‘Sim guessed?’ Sim, so recently rebranded from Saint to Satan?
‘Yes.’ Maude sat down with the mien of a woman who didn’t expect to get up for some time. ‘I fobbed him off easily enough. He didn’t have your grit.’
‘Never mind Sim. This is about you.’ Orla’s mouth was dry. She didn’t feel qualified to tackle such a problem, but their mutual understanding was both exquisitely nuanced and light as air: only Orla could persuade Maude to open up. ‘Maude, you’re afraid to go out, aren’t you?’
Maude was silent. She stared at her fingers bent crabbily from the middle knuckle.
‘It’s a recognised condition. You can get help. I’ll be involved every step of the way. You’re not unique, you’re not alone. You have me, and we can call on a whole host of resources.’
Still nothing from Maude.
‘We can go as slowly as you like, so long as we make a start. These four walls aren’t big enough to contain the likes of you. Imagine, Maude, how it would be, if you could just walk out of the front door and—’ Orla halted as Maude’s hands balled into fists. ‘I won’t force you into anything. But it’s time you rejoined the messy old human race you’re so fond of.’
More silence. Orla was encouraged by the relaxing of Maude’s fingers. ‘Come on, Maudie. Don’t leave me to do all the work here!’
A wet blob appeared on the scrubbed wood of the table, followed by another. Maude’s head sank lower.
‘Oh Maude, no,’ whispered Orla, bending her head so that it touched Maude’s. ‘I didn’t mean to make you cry. I want to help, that’s all. Maudie, please.’ That whining tone wouldn’t do. She sat up again. ‘Have a little weep. As you’ve told me many times, it helps. But then, Maude, talk to me.’
Still the flossy white head remained resolutely down. Orla crept her hand over, fearful of being brushed away, but when she cupped her fingers over Maude’s she felt the older woman’s resonate at the touch. ‘We’ll just sit here for a bit,’ she said.
Eventually Maude spoke, a mumble quite unlike her usual vocal authority.
‘What was that?’ Orla squinted as she strained to hear.
‘I’m too ashamed to talk about it.’ The words fell out painfully, like stones, each one separate and ugly.
‘Not with me,’ insisted Orla, glad to have some signs of life from the bowed figure. ‘You’ll always be my heroine, whatever happens.’
That did it, kick-started Maude. With a short-tempered snort of derision her head flew up. ‘I’m nobody’s heroine. And you of all people don’t need one.’
Striking while her iron was hot, Orla lobbed a question. ‘When did it start? How long have you been …’ – she hardly knew how to describe it – ‘how long have you been in?’
There was surrender in Maude’s sigh. ‘About thirteen years.’
The gasp forced from Orla was regrettable; Maude flinched. ‘As I said, dear, it’s disgraceful.’
‘How did it start?’ Orla squeezed the hand still prisoner in her own. ‘Just talk, all around it, any direction you want. I’ve got all night.’
‘Marek?’
‘He’s in Oxford, looking at a potential project.’ And Anthea, she thought, is probably sitting in front of an open window, reciting Sim’s journal. The other Orla was powerful, but her powers had limits: Maude was in need. ‘I’m all yours. Where did you go the last time you went out?’ prompted Orla, standing up to put the kettle on.
‘That’s easy. It was a short walk to the cobbler by the tube station. Is he still there? I had a favourite pair of red shoes that needed new heels. I never saw my shoes again, because I closed the front door when I got back and I haven’t been through it since.’
‘What happened between the shoe repair place and home?’ Orla leaned against the cooker, arms folded.
‘Nothing untoward, if that’s what you mean. I remember how sharp and chilly it was, a really fine winter’s day without a hint of damp. It was the last day of nineteen ninety-nine, the dregs of the old century. And as I came up the stairs the phone was ringing.’
Maude looked around, as if realising something.
‘It was ringing in this very room. It stood on that dresser there. Next morning I was up bright and early. I decided to celebrate the millennium by walking all around the neighbourhood I’d chosen for myself two years earlier. A victory lap, if you like. I planned to look in on Sheraz – he’d be open of course – and go as far as the playground, ring in the new century. I put on my coat, and a scarf, and I looked out a hat.’
Maude looked past Orla, miming the donning of these accessories.
‘Gloves. As I walked down the stairs I slowed. Slower, slower until I was creeping along with my hands on the wall, feeling my way. And my breath …’ Maude’s hand flew to her neck. ‘It was stuck somewhere deep inside, as if I’d been bunged up. My mind popped like corn, with no coherent thoughts at all. Foolishly, I remember thinking, when I get outside I’ll be fine, some fresh air will sort me out. I wondered if this was what going insane was like, or was I having a heart attack and a stroke all at once. I put my hand on the latch and all became clear. It was outside that was causing the uproar.’
Swilling the teapot to warm it, Orla was glad of something to do. Silent, she was loath to break the spell of this second tale of Maude’s that had never been heard before.
‘As soon as I retreated and turned around, my breathing evened out and although my heart was still thumping I could gather my thoughts. To test it, I turned again, approached the door – it was just a door, Orla, the same old door in need of a lick of paint that I’d nonchalantly passed through a thousand times – as soon as I turned, my whole self went into revolt. I knew then that even if the house were on fire I’d have walked back up the stairs. Something unnameable and vile waited for me outside.’
Life, thought Orla. She poured two cups of treacly tea and sat back down. ‘What was the phone call about? The night before?’
‘They’re not connected. Please, dear, don’t turn amateur psychologist.’
‘Who was it?’
‘It was my solicitor.’ Maude played with the handle of her cup. ‘He informed me my mother had died that afternoon.’ Maude gave a shallow laugh that sounded like something breaking. ‘Just to reaffirm my non-heroine status, Orla, I must add that I’d refused to visit her while she was mortally ill.’ She looked up suddenly, her expression a mixture of defiance and supplication. ‘How d’you like me now?’
‘I like you,’ said Orla, ‘just as much as I did five minutes ago. And that was better than I like just about anybody else.’ Orla was all softness, all warmth. She had never envisaged a moment when their roles would be so neatly reversed. ‘It’s time you forgave yourself, don’t you think?’
‘I should have visited.’ Maude brushed away Orla’s sympathy with a motion of her hand, as if shooing a fly. ‘It wouldn’t have hurt me to say goodbye, tell her I understood.’
‘But you didn’t understand,’ Orla reminded her, determined to be Maude’s advocate as she’d obviously abandoned her own defence long ago. ‘It would have been false and that’s something you never are. With hindsight you feel differently, but hindsight holds all the cards and we mortals don’t. If you’d behaved differently, I mightn’t be sitting here now. Imagine that. I’d have missed out on my Maudie.’
‘And me my Orla.’Maude hesitated. ‘My Orla-ie,’ she added, the first sparkle in her eye since the start of their conversation.
‘There seems to be an obvious and direct link between that phone call and your attack.’ Was that an appropriate word? wondered Orla. Maude didn’t recoil, so she guessed it would do. ‘However much you want to shy away from that fact. I suppose you don’t want to believe that your mother and your old life still have that much influence over you.’
‘They don’t,’ said Maude. ‘I never looked back once I left.’
‘But she was your mother,’ pressed Orla gently, hating to lead Maude down a path overgrown with brambles and thorn
s but certain that she must. ‘Maybe if you confronted your guilt about—’
‘I am NOT guilty!’ Maude had never spoken so loudly before. True, it didn’t qualify as a shout to somebody brought up in a house where Ma summoning them sweetly to the dinner table sounded like Boadicea’s call to arms, but it shocked Orla.
Backing off, however, was out of the question.
‘You don’t want to be guilty,’ Orla acceded. ‘Some stern, strict part of you insists you did the wrong thing, whereas I think you did the human, fallible thing. And as a wise old woman once told me, we’re all allowed to make mistakes.’
‘She sounds like a silly old coot,’ muttered Maude.
‘Sometimes,’ said Orla darkly, ‘she’s exactly that. But most of the time, she’s, like I said, wise.’
‘And very old.’
‘That too. Although she wears it well.’ Orla sipped her tea. It was, as her father used to say, strong enough to trot a mouse on. She let the silence flower, rewarded for her reticence when Maude spoke.
‘I didn’t just leave it at that, of course. I tried again later that day. When it got dark, I thought, aha! maybe now, but no. If anything the physical symptoms grew worse. More beastly still was the way my mind fell apart. It was a terrible sensation, as if my thoughts were made of jelly and I could feel them melting. Nothing was fixed, nothing was sure.’
Maude’s speech sped up as she relived her terror. It crossed Orla’s mind to stop her but she watched and listened instead, confident of the healing power of full disclosure.
‘The only thing that helped was crawling back upstairs on my hands and knees. By the end of January the first I’d capitulated.’
Suddenly brisker, as if on firmer ground, Maude said, ‘I set about arranging everything so that my new way of life flowed as easily as possible, given the restrictions. Sheraz was happy to deliver; he’s such a gent. I already had a computer and I acquainted myself with the vast array of, well, everything one can order online. I found the numbers of all the businesses I patronise around here and with the help of a fabricated bout of the flu they all agreed to deliver. Once that was in place it was easy to keep the deliveries going. There are advantages to having a head of white hair and liver-spotted hands.’
‘They’re freckles, surely,’ interjected Orla, grateful for Maude’s rejuvenation but suspicious of it too. Maude was styling her descent into solitary confinement as a splendid jape.
‘Holidays are impossible. I’m glad I travelled before. Friendships, well, many fell by the wayside.’ Maude blinked away some memories.
Orla had never wondered why such a gregarious, life-enhancing broad had so few friends. Too busy thinking about your damn self. ‘Is that the real reason you rented out the flat? To get people into the house?’
Maude looked startled. ‘Good God, you’ve hit the nail on the head!’ she squeaked. ‘Well I never. I did that quite behind my own back but you saw through it at once. Bravo,’ she said, with an approving nod. ‘We’ve been sitting here for ages, dear, and my elderly bottom is suffering. May we reconvene another night?’
‘Well …’ Orla was inclined to thrash out the subject in one go. ‘One more thing. What next?’
Maude shrugged, rearranging her clothing, patting her hair. ‘I get by perfectly well. Especially now I have you. And I flatter myself that you might come and see me when you move on.’
‘That goes without saying. But it’s not enough. You should be out there, in the real world, Maude. I want to take you out for tea. I want to feed the ducks with you. I want to share with you the chamber of horrors that is Sheraz’s chilled cabinet.’ Maude’s chuckle emboldened her. ‘May I ask your GP for a home visit and take it from there?’
The chuckle was cut off abruptly. ‘Absolutely not. Are you listening? No.’
‘That Maude only rears her head when this topic comes up.’
‘I know, I know.’ Maude groaned, her face distraught, all its polite perkiness dissolved. ‘You don’t deserve it. You’re trying to help but I’m beyond help.’ She put her hands to her face and when she re-emerged her expression had reasserted itself, like a conjuring trick. ‘The truth is, I’ve made the best of my life. And fate hasn’t abandoned me: it sent me you. If you truly want to help, let me be.’
‘No can do.’ Orla had never said that before, but it fitted the bill.
‘You’re the one we should worry about,’ said Maude as she stood up, knuckles leaning heavily on the table.
‘Me? Why so?’ Maude’s fairy godmother powers could easily stretch to mindreading; Orla readied herself to repel charges of cyberstalking.
‘Because this new relationship with the devilishly handsome Marek is precious and vulnerable. And you look to me like a girl swinging a Ming vase around in a string bag.’
So she didn’t know. Good. ‘I see what you’re doing, sneakypants. This is about you, not me. I won’t force you to do a single thing you don’t want to, Maude, but imagine the roles were reversed for a moment. What would you do?’
Maude gave Orla her best gimlet stare, but relented, threw her hands in the air. ‘You’ve got me there, dear. You’ve got me there.’
‘Maude! Hang on.’ Orla intercepted her at the door and wrapped herself around her as if Orla were a mother and Maude her best beloved child. ‘You mean so much to me,’ she said.
‘I know,’ said Maude.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Orla checked her watch as the students bent their heads over their regular Friday morning assignment. Marek’s plane would be in the air. Their leavetaking outside his house at a blearily early hour had been sweet. He’d held her hands to his lips and kissed them.
The only person who knew of her craving was now out of the country. There were no constraints on her. The anticipated euphoric surge of release didn’t come. Her stomach was full of acid.
‘Abena!’ she admonished, as the girl leaned towards her neighbour.
Abena looked ashamed, resumed sucking her pencil.
Absurd, to rely on a man after so short an acquaintance. Absurd, maybe, but Orla did rely on Marek. He looked so swashbuckling yet came with a John Lewis guarantee: a combination attractive to her. Their physical communication was intense, lusty but respectful with no awkwardness (or nurse’s uniform), and their emotional communication was frank and simple. He allowed her to lag behind slightly and hadn’t re-iterated that he loved her, hadn’t prodded her to catch up.
And so she relied on him, because he invited her to. Everything about him semaphored that he was an honourable, mature man in love.
‘Sanae, silence please.’
Walking up and down the aisles created by the tables, Orla caught the Japanese girl’s eye as she hissed a hurried question out of the side of her mouth. Orla already knew who’d attain a decent mark and who’d fail; Dominika’s body language told her that the girl hadn’t found time for vocab revision during her enthusiastic exploration of London’s Russian club scene.
If Marek was a straight-A student, Orla could only award herself a C. She knew how to overhaul her grades: give up the struggle and let Anthea keep the journal.
This weekend, with no Marek around, would be a test. Orla would mark it with rigour. She’d stay away from the internet. She’d stay away from Beatrice Gardens.
Anything less would be a fail.
Disengaging herself from Skype, wondering at Juno’s refusal to pick up, Orla heard the heavy uneven tread of the doctor descending the stairs.
‘So?’ she said expectantly, stepping out into the hall and wrapping her cardigan around herself, pulling the sleeves over her fingers in a gesture from childhood. ‘How did you find her?’
‘Mrs Roxby-Littleton is in excellent shape.’ He didn’t break step, forcing Orla to trail him down the last flight to the front door. ‘Hope I’m as good when I’m her age.’
Orla had always considered that phrase to be patronising, particularly so in this doctor’s case. Carrying three extra stone and with a fruity boozer�
��s nose he wasn’t as good as Maude at his age. ‘You talked about her agoraphobia?’
‘Obviously, as that’s why you dragged me out of the surgery on a freezing Friday evening.’ This doctor had evidently missed the Bedside Manner tutorials. ‘I’ve left her the leaflets. Tricky business, agoraphobia, although I have some experience with it. I’d suggest exposure therapy, seen some marvellous results, but this all has to come from her. I’ll gladly refer her to a psychiatrist, try and get to the root of it. But …’
‘Right. It has to come from her.’ Orla nodded. She’d feared this. It wouldn’t come from Maude; since that long chat on Wednesday night Maude had avoided mention of her problem, not even answering when Orla told her she’d made an appointment with her GP.
‘I’ll leave this with you.’ The doctor pressed a folded piece of paper into Orla’s hand as he wrestled with the door, wheezing. ‘It’s a prescription for anti-depressants. Mild ones,’ he added, as Orla’s eyes grew huge with alarm. ‘SSRIs.’
‘Is she depressed?’ Orla wished she’d phrased it differently: a more adamant She’s not depressed.
‘It takes many forms.’ The doctor stood back as Orla took charge of the door and freed him.
‘What’s an SSRI?’
‘Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors,’ recited the doctor, raising his voice against the efforts of the noisy street. ‘Look ’em up. Oh, and try and persuade her to try exposure therapy. She won’t be dancing up and down the high street any time soon but there’s no reason she can’t take the first steps. She’ll need a stout ally in all of this.’ Without a goodbye, he turned away and trudged towards the crossing.
‘Thank you,’ Orla called after him, her gratitude lost in the thrum of cars and buses and hurrying feet. She closed the door and leaned against it. Talk of anti-depressants scared her: the little blue capsules Ma had taken after Da’s death made a cardi-wearing zombie of her.
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