagance, but I don’t spend that much really, certainly not on myself. And a bit of extra time this afternoon will be useful.
It’s not through circumstance that I tend to be quite frugal – we can certainly afford for me to splash out if I want to. I suppose I just naturally lean towards spending less. Perhaps being raised in a working-class family, where it seemed that we consistently had nothing growing up, has something to do with it. Henry and I are financially comfortable now, compared to most people I know, at least.
Fortunately, the cab driver is the silent type. I’m not in the mood for endless pleasantries, so this one deserves a tip. I take my purse out of my handbag and fish around for coins. I never carry much cash.
Henry has always sorted out the money matters in our relationship. I know some women would frown on that, but I’ve honestly never wanted anything to do with it. Having a banking background, he’s fastidious about keeping financial paperwork organised in various colour-coded folders, locked in a filing cabinet in the study.
‘Never know who might be snooping around,’ he always says briskly when he takes his mail straight upstairs from the letter box. Although I often wonder who he might be referring to, as we don’t have many visitors, only Ben and the boys. And now her.
I was surprised a couple of weeks ago, therefore, when I found a letter with a new debit card attached by his side of his bed. It must’ve dropped out of his folder at some point.
I saw that the communication referred to our Platinum Reserve account. There was a short statement showing regular large cash withdrawals and the balance of the account which was far less than I remembered as I know Henry paid his redundancy lump sum in here when he retired.
I was also surprised, considering his usual paranoid security measures, to see that Henry had scrawled four digits – I assumed the pin number – in the top right corner of the A4 sheet. I expect he must have intended to file it directly in his locked cabinet, not noticing it had slipped underneath the bed.
I pushed away a feeling of unease and folded the letter around the debit card, tucking it all in my trouser pocket to return to him later. I felt sure there would be a perfectly logical reason. I really ought to ask him if he’s depositing the cash he’s withdrawing into another account; it wouldn’t hurt to start taking a bit more of an interest in such matters.
During the short journey home, I leaf through my copy of Fiona’s patient file.
Thoughts of the confidentiality breach bring the twinge of guilt again. It nips at my chest like a spiteful adder, but I dismiss it.
Ben might not need me now, but young Fiona has no one. No one to look out for her, to offer her guidance and support raising little Hank.
I scan the printed report. It appears that Fiona first came to see Dr Latif back in January with pains in her lower abdomen. The doc
tor made a note at the beginning of her appointment: Patient insists she is not pregnant. Patient refusal – pregnancy test.
She examined Fiona and found nothing of concern. She diagnosed possible inflammation and bloating and prescribed a course of anti-inflammatories.
At the beginning of February, Fiona was back. The pain had got much worse and she had problems passing water. Dr Latif took a urine sample and speculated that it might be a urinary tract infection. She didn’t prescribe anything but told the patient to return for her test results in five days. Judi could see immediately from the notes that Fiona had, in fact, not returned for those findings.
The next entry in the file was for Fiona’s appointment just last week, the one that Maura had taken it upon herself to investigate. Dr Latif had carried out another examination and had documented bruising to Fiona’s inner thighs. She wrote:
Patient appears to be in moderate to severe pain. Tests negative for UTI. Attempts made to engage patient in discussion over her injuries. Patient rejects suggestion that injuries are sexually related. Unable to diagnose or prescribe as patient left the surgery, terminating the consultation.
I frown, mulling over the details in my head. Fiona is obviously ill. She’s reaching out for help but then seeming to pull back and withdraw at the last moment. Almost as if she’s afraid of something. Or someone.
I don’t know anything about Fiona’s background, her childhood. But it has occurred to me before now that she has a problem trusting people. The look on her face whenever she visits the surgery, the first time I came across her in the park – the look that says she is immediately on her guard and expecting the worst treatment from people, like a whipped dog.
My hand drifts up to my throat and I swallow hard as I think of Noah’s pale, drawn face. I haven’t seen him since he fell ill, but I’ve seen him enough times in the past when he’s suffered with minor childhood illnesses. I remember his colourless lips and dull eyes.
I squeeze my own eyes shut and consciously replace my grandson’s troubling image with Hank’s sweet, plump features. I summon up the feeling of warmth I enjoyed whilst holding him close; his small, neglected body, cradled safely in my arms. Trusting and innocent.
Fiona and Hank are both so desperate for someone to care.
I pick up the contact details sheet and study it.
Patient name: Fiona Heather Bonser
DOB:None given
Address: Flat 6, 8th Floor, Calvin Chase, St Ann’s, Nottingham
Tel no: None given
I know exactly where this block of flats is. I’ve walked by it many times over the years, staring up in a kind of fascinated dread at the rows of clean laundry that some tenants peg across the rusting balconies like bunting.
I pay the taxi driver and walk up the driveway, but I don’t go into the house. I get straight into my car.
I have something very important I need to do.
56
Judi
When I googled for information about Sunbeam Lodge, I made a note of the visiting times, gratified to find they slotted in nicely with my working hours.
Now I belt up and programme the postcode of the care home into the sat nav, and five minutes later, I’m on the road.
I haven’t got a clue what to say to Amber’s mother, if indeed she is still at the home – I’ve no idea how long that business card has been in her pocket. I don’t know exactly what I’m hoping to find, just that Amber has given me no choice but to grasp at straws. If her mother is alive, then she has lied about both parents being killed in a road accident, and there has to be a reason for that. Perhaps something she is keen to keep concealed about her past?
That’s it. That’s exactly what I’m hoping to find out.
An hour later, I park the car on an expanse of cracked concrete in front of a poorly maintained two-storey building.
A bent and broken sign out front identifies the place as ‘Sunbeam Lodge Care Home’, the rays of the smiling sun logo faded and discoloured.
I reach into my handbag to check my phone. Despite the fact that I texted Ben twice that morning to enquire after Noah, there is still no response from him.
I lock the car and walk towards the glass entrance porch with its peeling, splintered wooden frame. My shoes scuff on hardy weeds that have somehow forced their way up through the crumbling concrete path and bled into the narrow borders, choking any signs of floral life that might have once inhabited the space.
I step inside the damp, grubby porch, where a visitors’ book lies open on a crooked shelf underneath a button marked ‘Ring for admittance’.
I ignore both the book and the bell and wait. In only a couple of minutes, I see a shape approaching the patterned opaque glass and a woman around my age opens the door from the other side.
Obviously a visitor herself who’s now leaving, she kindly holds the door open to allow me to enter the building.
My stride falters a little once I’m inside. I’ve never been in one of these places before, and now I’m getting older myself, I feel uncomfortable and infused with a sense of dread.
The fusty, mouldering smell, the grim fluorescent lighting, and the noises … a troubling backdrop of groaning accompanied by the sounds of tasks being carried out and brisk footfalls.
I pass through a small communal area with mismatched plastic furniture. A small television is blaring out a daytime talk show, but nobody is in here. Part of me wants to turn and run back outside, but instead I grit my teeth and move towards a corridor marked ‘Residents’.
As I walk, the numbers rise, evens one side, odds the other. I arrive at room 15A. The door is slightly ajar. Just as I raise my hand to knock, a care worker in navy trousers and a white tunic walks briskly towards me.
I get ready to try to wriggle my way out of why I’m here when I’m not a relative and haven’t even signed the visitors’ book, but her pace continues. She gives me a nod and an uninterested smile and carries on walking.
Heart pounding, I tap on the pale-green-painted door and push it gently open.
An old lady sits by the window dressed in a drab dress with three-quarter sleeves, her hands frail and shaking as she stares out over the car park area. There is no net up at the window and the light floods in through her hair so pink scalp is clearly visible.
‘Kathryn, you came!’ She turns, smiling, sees me and frowns. ‘You’re not Kathryn. Who are you?’
‘Just a friend.’ I smile. ‘I came to see how you are. Who is Kathryn?’
She looks indignant. ‘My daughter!’
‘Of course, I’m sorry.’
There is a letter on her bedside table. She watches without comment as I reach for it and see it is addressed to Martha Carr, c/o Sunbeam Lodge.
‘It’s Martha, isn’t it?’
‘That’s me,’ she says firmly. ‘Do you know where Kathryn’s got to? She should have been here hours ago.’
‘I think she’s on her way,’ I say kindly. ‘And Amber is coming too. Your other daughter Amber?’
‘Pffft. She can stay away. Nothing but trouble, that one.’
‘Does she come to see you often, Amber?’
‘Who are you?’ She leans forward and peers at me. ‘I don’t think I know you.’
‘Yes, of course you do. I’m Mary,’ I say, my middle name jumping into my head. ‘I used to live near you, remember?’
The old lady frowns and stares into space, probably trying to grasp a wisp of memory.
I certainly don’t want to distress her or cause her any grief. I’m pretty sure, even though I’ve only been here a matter of minutes, that Martha has symptoms of dementia. A firm grasp and memory of happenings from years ago but a mind like a sieve when it comes to things that occurred just five minutes ago.
The doctors regularly assess similar patients at the surgery.
‘So, Martha, does Amber visit you here?’ I repeat my question in an attempt to bring her back on track.
‘Never.’ Martha folds her age-spotted
arms in a huff. ‘Never see her. But my Kathryn, she comes nearly every day. We’re going to London together soon, you know.’
‘How lovely.’ I smile. ‘Why do you think Amber doesn’t visit?’
‘There’s no telling with her. I suppose she was never the same after the accident.’
A static prickle raises a strip of hairs on the back of my neck. ‘Accident?’
‘When Kathryn died.’ Her eyes swim, diluting the already pale blue irises. ‘Her sister.’
‘I thought you said Kathryn visited you here?’
Martha scowls, shaking her head as if she’s trying to get her thoughts to fall in line. ‘My Kathryn died. Who are you again?’
‘I’m Mary,’ I say softly. ‘It’s very sad that Kathryn died. Perhaps it’s your daughter, Amber, who visits you here?’
‘Never see her,’ she snaps. ‘Don’t want to see her. I tried my best to help her, you know. But she wouldn’t be helped. Kept running through the barrier trying to get to them, and when I tried to hold her back, she hit me. Really hard.’ Martha touches her cheek gently and winces.
‘Who was Amber trying to get to?’ I swallow, wishing I had a glass of water. I haven’t a clue what Martha is talking about, but it feels like there’s a nugget of truth tangled up in amongst the confused words. I can sense something profound hanging in the air around us. ‘Where was this?’
‘At the roadside,’ Martha says impatiently. ‘Don’t you listen? She kept trying to save them but they were already dead, you see. All of them.’
‘Amber’s parents?’ I hazard a guess. I’m hopelessly confused. Maybe there was a car accident after all and Martha isn’t Amber’s real mother. Perhaps her biological parents were killed and—
‘Not her parents, silly.’ Martha rolls her eyes and looks away from me, out of the window. ‘Her family. Her husband and children. Dead. All of them.’
