The Exit

by Helen FitzGerald

  Rose looked at the wicker basket, filled with clothes, which was shoved halfway in the washing-machine door. ‘That is strange. Did I do that?’

  ‘Who else would have? And last night when you were going to the travel agency, do you know what time it was? It was 2 a.m. Mr Buckland says you’ve been going out at night a lot, and leaving your front door open.’ Natalie patted the manuscript. ‘You’re an amazing writer, but this doesn’t read like you at all, so we have to find out what’s up, because something is. I want to take you to the doctor.’

  *

  They went the following morning.

  She knew what year it was. She knew the prime minister’s name. She knew her husband was dead. She knew her eldest, Jane, was in London, and that Jane’s only boy, Chris, lived just up the road in Gartmore. She knew her youngest, Elena, was in Canada with her partner, Mary. She knew her mews house was in Kelvindale. Ah, her glorious little house, bought with the advance from books five and six, tucked away in a cobblestoned West End lane, plants and flowers filling the tiny sun-trap of a courtyard. From the huge oak kitchen table, Rose could see into thirteen tenement windows, people eating and talking, coming and going; doing. Nothing pleased her more than people watching. She wrote almost all her books at that table. How she loved her house. She could never forget it. Yes, Doctor, it was in Kelvindale.

  But counting down in sevens from 100 became tricky at 87, no 86, bugger it. And the lines she drew on the blank clock-face were obviously all wrong when Dr Matthews pointed it out afterwards. She felt foolish and small.

  Rose couldn’t stop crying in the car. She could hardly hear Natalie, who was asking her something. ‘What? I’m sorry.’

  ‘Your grandson’s still not answering. Do you have any other family here? I don’t want you to be alone right now.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Friends?’

  ‘Barbara died last year. Stroke. Pamela five years ago, skin cancer. I never thought of myself as all alone, but there you go.’

  ‘You’re not.’ Natalie put her hand on Rose’s knee and let it rest there, which should have felt uncomfortably intimate, but didn’t, and the next thing Rose knew they had parked in a suburban driveway. ‘I’ll make the tea this time, long as you promise not to tell my boss: crossing boundaries and all that bollocks.’

  ‘I promise. But I’ll forget I promised.’

  Natalie laughed. ‘I’ll take my chances.’

  *

  After Natalie dropped Rose home later that night, she sat at her kitchen table and did something she hadn’t done since she was seventeen. She drew reality, so she would remember it. She started doing this when she was ten, after Margie died, and stopped when she met Vernon. In each of the hundreds of pictures she drew – of Margie picking strawberries, Margie skipping to the sheds, Margie playing jacks and eating ice cream and hugging her doll – Rose included a pair of green wellies, often hidden somewhere in the background. The wellies were a kind of code. If they were in the picture, it meant Rose had actually been in the scene with her little sister, that she had witnessed it, in real life. At her kitchen table, she now drew Natalie’s four boys eating dinner: Nathan, fifteen, Fraser, eleven, Leo, nine and Joey, three. She drew Natalie’s surprisingly serious and suited husband, she drew pasta and salad and bread and wine. She drew her new friend; the warm-hearted Natalie. And in the corner of the kitchen, a pair of green wellies. If she looked at this picture at a later date, she’d remember that she knew this place, these people. The wellies were proof that she had been there.

  Rose put the drawing in the chest with her childhood pictures of Margie. They’d never been published. Rose hadn’t even shown them to Vernon. She sighed as she shut the lid.

  Rose gave up on sleep after an hour or so, turned on the computer, and Googled the disease. ‘It’s like living in a maze,’ someone wrote, ‘and the exit is death.’ Everything she read online was equally cheerful. She made a vow to look no further, and began to rewrite her shambolic attempt at a children’s book.

  *

  For the next twelve months, Natalie worked hard to keep Rose at home. Alarms were fitted on windows and doors, meals were delivered each day at four. Action plans were written up, review meetings planned. Rainbows of pills were placed into pots. Notes appeared wherever she looked: Have you turned this off? Make sure you shut this. Your kettle is gone – the home help will bring tea. Activities were planned, and abandoned. ‘I will not get in that van! Won’t sit in that circle! Where is Natalie? Get Natalie.’

  Natalie did things she wasn’t supposed to do, and she didn’t hide this fact from Rose. She advised her to start withdrawing money from her account, and when Rose understood and agreed, she suggested places she could hide it. ‘You might need this money, Rose, for clothes or music or books or something,’ Natalie said as they sealed envelopes containing £1,000 each and slid them inside the covers of Tilly books. ‘Keep it safe. If you move somewhere else, take these books with you and hide the envelopes somewhere in your room.’

  Eventually, there was a review meeting in the Partick Social Work office. Rose’s daughter Jane came all the way from London to attend, spending half her time yelling ‘sell’ to someone on her mobile phone and the other half complaining about the incompetence of social workers and the outright failure of ‘care in the community’. Her grandson, Chris, was also present, as well as Natalie, and Natalie’s cocky young male boss, and a woman who took notes, and a man who also took notes. It was decided that Rose’s beautiful mews home would be sold in order to buy her some time in a home.

  Natalie cooked Rose a special meal after that meeting, and the boys each gave her a present (pencils, pens, a sketch pad, two dozen stamped envelopes with Natalie’s name and address written on them). Later, back in her own house, Rose gave Natalie a present: the chest full of childhood drawings, and the ones she’d drawn this last year. She explained about the wellie boots in each picture. ‘You can throw them out if you want, they’re not worth anything, just diaries really.’

  ‘I won’t ever throw them out,’ Natalie said. ‘And I’ll visit you. I’ll visit you too much.’

  *

  It was Chris who suggested Dear Green Care Home as it was very pretty, not too far from his house, and had excellent inspection reports. He drove her there on a sunny Saturday. ‘Look at that gorgeous building! All rooms are en suite and yours has a view of the rose garden. Isn’t that perfect, a rose garden for Rose?’

  It certainly was beautiful. Like a castle, giving her princess-vibes. ‘We should stay an extra night and go for dinner at the old Ginn House!’ She could imagine staying here two nights, no more. While Rose loved nature, it was hustle and bustle she enjoyed most, and there was none of that here, just gardens, fields, a river. If she couldn’t watch people, like she did from the kitchen table of her mews house, like she did when she sauntered around the West End of Glasgow, ambling through unknown routes, chatting to shop owners and dog walkers as she did, she’d probably shrivel up and die.

  ‘It’s a care home, Gran. There are people here who’ll cook for you.’

  ‘Ah . . .’ She’d noticed the ramp leading to the front door and an ambulance parked beside it. A trolley was being wheeled out the wide front door with a sheet-covered body on it. She remembered where she was. There’d be no more weekend breaks for Rose, no more heading off to the airport with a small backpack filled with one change of clothes and drawing materials, no more dinners at fabulous restaurants by herself. She loved eating out by herself. This Rose was gone, this Rose had reached the exit to the maze.

  *

  It was group activity time at Dear Green and Marcus, a wannabe novelist himself, had brought in a local author especially for Rose. H. R. Davids, writer of detective fiction. Rose didn’t like women who made themselves genderless (no, male) to sell more. She didn’t want to call her ‘H’ or ‘HR’. What the fuck was her name?

  Yes, eighty-two-year-olds swear. They also eat, and drink, and shit. They
like some people, hate others, and have thoughts that might be described as conflicting and/or bad.

  She was having bad thoughts now – composing a one-star review in her head that she could post on Amazon later. ‘H. R. Davids will appeal to those whose thoughts cannot be provoked.’ (Yes, eighty-two-year-olds know how to use computers.)

  ‘So you were an author?’ H. R. Davids had a patronising smile that Rose wanted to punch.

  She decided to call the boring bitch Henrietta Ruth. ‘No, Henrietta Ruth, I am an author, and an illustrator. Children’s books.’

  Henrietta Ruth obviously decided to let the doddery old fool’s name-mistake go. A pitying frown, like a pat on the head, travelled from her thin lips over to Rose’s armchair.

  There were four others in the group activity room. Henrietta Ruth read for twenty minutes, each second duller than the last. A baddy. A body. A detective inspector with a dark past, blah, blah, blah.

  ‘Well!’ Marcus clapped when the reading finally came to an end. ‘Incredible! Would anyone like to ask our bestselling author a question?’

  Rose looked at the four other residents in the room. There was Jim, a sixty-eight-year-old ex-rock guitarist with gorgeous long hair and good legs, which Rose fancied touching. Jim wasn’t old or frail enough to be here, and it had always seemed odd to Rose that he was. He did not appear to have a burning question. He was sitting in his chair, tapping away at his mobile phone. There was Nancy, catatonic. Beside her was her loyal husband, Gavin, who’d moved in when she did, even though there was nothing wrong with him at all (apart from an increasingly debilitating depression caused by being imprisoned in here with a wife who’d said nothing for four years). He shook his head. His questions were too big for an author of detective fiction. And there was Emma, too busy singing to ask anything – one line, on repeat – bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond; bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond; bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond. Her dementia was a kind one, though her incessant singing drove everyone else nuts, including Henrietta Ruth, who’d had to read on as the line replayed.

  *

  AGE 10

  Rose put up her hand. ‘Yes, sir, I want to know why you won’t get the doctor for my sister. I can’t understand it at all.’

  ‘We don’t need to get the doctor, Rose,’ the farmer said.

  ‘I realise you may not know much about asthma, but please listen to me, because I do.’

  ‘Let’s get you back to your room. Let’s not get anxious. There’s nothing to worry about.’ The farmer held out his hands to haul Rose from the armchair. ‘Shh, there we go. We’ll go find Catherine. Remember Catherine?’

  ‘But Margie could die!’

  *

  Margie was seven years old, with soft yellow hair and deep brown eyes. She was soft and pudgy and still inclined to choose happiness. They’d been there a month. Four weeks since their mum had waved them off at King’s Cross Station to be taken to the country because bombs don’t get dropped there. Rose and Margie had never been on a train, and had never been to the countryside. Their mother had kissed them matter-of-factly at the station in order to reassure them, she supposed, that this was nothing major. As soon as they got in the carriage, her mother turned and left. Maybe she cried as she walked away. She’d be alone in London now. Alone in the one bedroom tenement they called home. Rose watched until she disappeared. Bye, Mum.

  The train was a fast, rattling machine, cram-packed with children of all ages, many of them sobbing. Rose hugged Margie, who held her precious doll, Violet, into her chest the entire trip, stroked her hair, refused to cry because she was the grown-up now. She was in charge.

  ‘Are we going to be okay Ro-Ro?’ Margie had always called her Ro-Ro; she was the only person who did, and the only person Rose would ever allow.

  ‘We’re going to be perfect, angel.’

  The farmer picked them up at the town hall in Penrith. He was a crooked man, leant to the left as he walked. Perhaps the crookedness had made him unhappy, or was it the other way round? As several men in raggedy, dirty country clothes entered the hall to claim their prizes, Rose prayed he would not be their farmer. Her hand squeezed Margie’s too tightly as he walked towards them with his squinty back, his limping legs, his tight, mean eyes. He gestured with a hand – come now. They followed him, walking two miles in the rain until they reached their new home. During the train journey, Rose had imagined a grand country house with hedges and a rose garden. She’d dreamt of pretty lambs to feed and love, of cats and dogs and happy chubby farmy-type people. When they finally reached the small boggy ramshackle residence, Rose had to work very hard to hide her disappointment. There were no happy people here. The miserable monosyllabic farmer, his bedridden wife, and four other city children who had taken the farmer’s lead and turned miserable and mute.

  Once there, the farmer set about making them safe: make your bed, clean the floor, milk the cows, be quiet, you brazen hussies – whatever that meant – stir the soup, clean the kitchen, squeeze, squirt, cows, squirt, I said be quiet!

  *

  ‘Now, Rose,’ the farmer said once she was back in her room, ‘calm down, nice and quiet, there are no cows here. Catherine will put on your favourite tune.’

  The music came from a very small machine on the bedside table.

  ‘Imagination.’ Yes, this was her favourite tune! Every night since they arrived here, Margie would say, ‘Sing it, Ro-Ro; sing me the song.’ Margie would drift off to her big sister’s voice, imagining they were at home, and that everything was as it should be. But that machine was so small!

  ‘And now I want you to sit at the desk and spend some time going through your special things. Take your time, look at each object and talk to Catherine about them.’

  Rose sat at her desk as the farmer ordered and reminded herself that she had to play ball in order to do what she was going to do. She rolled her eyes at Margie (not Catherine!), and then pretended to study the ‘special’ things on her desk. Photos of the faces of strangers. A bad drawing. Some children’s books. Coloured pencils, lead writing pencils, a huge pile of the crispest whitest paper she’d ever seen. These things were not special to her. They weren’t even hers. But she had to play ball, so she lifted the light orange pencil and began to draw.

  *

  AGE 82

  She wasn’t always aware of the transitions, but when Natalie used to visit she told her she drifted back to ten quite often. She wasn’t drifting anywhere now, everything was clear. Coloured pencils. She had to draw!

  Drawing was the only way now because they had taken everything else since Beatrice died. She wasn’t allowed to leave the premises. Her mobile phone had been confiscated. The phone in the office: out of bounds. Letter writing? Not permitted. (They even took the latest stash of stamped addressed envelopes Natalie had given her.) No visitors either, except Chris. She was not allowed to do anything but draw Tilly stories. All for her own good, of course. ‘You nearly drowned last time you went for a walk,’ Chris had told her. ‘We can’t waste police time again,’ Marcus had told her. ‘You get special treatment here, you know,’ Chris had told her. ‘I protect you, I keep you safe!’

  She had to get it down, now, before the lucid up and left. This girl was fresh and shiny new. Forget drawing, Rose should just tell the girl. Perhaps she’d believe her. The police didn’t, Chris didn’t, her daughters didn’t, even Natalie didn’t. Please, please, little girl, I’m not crazy right now, listen to me, please. Believe me.

  Chapter Three

  This old bird scared me with her incongruous clothes – jeans and Doc Marten boots, baggy tie-die T-shirt, short hair dyed blackcurrant. An eighty-two-year-old punk, and mad as a hatter.

  She turned her attention away from the ‘precious things’ on her desk and towards me. ‘If you promise to keep a secret I’ll tell you something.’

  ‘Um, okay.’

  ‘You promise?’

  I offered the old lady a pinky, but she didn’t understand, so I withdr
ew it. ‘I promise.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I promise I won’t tell.’

  ‘Won’t tell what?’

  Ha! She’d already forgotten. I’d never known anyone really sick, or anyone really old. This sick old woman was as unknown and as ugly to me as a ferret. That’s what this woman looked like! A ferret. All skinny and bony and yellow-white and crinkly and she might totally dig her teeth into my neck.

  ‘You two getting on okay?’ A nurse appeared at the door. Her badge said Nurse Gabriella. She had pointy tits, a grey bob and bright red lipstick.

  Rose looked terrified when she spotted her. ‘You not heard of knocking? Get out of my room.’

  Gabriella smiled at me. ‘Don’t worry. She just gets a little mixed up.’

  As the nurse left, Rose turned to me: ‘How do you know her?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘And the others? Are you friends with the others?’

  ‘What others?’

  ‘Out there, the others out there.’ She pointed to her door. I assumed she meant everyone in the care home.

  ‘No. I met Marcus yesterday, everyone else today. I’m new.’

  ‘So you won’t tell them what I’m about to say? You won’t tell anyone till I decide what we should do?’

  ‘Not a word.’

  ‘Who do you love?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Who do you love most in the world?’

  ‘Um, my mum.’

  ‘You swear on your mother’s life?’

  I crossed my heart, said: ‘Hope to die.’

  ‘Don’t hope to die.’

  ‘Okay, but I do promise, I won’t tell anyone.’

  The ferret lady leant in towards my neck, and whispered: ‘Something very bad is going on in this place.’

  I took a step back. From the ferocious-ferret look on her face, I feared she’d be sucking blood from my neck any second.