‘I don’t think you can ever call it. Who you’ll click with.’ Martha is examining her own biscuit very closely. ‘I think, to be honest, it’s probably best not to try to analyse it. Just be glad when it happens.’
‘Yes. You’re probably right.’ Kate then turns to watch the children fishing with their nets in the pool. ‘I used to do that with my father. Rock-pooling. Between us, I think he was secretly sorry never to have a son. Never quite sure how to play it with me at home. The dolls. The doll’s house and all the girly jazz. But when we went on holiday – he sort of came into his own. Relaxed more with me. He used to take me rock-pooling a lot. Collecting crabs in buckets. I loved it.’
‘So do you not have any siblings, Kate?’
‘No.’
Martha pauses for a moment, brushing biscuit crumbs from her coat. ‘Me neither.’
‘Though I never minded, actually. Probably makes me sound very selfish. but I rather liked it.’ Kate narrows her eyes. ‘People always assume it must have been lonely, growing up, but I had lots of friends. Never minded at all.’
Martha takes in a long breath and then glances up to the hill in the distance on which perches the large and imposing outline of what Kate assumes is Millrose Mount Hospital. The site now has ugly fencing all around it, which rather spoils the view.
‘I’m assuming that fencing will come down when they redevelop?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Up there. The old hospital. That’s the one they closed because of the TV documentary, isn’t it?’
Martha shrugs.
‘I read about it. In all the papers. Awful story.’
‘Before my time. Maria probably knows.’ Martha is suddenly glancing at her watch. ‘In fact, talking of Maria, I really ought to get back. I said I’d help her out.’
‘Oh right. Yes, of course.’ Quietly Kate is disappointed they are short of time today but she finds a smile. Does not want to seem needy. Martha loves working in the café and it is amusing to watch her and Maria together. Maybe she will pop in later to join them both for a quick drink and a chat. Yes. Kate feels lucky to at last have this new option. Somewhere to go. People to talk to.
And so they sit for just a little longer before retracing their steps, Kate this time taking a longer run-up to successfully clear the river.
‘So the bus trips, Kate. You still doing the open-top tours?’
‘Sometimes.’ Kate doesn’t remember sharing that she was a regular.
‘It’s just I noticed you a few times. Before you noticed me, I mean. Up on that top deck. It’s the hair. Hard to miss…’
‘Oh right. I was doing research. For a project. On local tourism.’ And then Kate feels this instant pang of guilt; an unease which spreads very quickly through her so that she stops suddenly, which makes Martha stop in her tracks also, turning to face her.
‘Actually, no. That’s a complete lie, Martha. I was taking the bus tours to kill time.’
Martha frowns.
‘I mean, I’ve never not had a job to go to before. And this situation – this blessed extended sick leave thing. It’s completely thrown me.’ Kate is surprised to have said this out loud for the first time but there is something about being with Martha which makes everything feel different. Confusing and strange but also a relief somehow. Permission to be herself. Like that moment on the quay when Martha knew immediately that she was lying.
Martha remains very still, just looking. The salt in the air. The salt on Kate’s lips. Both of them just standing. Waiting, apparently, for Kate to go on.
‘The thing is, Martha, we moved here to try to make it all a bit easier. A change of scene. But the truth is, I still don’t really know what I’m supposed to do. With my days, I mean. It’s not like a holiday, this. With a holiday, you make the most of time, because you know soon you are going back to being busy. This? This is completely different.’ Kate can feel her heart rate increasing. For so long she has stuck to her script. Worn the brave face. Told everyone how marvellous it is to have so much free time. Wonderful. I’m so lucky.
Martha tilts her head and reaches out her hand to touch Kate’s arm. Kate expects a momentary touch. But instead Martha keeps her hand there, resting on Kate’s elbow. And somehow it feels the most comforting thing that anyone has done for her for a very long time.
‘It’s actually the thing that is driving me completely mad. All this time on my hands, Martha. I honestly have no idea what I am supposed to do.’
Moscow State Orchestra
1961
My Martha,
I have just a few minutes to scratch a few lines, so forgive how short this is. A dancer friend is being sent over to France to help sort the new line-up after Nureyev’s defection.
This friend has posted letters for me before and can be trusted. Also, I am addressing this via Margaret your housekeeper – hoping it has a better chance of reaching you.
All is chaos over Nureyev. Many people in our circle are very, very angry – fearing repercussions. But me? Oh Martha, I am absolutely overjoyed.
Now at last I believe that this can be done.
I have so much more to say but my friend is hovering at my door so know this only…
I am due to tour both Europe and America myself very soon. Everything is sold out, so we are all praying it will not be cancelled, even with all this Nureyev fallout.
So – providing this tour does go ahead, I am going to do it, Martha. Defect.
I really am going to get away… and find you.
Always and forever,
* * *
Your Josef x
8
‘You are joking.’
Kate pushes two more towels into the washing machine, aware that she is overloading it.
‘Tell me you’re joking, Kate.’
‘Jesus.’ Unable to close the door, even with her full weight pressed against it, Kate realises she is in danger of forcing the hinge, so pulls out one of the towels and tries again, triumphant as the door finally clicks into place. ‘She’s nowhere decent to stay.’
‘That’s not true, Kate, and you know it. And for God’s sake, stop that, will you? Please. We need to talk about this properly.’
‘It won’t be for long.’
‘How do you know that? Give this Martha the green light to move in here and what possible incentive could there be to leave? We’d be stuck with her.’
‘She’s a nice woman. Really interesting. You’ll be surprised.’
‘She’s a bag lady, Kate.’
‘More traveller, actually.’
‘Bag lady. Traveller. Hippy. Dippy… Whatever. You’ve met her, what – four, five times at most? You know absolutely nothing about her background and suddenly you want her to live with us? I mean, you must see this is complete madness. She could be a nutter. Murder us in our beds. This isn’t My Fair bloody Lady, you know.’ Toby is now pacing, something he always does when completely exasperated. He has this slightly funny gait when he gets wound up like this and, even though she is genuinely sorry to upset him, Kate cannot help being just a tiny bit amused, especially by the Eliza Doolittle reference.
She bites her lip against a smile, which she knows could tip things entirely the wrong way, and turns to the clothes just emptied from the tumble drier on top of the washing machine – folding them quite needlessly into colour-coded piles. Whites. Brights. Mids.
‘We get on, Toby. Me and Martha. Really clicked. And I think it will do me good.’ It is perhaps wrong of her to play this card. Below the belt? But, like so much of her behaviour these days, she simply cannot help herself and so plunges on. ‘And in any case, I’ve asked around and checked her out officially. Not a drinker. No drugs. Not really a bag lady, as I said – just eccentric. A misfit. Travels with gypsies sometimes. Picks fruit in France… that sort of thing. Spends the winter here each year. A lot of people vouch for her. She normally uses a hostel, but it’s not great…’
‘But it’s not normal, for God’s sake – to
live like that, is it? And it’s not normal to take people in just because…’
As Toby stops very suddenly – apparently at a complete loss – his face begins to change. The mood changes. He looks all at once sad and lost rather than cross – the very expression Kate so hates. She pauses also. A terrible frisson of guilt – right through her.
Toby still thinks that time can save them and there is a part of Kate which wishes very much she could find some way to believe him. Loves him all the more for trying so very hard. But a bigger part of her knows a different and starker truth. That for her, at least, time will make no difference whatsoever.
Just as she confided in Martha, without her job, she doesn’t even have anything to do. And so – yes. Why not help Martha? Something nice. Something good. Something to distract and to fill this terrible phase in which Toby – her sweet, kind but wholly deluded Toby – still believes that waiting, that the simple passage of time, is going to magically change things.
Kate folds the dishcloth into two. Then four. Silently she taps the flesh beside her thumb. The counsellor taught her that. Three. Four. Five. To count or tap – anything rhythmic and soothing – when it all feels too much.
‘Will you at least think about it, Toby?’ Nine. Ten…
‘You need to rest still, Kate. And we both need space. I mean – I know you mean well. I do understand that. And I love that you’re the kind of person who wants to do this kind of thing. But it’s just not the right time. To have some complete stranger – some misfit – to stay.’
Kate slots the washing basket back into its place – the middle shelf of a tiered stainless steel rack in the utility room – and stands, her knees creaking their protest. She is eager for an excuse to escape this and so checks her watch, feigning surprise.
‘Look. I’ve got to go. I’ll be late for the library. We’ll talk some more properly tonight – yes? I know it’s a lot to ask. I do see that, Toby. But I honestly think the company will be really good for me. Just for a little while. Will you at least think about it? Please?’
And then she pauses, staring for one brief, rare moment right into his eyes, which surprises them both – she jolting physically as he refuses to look away.
‘OK then, Kate, so how about this? How about I promise to think about this Martha staying for a while if you think about the boxes in the hall?’
Kate feels her shoulders tense. Still he will not look away.
‘I know it’s hard, Kate. But we can’t just leave them there. We have to decide what to do.’
For a while Kate says nothing, Toby reaching out then to hold his palm gently against her face – the gesture so very tender that she can hardly bear it.
Kate wants to hold his face in her hands too. To be a different person. She wants to tell him that she is so sorry for how she is, that she still loves him and that they are going to be all right. But she can’t do it. Can’t lie. Not about this. She can lie about the library and about the non-existent research. But not this…
‘OK? So I think about Martha and you think about the boxes. What we’re going to do about them.’
In her head Kate says that she honestly wants to try. But for now the words just won’t come out of her mouth.
9
Matthew is freezing. The heating in Aylesborough’s library a complete joke.
‘We’ve reported it,’ the librarian confirms as Matthew tests the metal radiator – barely tepid.
He decides to keep his coat on as he sits at his regular table by the window, the copy of Samuel Cribbs’ diary in front of him again. The original in the large display case is impressive. This copy less so. Some of it faded and difficult to read – with sketchy notes from the local history society.
Matthew read through these notes previously, along with Cribbs’ opening on his inspiration for the building, but he ran out of time and is hoping today to find more clues about Millrose Mount’s day-to-day life as a hospital. To his disappointment there is nothing on the shelves about the building’s recent and controversial history. Just this diary.
Matthew stares at Cribbs’ now-familiar sketch on the front and feels his fist clench involuntarily. He really does not want to believe that this is where life began for him. Born? In a place like this? In truth, Samuel Cribbs’ book is unlikely to be of much use. Certainly what he has read so far hasn’t helped, but with no up-to-date records, it is better than nothing.
Matthew flicks through the pages. Ah, yes. This is where he got to last time… September 14th 1869… and, according to the diary, an exceptionally fine, bright day for the season. It was, Samuel Cribbs noted, a special day. Returning to Millrose Mount to celebrate its first anniversary up and running…
He had needed a moment to himself, away from the rest of the visiting party, Cribbs explained. Yes. A moment to reflect as he stared at the wall alongside the large door, which bore the copper plaque unveiled just a year ago, when he had been so heartily applauded at the opening ceremony of Millrose Mount Hospital. He remembered how the cord had become entangled and the little velvet curtain would not at first sweep aside to reveal the plaque’s dedication. He blushed at the memory of his embarrassment then, tugging at the cord over and over until Mr Smitherleigh, who had been in charge of all the arrangements, swept forward to rescue him.
The sun today shone bright, reflecting like a beam off the copper plaque, which he suspected might well have been polished especially for his return visit. Millrose Mount Hospital, opened September 1868 by its architect Samuel M. Cribbs. (He had been very insistent about the M, being oversensitive with regard to his cousin Dr Samuel J. Cribbs, with whom he was so regularly and infuriatingly confused.)
Though he had been nervous a year ago, it was a nervousness born of vanity, he realised now. The feedback on the building project was so good, all the site visits so promising that he had been almost certain the day would be a success and was nervous, in truth, not for fear of failure or reproach from his peers but because he feared his expectation of plaudits was perhaps too high. His ego too swollen.
Today’s nerves were entirely different. For today Samuel Cribbs was, for the first time, to see the building fully occupied. In action. And it was the thought – how could he put this – of the patients which now frightened him.
Matthew looks up to find the young library assistant watching him. He smiles but, embarrassed to have caught his eye, she begins pulling out drawers, pretending to check the cards inside. She is attractive, the assistant – nice eyes – and Matthew smiles again before returning to his reading.
When he had been designing the building, Mr Cribbs reflected, he had persuaded himself of a caring, fatherly approach to the people who were to occupy it. He had listed their needs. He had been practical. Thoughtful even. Hadn’t he come up with the novel idea of the central exercise area? But the reality was something else entirely. For Samuel Cribbs (whose family genes were blessedly free of mental impairments) had no real experience of so-called ‘imbeciles’. Of lives rendered unfortunate – some might say useless – by some cruel accident of birth.
In truth, today he had no idea what to expect. And he was afraid as he paused, aside from the party gathered, all ready, to tour on this first anniversary of the building’s completion.
So he was perhaps the most surprised (the rest of the party coming from the medical profession and thus being more enlightened in these matters), as they were eventually ushered inside by the doctor who was to be their guide, by the scenes which greeted them.
They began in the kitchens, which Mr Cribbs was pleased to note were functioning as splendidly as he had hoped. The proportions perfect. The noise was considerable, of course – the clattering of pans and dishes and oven doors, punctuated by instructions issued by some of the many staff scurrying about. But the overall impression was one of remarkable order. Yes. Almost military order. And what was to come as the greatest surprise of all was his discovery, in conversation with the superintendent, that a good fifty per cent of th
e people he had assumed were staff were actually patients.
Mr Cribbs, on discovering this, glanced around in amazement, trying immediately to distinguish between the two. Patients? Or paid help? It was nothing short of miraculous, and he began to smile. Relaxing now. Congratulating himself on the part that he had played in this achievement – in providing the right environment for such a healthy routine for these people who, at home, no doubt would not have been allowed to put the kettle on.
The food was passed in large, covered dishes to lines of people who were waiting in the corridors with trolleys ready, presumably, to be wheeled away to the wards. Again, from the varied clothing it was difficult to be sure whether these people were inmates too.
From the kitchen, the visitors were moved to the bakehouse, where patients (their status confirmed by a supervisor) were operating the machinery to knead the dough before expertly shaping it into loaves for the ovens. And no, Mr Cribbs was assured, there had been no record of any serious accidents. The hospital was very proud of its safety record.
A sample ward was next on the tour, where the party were shown first the dayroom – four tables each set for twenty patients to take their lunch – and then the sleeping quarters. Thirty inmates per room, overseen by two nursing staff. And along the route, as the group negotiated the ample corridors and stairways, Mr Cribbs was informed that, yes, the vast majority of the running of the whole establishment was undertaken by the inmates. Millrose Mount Hospital, in effect, was run by Millrose Mount Hospital. He had helped to create not just a building but a self-sufficient community.
Mr Cribbs paused as his party was led ahead up the main stairway of the block towards the visitors’ reception room where he suspected sherry and lunch would now await them. He knew that to the west was the wing he had been asked to design with ‘special facilities’, for the most unfortunate; those intent on harming not just themselves but others. He wondered for a second if he should enquire if permission could be granted to visit this section also, but changed his mind as Mr Smitherleigh called back for him, asking is there a problem?
Last Kiss Goodnight Page 4
