Moments later she was retching into the toilet, thinking that if she’d thrown up over his feet it really wouldn’t have been such a disaster. The involuntary heaving filled her eyes with tears, reinforced by an extra welling-up of self-pity and a childlike longing for attention: if Mum were here, she’d be soothing and patting, offering towels and sympathy. Left to cope on her own, Hilly gargled and washed her face, made her groggy way up to the attic, exchanged clothes for nightshirt, swallowed two more pills and lowered herself carefully into bed. All she could do now was give herself over to it, lie in the dusk with an arm over her face and wait for the now intense pain to go away. She could not bear the radio, couldn’t even think properly; the sickness and disturbed vision made her thoughts seem to zoom and flash inside her head like splinters of light, bouncing off her skull, colliding with each other. The heavy bass thrumming was louder now, the amplifiers turned up, or was she imagining it? Valerie and Geoff next door must be getting it at full blast, too; Hilly was surprised Valerie hadn’t come round to complain. But she couldn’t do anything about it now.
She groaned, turned over, tried to arrange herself comfortably, waited. After what seemed a long while she began to drift into half-sleep, from which restless state she registered that the din downstairs went on and on and finally stopped, and that there was a lot of commotion by the front door as the band moved out, followed by shouting and revving outside, and then, at last, quiet. Zoë must have been making an effort to tidy up, as she did not come upstairs immediately. At last Hilly slept.
She woke early, surprised by the unfamiliar room. Early light filtered through the curtains; from the other bed she heard Zoë’s soft, regular breathing. Zoë’s mouth was open, hair strewn across the pillow; asleep, she looked about twelve. For a second, raising herself on one elbow, Hilly saw a much younger, sweeter Zoë; then everything about last night thumped back into her head. The nauseous feeling lingered, and a dull, background headache. Oh God, and there was so much to do. Mum and Dad and Heidigran would be here for lunch.
‘Zoë! Zoë, you awake?’
Not a sound in reply.
Sensible Hilly will see to everything. Scatter-brained Zoë needn’t lift a finger. That’s what they’d all be assuming. But sensible Hilly felt like rolling over and going back to sleep.
Sitting up, she squinted at her alarm clock: ten past eight. She usually woke much earlier than this. She reached for her glasses, then for slippers and dressing gown. The stale ashiness of cigarette smoke reached her on the stairs; must get the windows open, and some air through. In the front room Hilly pulled back the curtains, then did a double-take at the sight of a blanket-shrouded figure asleep on the sofa. Only one, thankfully. But a gaze round the room revealed furniture still in disarray, an overflowing saucer of cigarette ends on the windowsill, ash trodden into the carpet. In the kitchen, a fly buzzed round a trail of spilled stickiness on the worktop, and the bin overflowed with beer cans.
Hilly stomped back upstairs and flung Zoë’s duvet to the floor, leaving her exposed and bare, curled in sleep.
‘Zoë! Wake up, now!’
Chapter Four
Leavings
Dementia is progressive and incurable; it leads to a decline in the ability to remember, think and reason, and to changes in personality and behaviour which may turn a loved friend or relative into a fractious and increasingly dependent stranger.
Robert T. Woods, Alzheimer’s Disease
They’re taking me away again, Heidi thought. I must have done something bad.
Stiffly, she raised herself into a sitting position and swung her feet to the floor. She sat for a few moments looking at her bare feet, at the dry skin and discoloured big toenails, beneath a hem of broderie anglaise. Those can’t be my feet, she thought. My feet are smaller than that. Such neat little feet I remember having. Quick, light feet, that could skip and dance their way through squares marked on the pavement for hopscotch. I liked those better. Where are they?
Someone was downstairs; she heard the clatter of dishes in the sink. Who was it? Frowning, she picked at the edge of her sheet. They had been here last night, both of them. Rose, and … and … Graham? No, no, Gavin, of course, how foolish. Gavin. She hoped Rose would bring a cup of tea in a moment. Her throat was dry, her mouth tasted sour; tea was what she needed. Carefully she stood: pushed back the curtains and looked out at her front garden, the late roses, the purple shrubby thing that brought the butterflies, and that plant with the grapey-mauve flowers she liked so much – what was its name? Pen – Pen – Penstemon, that was it.
When clarity returned it was like a picture coming into focus, like windscreen wipers sweeping away condensation, letting her see clearly. Penstemons, and the butterfly bush was buddleia – buddleja they’d started spelling it now in gardening magazines. Next to it were tall spires with ragged flowers limp on their stems but new buds still to open: evening primroses. She had planted them herself, watched the rosettes of leaves, flat to the ground, thrust up stems thick with buds that unfurled into primrose-yellow trumpet flowers, each lasting one day. And there was Geranium macrorrhizum ‘Ingwersen’s Variety’, that spread itself and swamped everything near it if you didn’t keep it under control, and left its strong musty smell on your hands when you pulled it up. The yellow clematis that scrambled over the trellis, already with some of the silvery tufts of old-man’s-beard that followed the flowers, was Clematis tangutica. She was good at names.
That stair had always creaked, the second one from the top. Rose came in, dressed, carrying a cup and saucer.
‘Mum, you’re awake early! I didn’t want to disturb you. Here. Why don’t you get back into bed and drink this? There’s no rush.’
Heidi sat, obedient. The cup rattled in its saucer as she took it from Rose’s steady hand. She sipped the tea; not enough sugar. But the hot slide down her throat was soothing.
‘I don’t want to leave my garden,’ she said. ‘You know I’m perfectly capable. It’s only first thing in the morning I’m a bit vague. Perhaps we should think again. Are you off to the gym?’ she added, looking at Rose’s lycra top and track pants, and her hair pulled back into a ponytail.
‘No, Mum, I’m not going to the gym. We’re taking you home with us, for a stay – you’ll enjoy that.’
‘Home?’ Heidi said blankly.
‘Home with us, Mum. Remember? We’re all packed and ready, and the girls are cooking lunch. And don’t worry about your garden – we’ll come back and take care of it.’
‘Is—?’
Rose looked at her. Heidi took another sip of tea, pretending she hadn’t meant to speak. It had gone again, the name; how maddening! She had been about to ask if he was still here too, her son-in-law. She’d had it just now, but it had slithered out of her memory like an agile fish. G. She knew it began with a G. Puzzling over it, annoyed with herself for forgetting something so simple, she gazed around her room, noticing how strange it looked. The wardrobe was half-empty; someone had put out a pair of trousers and a shirt, on hangers against the door, ready to be worn. She didn’t remember choosing those.
‘Someone’s stealing my clothes,’ she said. And then the name came back: Gavin. How could she have forgotten? ‘Is Gavin still here?’
‘Yes, course he is. He’s not up yet. We’ll have breakfast, then we’re all going back together.’
‘Going back?’ Heidi said. Her mind reeled. ‘But there’s nothing there. They’ve all gone.’
‘Home. Home with us. Hilly and Zoë are there, getting our lunch.’ Rose draped a plaid dressing gown on the bedside chair. ‘Give me a shout when you’re ready to get up.’
There was a purring rush, and Oscar arrived on Heidi’s bed, trilling with pleasure, butting his head against her arm. Tea sloshed into the saucer. She stroked him, feeling the plumpness of his body, his warmth. His claws snagged on the bedspread.
‘Poor Oscar,’ she crooned, ‘poor old fellow, poor old chap! What’s going to happen to you? Who’s going to l
ook after you?’ Her eyes filled with tears.
‘Mum!’ Rose said, putting out a pair of brown shoes. ‘I’ve told you enough times! Oscar’s coming with us.’
There was that other time. That other leaving.
She was buttoned into her best coat, which was new last winter and still hardly worn. It was maroon, with a flared skirt, and had black fabric-covered buttons and a velvet collar; Mutti had bought her a velvet hat to match. When she’d first tried them on, the coat and the hat, and looked at herself in the mirror, she thought how grown-up she looked, how smart. ‘My little princess,’ said Mutti, standing behind so that both reflections smiled back at her. Mutti picked a stray hair off the velvet collar, and bent to kiss her cheek.
She had grown since then. The coat only just covered her knees. She wore clean white socks, and her lace-up shoes had been polished. It was a trick, dressing her up in her best clothes, making a game of packing her small suitcase. They were all pretending it was a special treat, an outing.
They don’t want me any more. They don’t love me, whatever lies they tell. Mutti can’t be my real mother, or Vati my real father, or they wouldn’t send me away.
Last night – her last night at home, in her own bed – she had cried and cried. She made herself carry on crying long after she could have stopped. I’ll show them, she thought; I’ll show them they can’t do this to me. In the morning she would wake up very early and run away. She would live on her own in a forest, and eat berries and make fires, like people did in stories. She would find a hollow tree to sleep in, make herself a nest of grass and leaves, like a dormouse, and sleep there snug and warm. It would be an adventure.
But she had slept later than she meant to and it was too late to run away. Her eyes felt red and hot, but if Mutti noticed she didn’t say anything. She had made breakfast, coffee and warm rolls, as if it was a perfectly ordinary day. Her eyes looked red too, but she was only pretending. Vati wasn’t even at home to say goodbye.
‘Eat up your breakfast, there’s a good girl,’ said Mutti.
‘I hate them,’ Heidi said aloud, in the bedroom that didn’t look like hers any more.
Chapter Five
Heidigran
Sisters, sisters, there were never such devoted sisters.
Song lyric
‘Zoë! Don’t just lie there! Downstairs is a terrible mess – shift yourself and do something about it!’
‘Did it last night,’ Zoë murmured, eyes closed.
‘No, you didn’t! And get rid of whoever’s dossing on the sofa.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake!’ Sitting up, pushing tousled hair out of her eyes, Zoë glared at her sister. ‘Give it a rest, can’t you? You were a right pain yesterday.’
‘I was a pain—!’ Hilly began, about to broach the subject that was more importantly on her mind than mess. But lunch had to be cooked, and the house made tidy and smoke-free before their parents and grandmother arrived. Arguing would have to wait.
Hilly showered and dressed. When she went downstairs, Zoë, still wearing only the thin T-shirt she slept in, was offering tea to the sofa-sleeper. ‘Here you are, Clyde. You’ve got to go now. Hilly says.’
A blinking, bleary face emerged from under the blanket; a hand crept out for the mug. It was the unappealing square-faced boy, the one who’d been playing Hilly’s piano. His eyes fastened on Zoë’s bare legs, then, with far less pleasure, on Hilly. While Hilly straightened the furniture he sat up, put on his boots, downed the tea and got to his feet, reaching for his leather jacket. ‘Ta. Catch you later.’
‘I hope not,’ Hilly said, in a mood to take exception to any harmless remark.
‘Sorry about my grumpy sister,’ Zoë said. She went with him to the front door.
‘So,’ Hilly said when she returned. ‘Which one are you going out with – Prince Charming there, or the one you were snogging in the kitchen?’
‘Grant, course.’ Zoë started folding the blanket, sulky and defensive. ‘Clyde doesn’t like going home if he can help it, that’s all.’
‘Zoë, they’re awful. All of them. Can’t you see? They’re ignorant, racist yobs. That guitarist, Pete – he’s got a swastika on his jacket!’
‘Oh, don’t make such a stupid fuss! It’s only a badge – lots of people wear them. And who are you calling ignorant?’
‘Only a badge – who are you kidding? Christ, Zoë! And those song lyrics – don’t you realize? How can you go along with it, joining their ghastly group? What are you going to do, perform at National Front rallies?’
‘Don’t be so stuffy! It’s only a bit of fun. They’re only words.’
‘Stop saying only! Only this and only that! There’s no only about it. You’ll get yourself into trouble – please, do yourself a favour—’
‘Get into trouble, will I?’ Zoë stood, hands on hips. ‘What you mean is, you’ll tell Mum and Dad the minute they walk in the door. Good little Hilly with her shining halo, never does anything wrong. You’re just jealous, it’s so obvious! You’re jealous of me.’
‘Oh? And how d’you work that out?’
‘Well!’ Zoë tossed her head, throwing back her hair, with an unspoken invitation: Look at me, then look at yourself. ‘You can’t get a proper boyfriend, only Rubes. I mean, a gay boyfriend—’ Her derisive huff of laughter made Hilly want to slap her face. ‘How weird is that?’
‘Don’t start getting at Reuben! This is nothing to do with him.’
‘No, it’s you I’m getting at. I’ll tell you why you hang around with a queer—’
‘A what?’
‘– it’s because he’s safe, that’s why! You haven’t got the guts to go out with a real bloke. Not that anyone’s likely to fancy you, in your jumble-sale tat, with straggly hair and glasses – you wouldn’t look too bad if you did something with yourself, but you can’t be bothered. And with Rubes for a boyfriend, or nearest thing to one, you don’t have to bother about sex, either.’
Hilly laughed. ‘Setting yourself up as a psychiatrist now, are you?’
‘That’s what it comes down to, isn’t it – that’s why you’re jealous! Because blokes fancy me, good-looking blokes like Grant, and they don’t even look at you.’
‘Zoë, I’m warning you – don’t you ever call Reuben a queer again. And I’m not discussing me and Reuben, or my clothes or hair – I’m worried about you. Can’t you see how they’re affecting you, that lot?’
‘You just want to stop me having a good time!’ Zoë flung back.
‘No. Listen! You called Heidigran a Nazi – don’t you remember, at Dad’s birthday lunch? So it’s bad for Heidigran but OK for your yobby friends, because you happen to fancy Grant?’
‘It doesn’t mean anything!’ Half-heartedly, Zoë arranged the sofa cushions. ‘Don’t go on and on at me – you’re doing my head in.’
‘Doesn’t mean anything? Zoë, you’ve got a brain – for God’s sake use it! Don’t you read the papers? Watch the news?’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’
‘Oh—!’ Hilly raised both hands to her eyes. Where to start? This was going nowhere.
‘I made tea for you as well.’ Zoë, who moments earlier had looked about to flounce out of the room, changed her manner, tilting her head in little-girlish appeal. ‘Are you going to tell Mum and Dad, then?’
Hilly recognized a strong bargaining position when she saw one. Fifteen minutes later Zoë, quiet and submissive, was washing up at the sink and preparing to peel a bowlful of potatoes. Hilly, who had decided to attempt a traditional Sunday lunch in Heidigran’s honour, was consulting Delia Smith about the roasting of pork. Needing to weigh the joint, she opened the fridge door and stepped back with a piercing shriek that startled Zoë as well as herself.
Zoë turned warily from the sink. ‘What?’
‘My cheesecake, that’s what! I don’t believe it! Zoë, I’ll kill you!’
It should have been waiting there, perfectly set, for her to dredge with icing sugar and add
a few artistic touches with lemon slivers before presenting it at the table. Instead she was gazing at one thin slice and a scattering of crumbs.
‘You gave them my cheesecake! I spent ages making that last night – now look at it!’ she ranted. ‘How could you? Don’t you ever stop and think? You really are the limit! Now what are we going to have?’
‘It wasn’t my fault! Grant and Clyde got it out – they’d cut it up before I even noticed. I wouldn’t have let them, honest, only by then it was too late. I’ll go down to Sainsbury’s and buy a new one if you like.’
‘You bet you’ll go to Sainsbury’s,’ Hilly stormed. ‘And get the ingredients for another one. You’ll just about have time to make it.’
‘Make it! I don’t know how!’
‘Delia Smith does.’ Hilly turned to the book’s index. ‘Get a pen, and make a new shopping list.’
‘Look at Oscar,’ Heidigran said. ‘He’s turning his back on us all.’ The grey cat had settled himself in an armchair, on his own cushion. His litter tray was by the back door, food bowls in the kitchen, toys arranged temptingly on the carpet, but he maintained an offended indifference to his new surroundings.
Heidigran, at first, seemed completely herself; far more so than when Hilly had last seen her. That occasion was one Hilly would never forget. She, her mother and grandmother had been shopping in Banbury; Heidigran had slipped away from them in Boots, wandered off, and been discovered nearly two hours later sitting on the floor in Ottakar’s book-shop, reading a picture book aloud to herself. A concerned sales assistant had approached her; Heidigran had been unable to give her address or even her name, and the police had been called. Hilly, searching with her mother, rushing from shop to car park and back again, went through a multiple-choice test of what might have happened. Heidigran could be lured away, mugged or murdered, or she might fall into the canal, or take herself down to the station and get on a train with no idea where she was going.
Sisterland Page 4
