Love, Iris

by Elizabeth Noble

  And inside, while Olly waited for the girl on reception to find some duck tape with which he could repair the broken rear light, he tried hard not to wonder why helping this girl with the luminous, wide blue eyes full of tears had suddenly become the only important thing he had to do with his day.

  Gigi

  Richard wasn’t coming to see James today. He was playing golf with friends, and having dinner, and going to some award ceremony or other afterwards – she neither knew nor cared about the details – so the day stretched long and free. Chris and Emily had been invited to a colleague’s wedding – childfree. Gigi had jumped at the chance to have Ava and had even persuaded them (persuaded Christopher – in truth Emily hadn’t needed convincing) that they should stretch the day into a well-deserved Ava-free weekend. The travel cot had duly been dropped off, with various other bits of baby paraphernalia; Christopher had handed her a list of numbers, emails, addresses and GP information; and, with much fond eye-rolling from his wife, he’d finally handed over the baby and driven off. Now Gigi was delighting in having her beloved granddaughter to herself for two whole sleeps, and days. Ava was more and more interactive each time she saw her, and it was an unalloyed, albeit exhausting, joy. As much as she loved Emily, there was an undeniable pleasure in autonomous grandparenting.

  Ava’s appearance at Clearview was greeted with much the same enthusiasm with which crowds greeted visiting popes. From the girl on reception, who’d leapt up from her seat and gone round the desk to cluck over her, to the nurses and custodial staff and the caterers in the canteen, everyone fussed. Ava took to the fanfare like a duck to water, beaming prettily at a parade of strangers as though this was her destiny, grabbing badges and hair where she could, and making those enchanting baby-talk noises for all the world as though she was having an in-depth discussion.

  She even sat on James’s lap, though it made him more anxious to hold her than she was to be held, and he begged Gigi to take the ‘beautiful, precious girl’ he didn’t know off his lap after a minute or two, afraid, he said, that he’d drop her. Gigi remembered him, completely comfortable, with Meg – how he’d hold her, facing him, and bounce her on his knee, her fat little legs kicking with delight, her chortle echoing. That James had never been afraid of hurting his grandchildren, and he never once had. Lucky them. She’d taken a few fast photographs on her iPhone and then rescued Ava.

  She noticed Iris sitting across the room. She was staring at them and smiling fondly. Gigi rested Ava comfortably on her hip and went over to her.

  ‘Hello, Iris.’

  ‘Hello.’ There was no sign that she knew who Gigi was, but her voice was calm and friendly. ‘And who is this little lady?’

  ‘This is Ava.’

  ‘Hello, Ava. Aren’t you beautiful?’

  Gigi leant towards her, Ava gurgling and chattering. ‘Would you like to hold her?’

  Iris looked touched. ‘Could I?’

  ‘Of course. Here you go, Ava … you have a cuddle with Iris.’

  Iris held her with the competence and confidence of a mother, uncertainty falling away from her the instant the baby was on her lap. She put one arm around Ava’s waist, and, with the other hand, gently stroked her baby curls. All the while she murmured softly to her. Ava relaxed and sprawled happily against Iris’s chest, leaning her head back and staring, enthralled, at where the voice was coming from. For a few minutes, Iris was just lost in Ava. The two of them stared at each other, Ava mimicking Iris’s exaggerated facial movements – mouth opening wide on an intake of breath, a nod, wide eyes.

  They were lovely to look at, and it was a few moments before Gigi noticed that Tess had come in. She’d been half expecting her – Iris wasn’t usually in the day room unless they expected visitors, and Tess was far and away the most frequent of those – the only one for Iris, apart from her mother, Donna. But Gigi had been riveted by Iris. She’d only known this lady confused and old. But watching her now, with Ava, you could see so very clearly who she had once been.

  When she caught sight of Tess out of the corner of her eye she could see at once that the sight was doubly poignant for Tess – who had known her otherwise.

  She went over to her, and hugged her briefly. ‘Look at your gran.’

  ‘I know. Is that your granddaughter?’

  ‘Ava.’ Gigi nodded. ‘I’m sole-charge granny this weekend – Chris and Emily have gone off to a wedding in Dorset … I’m in heaven!’

  ‘She’s adorable.’

  ‘And look at Iris. She’s had her for ages. They’re old friends at this point.’

  ‘She looks so comfortable with her.’

  ‘Doesn’t she?!’

  ‘It’s gorgeous.’ Tess kissed her grandmother’s head. ‘Hi, Gran. Who’ve you got here?’

  Iris thought for a moment. ‘Ava. Like Ava Gardner. The film star. Except she wasn’t as lovely as this little one is, was she? No, she wasn’t …’ And it was more like she was talking only to Ava, in that melodic tone.

  Tess laughed. ‘She’s so happy with you.’

  ‘Ah, she’s a happy girl, aren’t you, Ava? You were like that. You’d sit on my lap for ages. You’d go to anyone, for a cuddle. Just like this. Friendly, and easy.’

  ‘Was I?’ It was clear from Tess’s expression that it had been a long time since Iris had offered up a memory.

  She smiled at Gigi and the two women held each other’s glance for a moment, sharing the sentiment, both made happy by this brief recapturing of something.

  ‘You have a hold, Tess.’ Iris was looking right at her.

  Tess looked at Gigi. ‘Go ahead.’

  Iris went to lift Ava, but she was too heavy. Tess scooted to take her before she lurched forward, and held her at some distance from her body, under both arms, staring at her for a moment. She smelt of powder and milk and fabric softener: delicious and quintessentially baby. Tess instinctively rested Ava against her shoulder, one hand under her well-padded bottom, the other on the back of her neck, although Ava had hers under full control. She bobbed slightly at the knees too.

  ‘See, you’re a natural.’ This was Iris too, looking on approvingly.

  Tess looked at Gigi, who was looking at her in a way she couldn’t quite interpret. When she caught her eye, Gigi nodded. ‘A natural …’

  Gigi

  Oliver had rung earlier in the week to check if Gigi was working on Wednesday – he had a client call to make near the coast, he said, and he’d come by on his way back to town if his mother was going to be home. Take them both to the pub for supper, if they’d wanted. Gigi said she was on an early, but she’d rather cook at home for them. And, because she couldn’t help herself, might Caitlin be persuaded to join them?

  Oliver didn’t think so. She was at a conference, he said quickly, so it wouldn’t work. Gigi didn’t entirely believe him – the excuse rolled too quickly off his tongue. If they’d been face to face, she’d have called him out on it, but on the phone she had no choice but to accept it.

  She loved having him at home. And she was glad, in truth, he was on his own. She loved him filling the kitchen, like he always used to, with his big laugh, peering under saucepan lids, pouring them big glasses of wine from the bottle he’d bought. He’d given her early daffodils too – a big bunch. They sat in a vase on the kitchen table, a bright visual of how he had the power to change her mood. He livened up a Wednesday night in the best possible way.

  ‘Mmmm. Smells delicious.’

  Gigi dried her wet hands on a tea towel and took a swig of wine. ‘It’s just a casserole.’

  ‘It’s never just a casserole when you’ve made it, Mum.’ He did his best Dervla Kirwan M&S accent, deep and Irish. ‘It’s not just a casserole, it’s a Gigi Gilbert beef and Guinness casserole …’

  She joined in, her accent not so good. ‘With buttery mashed potatoes and honey-glazed carrots.’

  Oliver sat back and tapped his stomach in anticipation. ‘Delish … Cheers.’ He raised his glass in her direction. ‘D
ad.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Richard was here, but not. As per usual. ‘Cheers.’ But he didn’t actually drink anything. Gigi rolled her eyes, and Oliver winked at her.

  ‘I met your friend the other day.’

  ‘What friend is that?’

  ‘Your new Clearview buddy … Tess?’

  ‘Oh. Yes. Lovely Tess. How come?’

  ‘She reversed into me in the car park there.’

  ‘You’re joking?’

  ‘It’s okay. It wasn’t bad. Just a touch, really.’

  ‘God.’

  ‘And a new back light for her.’

  ‘The poor girl.’

  ‘What’s her story?’ Oliver was keeping his tone casual and conversational.

  ‘It’s her grandmother – Iris, she’s called. She’s older than your granddad. I think Tess said she’s ninety-six or something.’

  ‘She just moved in?’

  ‘Yes, just.’

  ‘She seemed upset.’

  ‘I think she’s got a lot on her plate.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  Gigi narrowed her eyes, mock-suspicious. ‘Why the interest?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I’ve got a few mates at Clearview. You end up making conversation, you know, while you’re visiting the people with whom you can’t really make conversation … there’s a sort of a Dunkirk-spirit vibe. Would you like to know their stories?’

  ‘Would you like to tell me?’ Oliver winked at her.

  Gigi deliberately didn’t answer. No return of service. Were Oliver’s cheeks just a little bit pink?

  ‘Are any of them as good-looking as Tess?’

  ‘Oh, you noticed, did you?’ She opened her eyes wide.

  ‘Good-looking as who?’ Richard was reading the newspaper. She hadn’t even known he was listening. Now he’d lowered the broadsheet and was peering at them over the top of it.

  ‘Tess.’ They spoke together. Richard raised an eyebrow quizzically.

  ‘The newbie, at Clearview … I introduced you.’

  ‘Oh, her. She is good-looking.’ God, Gigi thought she must be, if even stuffy old Richard had noticed.

  ‘She’s a poppet too. A sweetie,’ she couldn’t help adding. She doubted anyone had ever called Caitlin a poppet. Oliver didn’t answer. If he caught her heavy-handedness, he didn’t let on. He pursed his lips and nodded, then picked up the ‘2’ section of The Times and hid his face behind it.

  Gigi turned back to the casserole. It had been on the tip of her tongue to mention that she suspected Tess had even more on her plate than she’d owned up to yet. But something had stopped her.

  It wasn’t unheard of for Oliver to show an interest in her friends. He liked people, and he’d never been particularly hung up on age, like some children were. He’d talk to anyone. But it was just a bit unusual – this interest in Tess.

  Not that she’d do anything to encourage him. She was pretty sure Tess was pregnant. That was actual baggage. And she was doing her very best to be respectful and accepting of Caitlin. Wasn’t she? But he was the one who had asked …

  Gigi

  In the end, Gigi didn’t choose the moment she told Richard she was leaving him. The moment chose itself, and in some ways it surprised her almost as much as it shocked him. A regular weekday evening. Between a supper she’d cooked a thousand times, eaten with minimal conversation, with the News at Ten in prospect before another night falling asleep back to back after a chaste kiss and five pages of a novel. If she’d thought about it at all, ahead of time, she’d have thought it would be more explosive, that there’d need to be a trigger – something infuriating that caused an eruption which made it possible for her to say what she knew was going to cause so much hurt and disruption and change. Surely that was what it would take, for her to cause so much drama – a dramatic beginning. As if Richard might be capable of doing something that made it okay – understandable even – for her to implode their lives. She hadn’t even had a drink for Dutch courage, for God’s sake.

  But it turned out that it wasn’t a moment of high drama. It was the opposite. It was the crushing mundanity of the moment that brought the words into her head and out of her mouth before she’d even really decided what order in which to say them.

  ‘I can’t do this any more, Richard.’

  The remark hung between them. Richard, who’d been reading the newspaper while she loaded the dishwasher, looked up. She met his questioning gaze.

  He took off his reading glasses, genuinely puzzled. ‘Do what?’

  She spread her arms desperately. ‘This. All of this. Any of this.’

  She almost backed down. His confused expression physically hurt her.

  ‘I don’t understand, G. What’s got into you?’

  She knew he didn’t. That was exactly the problem.

  She sat down close to him. Please, she thought. Please let me make him understand this. Please let him feel it too. That would help us both. That would help me.

  ‘We’re not happy, Richard. You know we’re not.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ His tone was defensive.

  ‘Oh God. You’re not. I’m sure as hell not. But, even if we were, Richard, what kind of a word is that to describe your life? “Fine”.’

  Richard shrugged. ‘I’m sorry you don’t like the word. Let me use another one. I’m happy, okay. Is that a better word?’

  ‘Except that isn’t true.’

  ‘How do you know how I feel?’ Indignant.

  She took a very deep, slow breath. ‘Okay. You’re right. I’m sorry. I don’t know how you feel. You never really tell me, not any more. So how could I? I know how you seem, but I don’t know how you feel. So. Let me tell you how I feel. I am not happy.’

  ‘You’re unhappy … with me?’

  Another deep breath. It felt like the most important thing in the world to make him understand.

  ‘With you, with me, with my life, with our life … Yes. With all of it.’

  Richard wouldn’t meet her gaze. He was staring at the table now, running the edge of his thumb up and down a deep scratch on the surface.

  Gigi resisted the urge to speak into the silence. He had to be the next one to talk, and she made herself stay quiet while he absorbed her words. She knew each one had fallen on him like a physical blow. She felt a horrid pain too. These were the worst, the hardest things she’d ever said. But she could go only forward now. There was no taking them back.

  When he did speak, there was fear, and a trembling in his voice, and he still couldn’t meet her eye.

  ‘Are you … have you … Is there someone else?’

  ‘Of course not.’ She registered surprise that he thought she might do that. And irritation. It was men who couldn’t leave unless they had someone to leave for. Not women.

  ‘It’s not about that.’ She put her hand on his. ‘I would never, never do that to you.’ He pulled his hand from under hers.

  ‘It’s about you and me, and this half-life we’re living …’

  She felt like she was clubbing a baby seal. His eyes were wide, and frightened. His expression was bewildered. It seemed like he’d instantly physically diminished – he was smaller, somehow, in the chair beside her.

  But she knew she couldn’t stop now.

  Richard took a deep breath. ‘What does it mean, Gigi?’

  ‘It means I have to go, Richard.’

  ‘Go where?’

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t been planning this, I promise. I’m making it up as I go along.’

  ‘Well, stop, then.’

  ‘I can’t stop.’

  ‘But this is madness. This is our home. Yours and mine.’

  ‘I know.’ She wanted to cry, but she clamped her jaw shut on the tears. Not now. Not in front of him.

  ‘I don’t want you to go.’

  ‘I know that too. But I have to.’

  ‘Is this forever?’

  That, she didn’t know. How could she know? When she’d been boil
ing the water for rice, she hadn’t known any of this would be happening tonight. All she knew was that it was necessary. For now.

  ‘Anyway. That’s not how it goes, is it? Women stay. You mean you want me to go, don’t you?’

  She put her hands up. ‘No. I mean the opposite. I need to get away from everything.’

  This lovely house is like a prison to me now, she thought. Its walls and its fabric and its routines are a part of the problem, and I can’t solve any of it – I can’t fix me – if I stay here.

  ‘I need something for me. For a while, at least.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘How can I know that, Richard?’

  They sat for minutes – five, ten – Gigi wasn’t sure. A fog of misery hung about them.

  There was fresh despair in Richard’s voice when he spoke again. ‘What about the children?’

  The children. They weren’t children, of course, any more – none of them. Except that they always would be, to them. ‘We can tell them together.’

  Something like a sob broke from him.

  ‘Or I can tell them. This is my decision. They’re not children, Richard. They’re adults.’

  ‘They’re our children. What will they think of all this? Really, G?’

  That was the part she almost couldn’t bear.

  ‘I don’t know. I hope they’ll understand?’

  ‘How can they, when I can’t?’

  ‘Please, Richard. I need you to try.’

  ‘I want to, Gigi. But I don’t. I mean, what is it? Is it menopause? Mid-life crisis? Is it the cancer?’ The tremor on that last one made her wonder if he knew how he’d let her down …

  He couldn’t look at her, and she was glad. He stared down at his big, familiar hands. ‘Or is it me … something I’ve done … or just me …’

  Gigi made herself look at him. ‘It’s a part of all of those things. I’m not denying it. We change. You’ve changed.’

  ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘You have. And I have. And you don’t even see me.’