by Pat Young
‘So you don’t think we need tell Sebastien to hurry back to see Mamie?’
‘It’s entirely up to you, of course, and your son, but based on how she is tonight, I see no need for alarm. Elderly people fall over and break hips all the time.’
‘Okay,’ says Eric, ‘thanks for your advice and your care. We’ll leave Sebastien where he is in the meantime and we’ll see you tomorrow.’
As they walk back to the car, Catherine says, ‘I hope we’re doing the right thing. You know how much Sebastien adores his grandmother. He’ll never forgive us if anything happens to her and we don’t tell him.’
‘You heard what the nurse said.’
‘I know I did, and I believe her. But I’m calling the campsite in the morning. Sebastien can decide for himself.’
39
Scotland
Monday 25 June
I always wake up before Thomas and the stupid Fat Controller now. Every morning. I open my eyes and remember. It feels like somebody kicks me hard in the belly every single time.
I used to sleep right up till Thomas whistled. Sometimes, if I was really tired, I didn’t even hear the whistle and Mum would come in and sit on my bed. She’d stroke my hair or my cheek and say, ‘Wake up, sleepyhead.’ She always sounded in a good mood, as if she was really happy to see me. I think she used to hope, every single morning, that I would speak. There’s a song called “This is the day”. The other kids used to sing it at Sunday school, before Mum stopped taking me. I liked it because it was one with clapping in it, so I could join in. Mum used to sing it to me some mornings before I got up, but she’d change the words. ‘This is the day when Charlie will speak, this is the day CLAP! this is the day CLAP!’ Then she stopped. Can’t remember exactly when but I think maybe one of the doctors told her it wasn’t helping. Can’t remember when she gave up trying to find ways to help me. Now they’ve just got used to having a boy who doesn’t talk. Like it’s normal.
One person still believes I can talk. Natalie. She’s up to something. I can tell. Every time she sees me she asks me questions, just little ones that need a yes or a no. It’s like she’s playing that game with me where you try to trick the other person into shouting ‘Yes!’ or ‘No!’ Except this isn’t a game. It never was, but now, just when I thought I could talk, when I was getting ready to try, things got much so much more serious.
The door opens and Mum rushes in.
‘Come on, Charlie. Get up.’ She doesn’t sit on my bed. Just blasts about the room picking things up and putting things away. She picks up my clothes from yesterday.
‘Oh yes, that’s right,’ she says, as if she’s talking to herself, not me. ‘Have you seen those new blue shorts? And the shirt that goes with them?’
Shake my head. The shirt’s under the mattress now. Didn’t know where else to put it. I stay in bed so Mum can’t look for it. She doesn’t know it’s there, but I’m still scared she’ll find it.
‘Well, clothes don’t just disappear, do they?’ Why does she talk in that snippy way all the time? ‘There’s something else I’ve been meaning to ask you.’
I stick my head up, like the meerkats on the telly, and try to look really interested.
‘Where’s the throw that’s supposed to be on the end of your bed?’
I make a puzzled face, as if I’m trying to remember what she’s talking about.
‘The red fleece one?’ She touches the end of my bed. ‘It’s supposed to lie across here, to dress the bed, like those cushions you always throw into the corner.’
Dressing a bed, what a stupid idea.
She points at two fat cushions, one red with white dots and the other bright blue stripy. They’re lying in the corner, where I throw them every night. How am I supposed to get into my bed if I don’t? I hate cushions. Why can’t Mum see that?
‘These things cost money, Charlie.’
Oh no, not the money lecture again. I throw back the duvet and jump out of bed. It works. She stops talking. Good, she’ll go away now.
‘What’s that mark on your side?’ She comes over and lifts up my jammy jacket. I push it down again and step away from her. I clasp both hands over my private parts, like I used to do to show I needed the toilet.
‘Do you need the toilet?’ she says, as if I’m five years old again.
Nod and head for the door.
I close the bathroom door and lock it behind me. That was close. I thought she was going to examine me. I pull the jammy top over my head – another thing that annoys Mum. I’m supposed to undo the buttons. Dad gets a row for it too. There’s a great big shiny mirror all along one wall above the basin.
The bruises are fading, but not very fast. The one Mum spotted must have been from a hard kick. It’s still a bit purply with yellow bits round about. What if she asks to see it? I’ll pretend I’m in the shower and stay here till she goes downstairs. Then we’ll be in a rush to get to school and maybe she’ll forget.
I turn on the shower and duck out again fast before I get soaked. Let it run and stand by the door, waiting.
Mum thumps on the door, right by my ear and I nearly pee my jammies.
‘Charlie! A shower? Seriously? We don’t have time. Charlie? Do you hear me?’
She bangs again but this time I’ve got my hands over my ears.
‘Charlie! Oh, for God’s sake.’
She’s on the stairs, clattering down. Even her feet sound cross with me.
Listen for the kitchen door. Expect it to bang. When it does I turn off the water and sneak back to my room. Get dressed double-quick, tucking my polo right into my school trousers so Mum can’t yank it out and inspect my bruises. Thought about putting some of her make-up on them as a disguise, but what if she came in and found me? Using her posh stuff that costs a fortune. Her skin reacts to anything but Chanel, I heard her telling Joyce one day. Joyce sniffed, that way she does and said, ‘I could put chip-pan oil on my face and it would think it was getting a treat.’
If Joyce cleans my room today she might find the shirt. Can’t leave it there, even though it’s a good place for hiding stuff. People even keep money under their mattress. Heard Dad saying that. ‘Interest rates are so crap, we might as well stick our savings under the mattress.’
Mum said, ‘What savings? We don’t have any, remember?’
Think Dad was joking but Mum’s sense of humour has kind of disappeared. She’ll be up here looking for me in a minute, on the warpath. I stick my hand under the mattress and feel around for the shirt. Can’t find it.
‘Charlie! If you’re not down here in ten seconds…Ten! Nine!’
I don’t know what to do. She sounds so angry. Has she found the shirt?
‘Eight! Seven!’
40
France
Catherine steps through the bower of honeysuckle around Mamie’s garden gate and pauses to inhale. The sweet aroma seems to hang in the air, like a mist of cologne. Avoiding the bees, already hard at work, their buzzing loud against the morning quiet, she bends to run her hand over a tall clump of lavender. The plant obliges her with a blast of the intense fragrance that Mamie loves so much. She’s going to have a bumper crop this summer, plenty to keep the linen fresh over the winter. Soon it will be time for her to gather the flower heads and pack them into tiny muslin bags, capturing their summer scent. Catherine has always liked the old-fashioned way her mother-in-law places the embroidered sachets amongst the sheets and pillows in her linen cupboard. Sebastien says the smell of lavender reminds him of sleeping at Mamie’s and claims he sleeps better there than at home in his own bed.
How on earth must he be sleeping these days, living amongst strangers in some kind of dormitory? Best not to think about it.
Catherine opens the front door and lets herself into the dark hall. She turns to lock the door, knowing Mamie never does, but Catherine’s city-girl habits die hard.
‘Eric? I’m back, honey. Put the kettle on, will you?’
Eric was supposed to be getting t
he rest of breakfast organised while she fetched the bread but he’s nowhere to be seen. She goes to the foot of the stairs and calls again. Shrugging, she heads back into the kitchen, places the baguette on the table and turns to fill the kettle.
With the table set and the coffee brewing, she goes to the door and steps into the garden. ‘Eric, can you fetch me down a jar of jam, please? I’m not climbing on any stools.’
She hears his footsteps on the gravel and waits for him to come along the path laughing, but when he appears his face is white and drawn.
‘What’s wrong? Has something happened?’
He holds his phone towards her, as if that answers her question. ‘Please. Not Sebastien!’
He looks at her, his eyes full of sorrow and shakes his head.
‘Mamie?’
Eric doesn’t have to answer. She goes to him and takes him by the arm.
‘Come inside and sit down, sweetheart. Tell me.’
‘We should have stayed, Catherine. Been with her.’ He hides his face in his hands and says something, his words muffled.
‘Did they get her priest?’
‘Not in time, apparently.’
‘Does Paul know?’
‘It was Paul who rang me. Hospital called him ten minutes ago.’
‘Does he know what happened?’
‘No. Don’t think the doctors even know what happened. She just died.’
‘In her sleep? Surely that’s the way most people would wish to go. I would.’
‘Without saying goodbye to any of us?’
Catherine wonders for a moment which would be worse: knowing you’re breathing your last but seeing beloved faces around your bed or just slipping away peacefully, knowing nothing.
‘Oh, I don’t know, Eric. I’m just so, so sorry.’ She goes to his side and pats his back, wishing he’d stand for a hug, or even raise his face so she can kiss his forehead. Show him she shares his sorrow. She loved Mamie and Sebastien adored her. Sebastien. He needs to know.
‘What do you want to do? Should we go to the hospital?’
‘Not much point.’
‘Is Paul there now?’ She hesitates, knowing it might hurt him, then asks, ‘Was Paul with her?’
‘Nobody was with her. Didn’t you hear me? I told you, she was all alone.’
‘But she wouldn’t know, Eric. She was heavily sedated, her pain under control. The nurse said so.’
‘Why didn’t we stay, Catherine? Why did we leave her?’
She starts to remind him about the nurse’s advice to go home and get a good night’s sleep then changes her mind. That won’t help. Eric is a man who likes to do the right thing. He also hates making a mistake and he’ll consider this a big one, even though they were simply following professional advice.
‘No one knew by the sound of things.’
‘They’re supposed to know. That’s their job. How could that stupid nurse send us home, when my mother was knocking at death’s door? More importantly, why didn’t they get my mother a priest, any priest?’
‘Eric, the last thing you need to worry about is your mother’s immortal soul. I don’t think I’ve ever met a more devout and truly good human being. I can’t imagine she’d have any sins unconfessed, can you?’
‘That’s not the point. She would have wanted a priest there, and her family, of course. Instead we’re wasting time in her kitchen worrying about getting jam off the shelf.’
Catherine knows anger is a common reaction to the death of a loved one. She also knows there is little she can do to ease Eric’s pain, or the guilt he’s feeling at the moment. This will all pass, in time. She places her lips gently on the top of his head and whispers, ‘Sorry, darling. I’ll go and tell Sebastien what’s happened. He’ll be so upset. I wish he wasn’t so far away.’
‘Well, he’ll have to come home now. You’ll get your wish.’
There’s no point in talking to him. He doesn’t mean to be unkind, she understands that. Give him ten minutes and he’ll be looking for her, keen to apologise for his harsh tone.
Catherine closes the kitchen door quietly behind her and selects Brackenbrae from her list of contacts.
‘Brackenbrae Holiday Park. May I wish you a very good morning, Pim speaking.’
As if she can’t work that out for herself. ‘Good morning. This is Catherine Lamar, Sebastien’s mother. Sorry to bother you.’
‘Nothing is a bother, Mrs Lamar, let me assure you. Would you wish to speak to Seb this morning?’
She bites back the reply that it might have been nice to speak to him on the last two occasions she’s called, but what’s the point, under the circumstances. ‘Yes, please, I have some important news to share so this time it really is imperative that I speak to him. Can you help me with that, Pim?’ Using his name might establish some sort of connection with this rather formal young man. Or it may have the opposite effect.
‘I shall certainly do what I can for you, Mrs Lamar. Now, let me see. Seb should be in the playbarn, but he sometimes runs a little late. Oh hang on a moment, please. We are in luck.’
Catherine hears a clunk and assumes Pim has laid down the receiver. She waits, hears his voice calling, ‘Seb! Seb, your mother’s on the phone.’
There’s a pause in which Catherine hears nothing then, ‘Can you come and take her call, please?’
Why would Sebastien hesitate to come and speak to her?
‘She has some important news to share.’
She hears a muttered, ‘Fine,’ and holds her breath.
‘Here he is, Mrs Lamar. Have a pleasant day. There you go, Seb.’
‘Sebastien?’
No answer. Is he still so angry he won’t speak to her?
‘Sebastien, how are you?’
He clears his throat. ‘Okay.’
She waits for more then decides to push on. ‘Well, my darling, I don’t quite know how to tell you this, but I have some sad news for you. I’m afraid Mamie’s died.’
A quiet, ‘Oh.’ Nothing else.
‘We don’t know yet what happened. She fell off a stool trying to reach a pot of jam, you know what she’s like.’
Catherine expects him to say something and gives a small embarrassed laugh when he doesn’t.
‘Anyway, she lay all night till little Josiane, you know Josiane?’
‘Yeah.’
His voice sounds gruff, with emotion no doubt. This must be awful for him to get such news over the phone. She longs to put her arms around him, to comfort her sad boy a little.
‘Well, Josiane found her. Seems Mamie had lain there all night. Isn’t that horrendous?’
He doesn’t respond. She pictures him truggling to hold back tears, not wanting to cry in front of Pim.
‘Dad and I rushed down to Carcassonne when we heard and went straight to the hospital, you know, that big new one they’ve built? She seemed fine. Settled for the night, sedated or medicated or whatever you call it when they attach people to one of those drip things. Anyway, the nurse was adamant she was in no pain and that we should go away and get a decent night’s sleep ourselves. It had been a long and stressful day, so we went back to Mamie’s. I thought of you when I smelled the lavender on the pillow. Remember how you always loved that smell?’
A grunt. Nothing more. Oh, her poor, poor boy.
‘Sorry, son, I’m not making this very easy. Dad is being very hard on himself for leaving her bedside, but what were we to do when the nurse insisted Mamie would be alright? We were encouraged to believe she might have an operation today to fix her broken hip. At least poor Mamie won’t have to go through all of that.’ She’s babbling but it’s hard to keep up a one-sided conversation. Why doesn’t he say anything? Because he’s trying to come to terms with the devastating news she’s just delivered on this lovely summer’s morning.
‘What’s the weather like in Scotland?’
A quiet spluttering sound, like a sob, is all that comes by way of a response. It was a ridiculous thing to ask, of course
. She should speak of practical things. Men are better at dealing with the practical than the emotional.
‘Will you sort out your own way back? Best to come straight here, I think. Dad says there’s a direct link from Scotland to Carcassonne, but not every day. Maybe you’d be best to fly to London first? I really don’t know.’ She runs out of words as the reality of the situation hits her. Here’s her son, far away from home, being told he’ll never see his beloved grandmother again and she’s wittering on about flights without offering a single word of comfort to him.
‘Sebastien, my darling, I am so, so sorry. I can’t imagine how much it must hurt you to hear this news when you’re so far from home. I wish I could hug you.’
Her words dry up as her tears start to flow.
‘Sorry, son, will you be alright?’
‘Yeah.’ So gruff, so full of pain. She ought not to prolong this. Much though she hates to let him go, she must allow him to go off on his own and cry his eyes out, somewhere private.
‘That’s good. Take care of yourself and we’ll see you soon. Love you, darling.’
A loud sniff. Poor thing.
‘Bye, darling boy.’
41
Scotland
Now what’s he supposed to do?
He bangs his hand on the counter and turns to Pim. ‘Fuck!’
‘The news is very bad?’
‘Mate, you have no idea. It could hardly be any worse.’
Pim crosses the office and gives him a pat on the shoulder, looking embarrassed. ‘I am very sorry. I assure you I was not ear-dropping on your conversation with your mother, but I can tell you are upset.’
‘Upset doesn’t cover it.’
‘Is it something you would like to speak about, perhaps? A trouble shared with a friend is a trouble divided into two equal parts. Isn’t that what you say?’
‘What? Yeah, something like that. Hey, listen, Pim, I’d be grateful if you don’t mention this phone call to anyone. It’s kinda private, you know? My mum wouldn’t like the idea of people she’s never met talking about our family.’
