by Annie Murray
I have already been dozing on the chair, exhausted by the long day, so I’m quite thankful to be told to go home.
Nurse told me to come home, I text Ian. I wander outside, worn out and disorientated. It seems strange that it is still light as today seems to have gone on for ever. It takes me a good while, after wandering bewildered round the car park, to remember that Ian took the car.
When I get my phone out there’s already a message: On my way.
We talk about Dorrie, how they think she must have had the stroke some time in the middle of the night.
‘She’s still just asleep,’ I tell him. ‘It must take it out of you. I expect she’ll pick up.’ I don’t know if I believe this. At the same time, I still find it hard to take in that Dorrie might not be indestructible. It’s too unbearable to think about.
‘Yeah,’ Ian says, as we head south along the Bristol Road. He nods. ‘Maybe she’ll be better tomorrow.’
When we get in, he says, ‘You must want something to eat?’ I can smell food, something microwaved. He has dashed to get me, leaving a half-eaten plastic container of pasta and tomatoes. ‘I bought a couple of things . . . Spag bol? Cheesy pasta?’
‘Oh . . .’ I don’t feel like eating but I suppose I should. ‘Go on then. I’ll have the cheesy one.’
Things feel almost normal. We take the food through and eat on the sofa. It’s only when I’ve got some nourishment into me and I start perking up again, that I can cope with the idea that things are not normal at all. But I also have a terrible realization that having Ian back in the house makes me feel worse. When he was away, I was upset, full of grief and bewildered. But it felt different. I grieve for Paul every day – it never ends. But the grief was just mine when Ian was away. Now he is here, I can feel it expanding again, so that for a moment I can’t breathe. It’s my grief, Ian’s grief, our grief – as if they are three distinct and gigantic things swallowing me up.
Putting my plate down on the floor, I straighten up and pull in a deep breath. I can feel Ian looking at me. We have to deal with this, somehow. Only now I see that this is how it has been for a long time.
‘I’ll make us a hot drink,’ I say, getting up. I need coffee. Waiting for the kettle to boil gives me time to think.
‘So,’ I say, handing him a mug and sitting back down. I keep my voice calm. ‘Where have you been?’
Ian crumples suddenly. He physically sags.
‘I just . . . Well, the first night Carl and his missus put me up.’
‘Right. He didn’t think to tell me that.’
‘No. I know. Sorry. But then, anyway, I thought, I can’t stay on here. It was awkward, him having his son living there and everything. And I just wanted . . . I dunno.’ He looks down miserably. ‘Time, I s’pose. I wanted to be on my own and try and think things out. So I just went into town – Travelodge, Travel Inn, or something.’ He shakes his head. ‘Sorry,’ he mutters. ‘If you were worried. I never meant that.’
I bite back the sarcastic words that have come to mind: Did he not think I might be worried etc. I try to think what to say.
‘Carl – he seems nice,’ is what comes out, to my surprise.
‘He is, yeah. He’s a bit . . . I mean, he’s only, like, five or six years older than me, but he’s a dad – he’s like a dad . . .’ And suddenly he’s crying. Really crying, sobbing and shaking, bent over. I watch for a moment, then I put my hand on his back, gently stroking it as he falls to pieces in front of me.
‘I don’t know what’s happening to me,’ he says, from behind his hands, once he can speak. ‘I can’t seem to . . . Nothing’s right. Not since Paul. But Carl’s been . . . I mean, I wish . . . I just wish I’d had a dad for long enough to remember him properly at least.’ He sits up, his face wet and creased. ‘I was sat next to Mom yesterday in the hospital and I thought, all these years I’ve never got around to asking her about my father. Cowardice really. I know he was supposed to have died of a heart attack but I never felt that was all of it – that there was something else she never said. But somehow, I could never ask. And now – well, I don’t know if she’ll ever speak again, do I?’
Tears trickle down his face and I move closer and put my arm round him. I can’t tell him now – not this minute. It feels too much. Not only that one of the things that killed his father was someone else’s gross negligence, but that he took his own life and left Ian and Dorrie behind. Both things feel too brutal for the way he is at this moment – a man who has lost both his father and his only son.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers. He sags against me, putting his hand on my thigh, and we lean on one another. ‘I’m no good to you. I feel all over the place – as if I’ve got nothing left in me.’
I want to say, Don’t worry, it’s all right, I understand, and in a way, I do. I see that he has had loss upon loss and has never really sorted anything out in his head. I want to be kind and helpful, but I have nothing much left to give him either. And so we sit, warming each other, as if we are stranded on a rock somewhere, surrounded by dark waters, instead of in our own living room.
‘I s’pose we’ll get through it somehow,’ I say eventually. I look round at him. ‘Maybe you could get some help?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘A counsellor or something.’
He looks uncertain, pushes his hair back and shakes his head, hard.
‘Oh, God. I don’t know. Maybe.’
Upstairs we don’t say much. We make love, quickly, as if it’s the only thing to do, and it’s a release for him, if not much for me, but it feels nice lying holding each other in the dark.
‘I’m scared I’ll lose you as well,’ he says eventually. And then he’s crying again. ‘It feels as if you’ve gone so far away . . . All this stuff about India.’
‘I’m not,’ I try to tell him, thinking, am I? Is that what’s happening? ‘I don’t mean to be. But you’re not here most of the time and I have to . . . You know I have to do things for myself . . . And I feel strongly about it – it’s terrible there, what’s happened.’
‘I know,’ he says, sniffing. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’
‘Ian.’ I roll over to face him fully. ‘You’re not losing me. Not unless you push me away. I love you – and I love your mom. You know she’s been family to me, more than my own. I’m not going anywhere, not with my heart. Just don’t shut me out.’
‘Mom loves you. And you’ve done such a lot for her.’ His eyes search my face, earnestly, then he wraps his arms round me, with force, pulling me to him and we lie together, raw, frightened, warming each other.
Thirty-Four
WHAT DO WE DO NOW?
Dorrie, other than a few moments of wakefulness, sleeps on. In those rare moments, she opens her eyes and looks calmly round, though it is not clear how much she can see. She does not seem to focus on our faces. But her good hand will meet ours with a faint movement. The nurses tell us that the right side of her body is so weak that she is all but paralysed. I spend as much time as I can there. Ian takes a day off. Cynthia arrives from down south. She’s rather like Ian to look at, both with dark, attractive Stefani eyes. She is short, curvaceous, her hair dyed an auburn colour. Even today she’s smartly dressed – sort of office smart – but she’s upset and is nicer than I remember. We take turns at Dorrie’s bedside so I don’t see a lot of her. She says she’ll sleep at Dorrie’s house. After the first day, Ian goes in every evening.
On the third day, the young nurse with the pink cheeks and kind eyes sees me come on to the ward.
‘Mrs Stefani’s looking a bit brighter today,’ she says. ‘I’m sure she’ll be pleased to see you.’
A huge surge of joy rushes through me. Dorrie’s getting better! And hurrying to her bed I somehow expect her to be her old self, sitting up, smiling, chatting to me. What I find is her lying there, as before, on her back, with her eyes closed. Something in me folds up at that moment and puts away hope that she will ever get back to anything like she was. They say s
he may recover language and some mobility. Each person who has a stroke has a quite individual outcome. But looking down at her that morning, her face the palest and most withdrawn I have ever seen it, I know I don’t really believe it will happen.
‘Dorrie? Hello, love. It’s Jo.’
Taking her hand, I sit down and lean towards her. A tiny flex of her fingers answers mine.
‘How are you today?’ I say. ‘Cynthia’s gone home for a little rest and Ian’s at work, but he’ll be in later to see you.’ I struggle to think of things to tell her. I have already talked about the visit to London and staying with Janu and Prem and how the race was. Now, I tell her, as I do every time, that everything is all right and Cynth is looking after Sweep and that he is missing her.
Her eyes open suddenly, almost as if she has been startled by something, making my heart beat faster. She looks angry for a moment, then it passes. I can’t see much wrong with her face, no obvious distortion or anything, but then she has not tried to talk.
‘Hello?’ I say, leaning in to her field of vision. ‘Can you hear me, Dorrie?’
Another tiny squeeze of the hand.
‘Cynthia says Sweep is eating up all his dinner and she’s watering your plants . . .’
Dorrie lies there, eyes open, I assume listening to me. There’s an atmosphere of quiet about her, of acceptance, the way Dorrie has always somehow had to accept things.
‘I love you, Dorrie,’ I say, close to tears. ‘You do know that, don’t you? You’ve been a mom to me – more than. You’ve been a friend as well – all through everything . . .’
Do I imagine her mouth twitching slightly? The old Dorrie would have been waving away all this sentimental talk – Go on with you – and changing the subject. This Dorrie slowly, driftily, closes her eyes again.
There’s no yoga for the six weeks of summer, but the next afternoon, as Cynthia is sitting with Dorrie, I go over to Sheila’s. It’s the first time we’ve met again since the race, though I have seen Pat briefly. Kim is away on holiday with her family so it’s the rest of the usual suspects. Everyone exchanges news about their weekend: Pat and Fred went to the Tower of London and had a good look at Buckingham Palace but did not pay to go in; Sheila and Roy had a great time seeing The Lion King at the Lyceum, stayed overnight and went on the London Eye and walked all along the Embankment. Sunita stayed on with the family in Wembley. Only Hayley came home after the picnic in the park.
‘The people from the charity brought us all these curries and beers!’ Pat tells me. ‘It’s a shame you missed it. We sat out under the trees and the food was very nice.’
But they all ask after Dorrie and as I tell them, I realize it doesn’t sound very good.
‘Some people make very good recoveries from strokes,’ Sheila says. ‘My brother-in-law had a bad one three years ago and to be honest, although he’s had to make a few adjustments to his life, he’s really done well.’
I’m grateful for her optimism, and you never can tell with Dorrie, but it does feel as if, every day, she is slipping further from us.
And despite the news and all the excitement of the weekend, everyone is feeling flat.
‘Well,’ Sunita says, after a while, looking round at us. ‘That was all very nice. But what do we do now?’
Three days later, on Sunday morning, Ian’s mobile rings. Immediately, he is bolt upright.
‘Yes,’ he says. And then, ‘Oh.’ Immediately, I know what’s happened. That dear old lady, all her love, all her memories, the person who held us all together, has left us.
Even as he is still speaking, grief begins. I think of her when I said goodbye to her on Saturday, before the race. Bye-bye, bab. Keep together and do your best. And there was I thinking she would be there to hear all about it when I came back, that she would always, somehow, be there. The thought of her not being there is so awful that tears are beginning even as Ian clicks off his phone and our eyes meet.
We each reach out and hold each other, we, the ones left standing.
And now, I realize fully, I am entrusted, when the time is right, with telling Ian what really happened to his dad.
Dorrie was never religious and the funeral, ten days later, is a simple crem do, followed by a pub wake. It turns out to be a strange day, and in the way of these things, somehow seems not to have much to do with the person whose life we are celebrating. It feels peculiar having to dress in a smart black linen dress, bought specially for the occasion. I’m not sure why it’s always necessary to wear black, but I think Dorrie would have thought that was the thing to do so I do it.
Cynthia and her family all come and she and Ian move carefully round each other. It goes off all right. Cynthia and Ian each give a short tribute to their mother, as does Michael, one of Cynthia’s twins. I sit thinking, would Paul have had the confidence to stand up and do that for his nanna? Probably not. I ache with missing him, knowing how sad he would have been today.
To my surprise, my own mother and father turn up for the funeral as well. Mom is dressed to the nines in a black suit, black patent shoes with four-inch heels and a black hat with a dashing stripe of white along the brim. Dad has got out his best suit, with a hanky-triangle pointing up from the breast pocket.
Afterwards, in the pub, Mom makes for me and sits beside me with her plate of filo-wrapped prawns and baby pakoras and cherry tomatoes. I’m not sure what Dorrie would have made of this food. She would have preferred a good sausage roll, I think. But then she’s not here, which is the whole, sad point. We are all perched at little round tables which you can barely fit everything on.
‘You all right, love?’ Mom says to me, head on one side. It seems to occur to her that she could see me better if she took the hat off and she lays it on the padded seat beside her, patting her hair, which is, as ever, immaculate and tinted with blonde.
‘Yeah. It’s been a bit of a couple of weeks,’ I say.
‘You’ll have a lot to do – the house and everything.’ Mom keeps looking at me, intently. I see her working up to something and then she says, ‘She was a lovely lady, Mrs Stefani – and I know she was very good to you.’
I’m surprised by this, touched even, and I find tears in my eyes. I realize my own mother is somehow nervous of me, especially since Paul’s death, hopeless at talking about it, forever worried about saying the wrong thing and often saying it anyway.
I’m nodding, not really trusting myself to speak.
‘And,’ Mom goes on, ‘Cynthia was talking to me about that run you did. I wish you’d told us earlier!’
‘Why?’ I say. ‘I mean, sorry.’ I mentioned it to her at some point, I’m sure, but I didn’t think they’d really be interested. ‘I just . . . I didn’t get round to it, I suppose.’
‘Well, Cynthia said she sponsored you – quite generously, I believe?’ This, to my amazement, also true. I didn’t get many sponsors but Cynthia was really nice about it. She’s been nice about a lot of things, even saying she’d take Sweep and re-home him – her boys would like to have him. ‘We’d have sponsored you, you know. It takes a lot of effort doing something like that. But I suppose it’s too late now.’
‘Never mind,’ I say, astonished. ‘It’s a nice thought. And maybe we’ll do it again.’ We’re going to keep running, the others were saying on Thursday. More money is always needed – why not?
‘Really?’ Mom sounds doubtful.
‘You could run as well,’ I tease her. After all, she does step classes.
She laughs then, properly. And laughing together feels nice. ‘Oh, I’m not sure about that.’
Thirty-Five
September 2015
‘OK,’ Kim says, walking over to her mat on the hall floor. ‘Let’s get settled now, shall we? I’ve missed you all over the summer – it’s good to be back.’
And it is. The free, shapeless days of August have passed and we are back into purposeful September, when terms starts, new projects begin and there’s a feeling of freshness and knuckling down to th
ings.
I look round at the group. Pat’s next to me, cross-legged and neat as a pixie. We meet up every few days for a coffee and a chat. She feels like a good, comfortable friend now. Sheila, who has difficulty sitting cross-legged, sits with her legs half-stretched out, massaging her stiff knees and looking round smiling at us all, as if she is our mom, which in a way she is. Sunita is rummaging in her bag looking for something. She has some new, shocking-pink leggings and a yellow top and looks curvy and muscular. Kim seems much as ever – and happy, I think to myself. And Hayley looks . . . well, Hayley always looks marvellous, hair in a high knot like a ballerina, her skin clear, eyes eager. And I feel a great surge of love for them all. My group, I think. My tribe, as they say.
Kim begins the class and soon we are flexing our spines in cat-cow poses. Saluting the sun, moving into cobras and lions and generally flowing along yoga’s quiet, benign current. As I move, images fill my mind. I let them pass through: Paul jogging along round the little lake in Moseley, with Scraps tearing about him; Paul walking down the Moseley Road in air smelling of fireworks, moments before death would rush to meet him . . . I think of that pathetic boy Lee Parry, in Winson Green prison. Lee who never seems to have had much of a life anyway, and this is all part of the horror. And my mind fills with memories of Dorrie: the day she bought the ice creams, Dorrie and Paul, her teaching him to crochet; Dorrie sitting in her chair with her mug, talking to me.
I miss Dorrie, at times almost unbearably. We have cleared her house, Ian, Cynthia and I. It did not take long. She owned few things – a modest number of clothes, her furniture and proud bits of cutlery and china, kept in the back room ‘for best’, a very few books, photographs and magazines. Sweep is adjusting to a Berkshire village and the house is about to go on the market. Already it has long been empty of the essence of the woman I knew and loved.
And in my drawer, upstairs, I still have Roses with Thorns by Dorrie Stefani. In one way I wish she had not left me with this. It feels a heavy responsibility. But I understand why she did. I just don’t think now is a good time to tell Ian.
