‘Who are you, and what do you want with Aunt George?’ Patrick introduced himself and Claire who’d accompanied him, but Mrs West appeared to have no intention of inviting them across the threshold. It was a two-storey house with mock-Tudor beams, much of it covered by concrete stucco. Patrick tried to conceal his instinctive dislike of the house and its owner.
‘Miss Rickson was a friend of my grandfather,’ he said, ‘and the agent who sold her family home kindly gave me this address.’
‘Did he indeed?’ Mrs West replied coldly. ‘That’s like his cheek. He had no right to do so.’
‘Is there a problem?’
‘Yes, I think there is,’ she said. ‘The whereabouts of my Aunt George is none of Rutledge’s business. He got his commission when the Lodge went to the highest bidder, and that’s twenty-five years ago. He did quite nicely out of us, and we’ve not had even a Christmas card from him since.’
‘Did you want one?’ Claire asked politely.
‘Who are you?’
‘Mr Conway’s assistant. He’s researching a film about the Rickson family, hoping to make it as a drama for the BBC.’
Her unblinking gaze moved from Claire to Patrick, a new air of calculation now apparent.
‘I’m a Rickson,’ she said, ‘or I was before marriage. I don’t think you could do anything like that unless you get some sort of signed agreement from the family.’
‘That’s the usual procedure. Obviously I wouldn’t attempt it without consent,’ Patrick responded, ‘but nor would I bother to continue unless I can find Georgina Rickson.’
‘Well, she’s not here,’ the woman replied abruptly. ‘Mr Rutledge was correct. She did live here, but she’s no longer with me.’
‘Did she die?’ he asked.
‘No, she just got old and became difficult. Like some people do in their dotage.’
Then she’s alive, Patrick realised. He tried to contain his elation and to remain conciliatory in the face of this belligerence, but was finding it difficult. ‘May I know where she is?’
‘It’ll do you no good.’
‘Why is that, Mrs West?’
‘Because if you want to talk about the family, she can hardly be expected to discuss what she can’t remember.’
‘You mean she has Alzheimer’s?’
‘I believe they prefer the term dementia. It’s supposed to sound less threatening. Besides, if you’re talking about permission and so forth, what’s the point of seeing her? She can’t sign anything. I’m her only living relative and the heir to her estate. So I suggest you don’t bother poor old George with things she won’t understand… just discuss it with me.’
‘I think we’ll leave it,’ Patrick decided his only recourse was to bluff. ‘I have other projects, and this is clearly a waste of time.’
‘Hang on a minute!’ Mrs West was not prepared for this. Despite her uncompromising attitude, she wanted to find out what was involved. ‘Your lady friend just said it’s for the BBC —’
‘My assistant, actually, and she said we’re in the research stage. Which means an early stage. If I don’t meet with the only remaining member of the family, we move on and abandon this project.’
‘I’m the only remaining member of the family!’
‘I mean the direct family. Those who lived at the Lodge.’
‘And if she’s gaga, lying there like some old fossil?’
‘You clearly don’t like her very much, do you?’ Patrick’s tone was terse. For the first time Mrs West appeared to recognise that she might have exceeded the bounds of civility.
‘You’d better come in, if you want,’ she said reluctantly, ‘it looks like it’s going to pour down with rain any minute.’
Patrick was about to refuse. Only a faint pressure of Claire’s hand on his arm made him change his mind. They went into a front room occupied by a floral lounge suite. Artificial leadlight windows felt the first splatters of rain as Mrs West suggested they sit down.
‘Don’t like her, is that what you said? It’s not a question of like. You mentioned the Lodge. The famous Lodge. Do you know we were never invited there? Our side of the family, I mean — we never existed as far as they were concerned. Like chalk and cheese, the Ricksons. My father always said his brother Albert couldn’t give tuppence for us. Same with his daughters. Pair of old spinsters, they had that great big house, just them alone after the parents died. Never invited me to stay. Their only niece, their only living relative in the world, but they had no interest in me. Not until she was old and stuck there on her own, unable to cope and needing help. Then I tried to overlook the snubs of the past and took her in. And what did it get me?’
She continued before either could reply. ‘I’ll tell you what. It got me a difficult old woman who spent her time complaining — about the size of this house, the size of her room, the pokey garden. She was used to better things, and made it obvious. It cost me my husband, who packed his things and went off. Couldn’t stand another minute of the old bat, he said, but he didn’t tell me he was leaving with his secretary, and they’d been having it off since she came to work for him. Truth to tell, I didn’t mind it, seeing the back of him. I was only forty — I could’ve had a bit of a life. But there was eighty-year-old Auntie George… who was likely to barge in if I brought anyone home, and who was starting to forget if she’d been to the loo or not. What do you think that did for my hopes of a new life?’
‘Not a lot, I imagine,’ Claire said with some sympathy.
‘And then there was the lawyer.’
‘Whose lawyer?’ Patrick asked.
‘Hers. Peacock & Marsh, in Epsom. Albert Rickson had them in his day, and the solicitors who run it now still handle the estate. He left a will that imposed strict conditions on his daughters, so they told me. I went to see them, to say I’d sell this house and buy a bigger place that she’d like better, if I could have an advance on my inheritance. One of them said a clause in the will would not allow my drawing on the legacy. A protective clause he called it.’
The rain had increased to a downpour. Dark clouds outside the window made the living room gloomy. Mrs West switched on a lamp beside her chair, raising her voice over the sound of the storm. Her lips were compressed, her mouth like a trap.
‘Protective clause! I found that insulting. I said I was the one who needed protection. I told him she forgets to dress, forgets to bathe, she stinks and I can’t stand it any more. He tried to lay down the law, saying the will only allowed money to be spent on her welfare. So I said I’d had a basinful, and for her welfare and mine, I was putting her in an old people’s home. At least he couldn’t object to that.’ She stared at Patrick with a glare of outright hostility. ‘Blame me if you like, but how could anyone your age understand?’
‘I’m not blaming you,’ Patrick said, ‘I’m just asking to see her, and wondering why you won’t allow it.’
‘You’d be wasting your time, I already told you that.’
‘But it’s my time, Mrs West. So if you could tell me where…
I could organise it.’
‘It’s not that simple. I’ll have to make arrangements.’
‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’
‘There’s no other way. They require proper notice of a visit. I had great difficulty finding a suitable place. They were either full up or far too costly. Nothing’s easy, nowadays.’
‘Then may I phone you tomorrow?’ Patrick was carefully patient now that she seemed to be consenting to his request.
‘As long as it’s in the morning,’ she replied, rising to indicate it was time for them to leave. ‘I play bridge of an afternoon. Mind you, I never get decent cards, never have any luck, but I play just the same. I mean, at my age, in view of the hand life’s dealt me, what else is there?’
‘No wonder the husband shot through,’ Patrick said later, driving back to town. ‘Talk about belligerent, she was like a bulldog. I felt any minute she’d start to bark.’
‘Don’t be awful,’ Claire said.
‘I thought I was fairly restrained, considering.’
‘You were. But I daresay Georgina Rickson did hate that house, after the kind of place she’d spent her life in. So perhaps she was difficult.’
‘She had money,’ Patrick said. ‘The family estate, and the sale of the Lodge. I can’t imagine why she didn’t find somewhere better to live.’
‘On her own,’ Claire reminded him, ‘growing old and alone after her sister died, she turned to the only family she had. And I suspect at first, with prospects of that inheritance in mind, her niece made her welcome.’
‘Oh, friendly bomb, descend on Slough’, the poet John Betjeman once wrote, and Patrick, as he left the M4 motorway and headed into Slough’s gaunt industrial area, understood what had prompted this caustic line. It had not been a good journey. He had followed Mrs West’s explicit directions to the nursing home, which proceeded to get him lost, and finally he had to pull into a pub near Windsor to ask the way.
‘Englefield Green?’ the publican said. ‘Blimey, you did get a bum steer. About ten miles back at the interchange; if you’d taken the M25 you’d be there by now. Probably been there ten minutes ago.’ Patrick bought a beer and thanked him. ‘After Englefield Green, I have to find a place called Clarendon Palace Gardens.’
‘Dunno that; it sounds posh,’ the publican replied. ‘I’ll draw you a map to Englefield. From there you’re on your own.’
Following the sketch, it was soon clear how thoroughly Helen West had misled him. Patrick wondered if he was becoming paranoid about the woman, for he suspected it was deliberate. It had taken her two days to get a decision on his visit. She claimed the nursing home was discussing the matter, unsure if her aunt was well enough to see strangers.
Patrick did not voice his disbelief. He did not know the name of the home and with no means of finding out, she controlled the situation. She’d added if they did agree to his visit, he must go alone and not take his friend. The implication was intentionally provocative, but he managed to keep his temper.
Then that morning, she rang to say he had an appointment for today. He must be there by eleven. It was already nine-thirty, and he had to listen to her directions which had added half an hour to his journey. It was clear he would be noticeably late, and felt certain that was what she intended.
He drove around the perimeter of Windsor Great Park, then along a winding road that led to Englefield Green, a bleak region of mainly council flats. Graffiti abounded. Children kicked a football in the street. One shouted at him to get his sodding motor off their pitch. After passing through another village, Patrick took a minor road that led him to the retirement home.
Clarendon Palace Gardens was a name that had been carefully selected to impress. The publican had thought it sounded posh. Doubtless it looked good on brochures and letterhead, but the reality on first sight was shockingly different. Patrick was stunned and revolted. He couldn’t think of a more inappropriate name. It was no palace and there was not a garden in sight. The grounds were filled with archaic breezeblock buildings; they might once have been army huts, for they conveyed the impression of a wartime barracks. Nothing could have prepared him for this; he felt disgust that elderly citizens had paid to live out the remaining years of their lives in this awful place.
In the shabby front hall of what had been the original house was a row of plastic chairs for visitors. A desk contained a sign: ADMINISTRATOR. A middle-aged woman in a shapeless cardigan sat engrossed in writing out what seemed to be a roster. Patrick waited patiently for her to acknowledge him.
‘Miss Georgina Rickson,’ he said, when she finally put aside her task. She asked his name, frowned and consulted a schedule, telling him he was late.
‘Not too late, I hope,’ Patrick responded.
‘The appointment was for eleven. I made that quite clear to Mrs West, the niece. We have strict meal times which are followed by rest periods. That’s compulsory, on doctor’s orders. I’m sorry, Mr Conway, but I did tell her that.’
‘She forgot to tell me.’ Patrick explained that he’d unluckily got lost. He did hope they could stretch a point on this occasion, as he’d come from Australia to see her.
‘All that way?’ She seemed surprised, and less severe. She said Miss Rickson’s niece lived half an hour away at Esher, but hadn’t been to see her for ages. Literally for years. In fact, the staff were talking about it recently — all the time she’d been here, poor Georgie had only two visits from Mrs West, who had brought a bunch of wilted flowers on each occasion.
‘They beg for a place in here, because our charges are so low,’ she said, ‘then they hardly ever bother to turn up afterwards. Not on birthdays, not even at Christmas. Some of these old people are just simply abandoned and left to rot. It’s a real disgrace.’
She called an assistant to take her place at the desk, saying she’d show Patrick the way. Miss Rickson was in Block 24. To Patrick it sounded more like Stalag 24. As they went past the rows of makeshift buildings that served as the wards, his designation of the place as a prison camp seemed even less fanciful.
They entered a long bungalow accommodating forty people. The walls inside were unlined; what appeared to be a coat of kalsomine painted on the breezeblock was the only attempt at decoration, and although it was a warm day outside the building was chilly. It felt surreal. In rows of beds far too close together were elderly men and women, with almost no privacy between them. Two nurses sat chatting at the end of the ward. The pervasive smell of Dettol was unmistakable.
‘It’s the best we can do,’ the administrator confessed, aware of Patrick’s look of disbelief. ‘We don’t profess to be up-market, despite the rather fancy name the owners gave it. There are a great many places like this around the country, for those in low-income groups. People who simply can’t afford anything else.’
‘But she’s a wealthy woman!’
‘Miss Rickson? No, I’m sorry, that’s not correct. We were told there’s hardly any money.’
‘Then you were told a lie,’ Patrick declared. He didn’t even know this elderly woman, but felt an impotent rage at the unworthy way she had been treated. ‘I assure you, she can certainly afford something better than this Gulag! I apologise for that expression, but it’s quite wrong for her to be here. She’s entitled to better. She’s been robbed of the last part of her life, and that’s more than a disgrace, it’s an outrage.’
‘That may be so, Mr Conway, but are you a relative?’
‘No,’ he had to admit.
‘Then I don’t think there’s anything you can do. She’s very old now, in her late nineties, and remembers nothing of her life. But if, as you say, she’s been robbed of the last part of it, that’s very sad.’
‘More than sad. It’s illegal and grossly unfair.’
‘Perhaps it is. However there’s no possible way you or I can alter it. That’s entirely the business of her next of kin.’
‘I know, but —’
‘But nothing, Mr Conway. I’ve bent the rules to allow this visit, so please don’t make a fuss. It won’t help.’ She pointed to the rows of somnolent figures. ‘You’ll find her in bed eighteen,’ she said, and abruptly left him.
Patrick saw the beds were numbered. He walked slowly down the ward — he had to think of it as a ward, although it was truly more like a cell block — and stood at the foot of bed eighteen. One of the nurses stopped chatting as she caught his eye. She seemed surprised, and came towards him.
‘Miss Rickson?’ he asked.
She nodded, pointing at the dozing figure beneath a blanket. ‘That’s the one. George, they call her,’ the nurse confided. ‘She was one of the famous Roses of No-Mans-Land in Flanders. Not much like a rose now, poor old thing.’
Patrick didn’t try to correct her. He went and sat beside the bed. She seemed to be asleep: she could as easily be dead. Her face was leathered by age, yet it looked strangely peaceful.
‘Georgina,’ he sa
id softly, ‘can you hear me? I’ve come a long way to see you.’
There was no response. Then the old eyes blinked opened. They stayed on him, unfocused and confused, until at last there came an instant of clarity and surprise, with the dawning of what seemed like recognition.
‘Stephen!’ she whispered, and before he could deny this, she reached out a hand to hold his. Hers was tiny and wrinkled, with liver-brown age spots and fingers bent out of shape by arthritis. ‘My dear, dear Stephen. You don’t look even a day older.’
FOURTEEN
When Patrick left Clarendon Palace Gardens he found it difficult to drive, he was so disturbed. The priority, he knew, must be to somehow get Georgina out of there, but how to accomplish that with Mrs West as next of kin was beyond his comprehension. How anyone could treat an elderly relative in such a way appalled him.
It had been a strange few hours. The staff were sympathetic. The nurse who overheard her mistake him for Stephen said it was the first time poor old George had spoken for weeks.
‘Just when you think they’re really gone,’ she said, ‘no mind or memory left, something like this happens. So who was Stephen?’
‘My grandfather,’ Patrick explained. ‘He was with the Australian army in France in the 1914 war.’
The nurse seized on this. ‘Then they must’ve met when she was one of the Roses of No-Man’s-Land!’ she decided, and once again, he did not correct her. As it seemed to be Georgina’s only mark of distinction in this place, why deprive her of it?
‘Perhaps they did,’ he replied.
‘Do you think there was a romance?’ she asked.
Patrick said he had no idea. The nurse clearly liked the idea of a romance, saying he could stay as long as he liked, never mind the rules. Meanwhile she’d tell Mrs Greenfield, the administrator, about what had happened. They all had a soft spot for Georgie, she said, partly because they felt she had been unfairly abandoned by her family, but mostly because she had once been a Rose.
When she had hurried off Patrick remained by the bedside, but Georgina’s eyes had closed again. After that brief moment of lucidity she had drifted back into her private state of oblivion. He kept a gentle hold of the frail hands while he continued to talk to her, but there was no response to either his voice or touch.
Barbed Wire and Roses Page 16
