And Beth. All those young people today had disturbed Alice – they all seemed to be in such control of their own lives. They were independent, sure of themselves, self-sufficient – or, at least, that’s how they appeared on the surface, and Alice suspected that enough of it was true to be real. It was time she apologized to her daughter for holding on too tight, for making hoops of steel out of bonds of love. Mothers and daughters needed ties that would give a little, would bend and stretch with generosity, not break and unravel at the first tugs of defiance and misunderstanding. She should not have pulled those ties so tight. She had been wrong.
She settled herself once more at Beth’s desk, the curtains closed, radiator on low. James had made sure she’d locked the doors and the downstairs windows, had set the alarm himself on his way out. The hug he’d given his mother had been brief, distracted, and had made Alice’s heart sore. But there was nothing she could do for him, nothing except shield him for as long as possible from what was happening to her right now. She’d have to be very careful with what she wrote, too. There was a line between loving concern and interference, and she wasn’t sure she’d always got it right in the past. She didn’t want to cross it now: all she wanted to leave to her children was her unconditional love. She could only hope that they would understand, as she herself had finally done after a long and difficult lifetime, that everyone has choices.
She made an attempt to tidy a space for herself at Beth’s desk. As usual, there were photographs strewn all around her. She was getting close to the end of them, though, little by little. She pulled her writing paper towards her, and unscrewed the top of her fountain pen. She would write until she felt too tired to go on. She might as well; she was hardly sleeping at all, these nights.
And if this morning’s fall was any indication of how things were going to be, she no longer had even a minute to waste. Although the last several weeks had passed slowly, sometimes painfully so, she could feel her own internal clock speeding up. Time was now clutching at her ankles in the same way as the cold water on Laytown beach over seventy years before.
*
Surely, sleep would come now. Alice had kept writing until well after midnight, inviting exhaustion. She had kept going until her mind had felt stiff, like her fingers. Even her eyes had refused to cooperate, changing her words into blurry, spidery strokes on the blue page, making them swim away from her, into the cloudy distance. She sealed the last envelope and spread her letters out on the desk in front of her. She made two little bundles out of them, one for Beth, one for James, making sure that each envelope was clearly marked. Then she rummaged in her sewing basket, kept on the bottom shelf of her daughter’s wardrobe, and pulled out a length of red ribbon. She used to use this to decorate Christmas cakes; now it had a more lasting purpose. At the last minute, she pulled one envelope from the bottom of the first pile, and put it to one side. Then she tied the ribbon firmly around the two neat bundles, and brought them with her into her bedroom. Stooping, she put them safely into her purple silk cosmetic bag and placed it right at the back of her bedside locker. Almost as an afterthought, she locked the little door, placing the key when she’d finished into her jewellery box. Just in case.
Now she longed for oblivion, for the healing darkness of long, restful sleep. She wanted to cheat her wakefulness: to creep up on pleasant dreams, to steal away with them before they noticed her.
But as soon as she lay down with the light off, the nightly parade of memories started all over again. Tonight, particularly, it frustrated Alice. Now that she needed all of her faculties to survive in the present, it seemed that some perverse old instinct was pulling at her, dragging her back to live in the past. Choosing her memories of and for her children had purpose – but these endless journeys back sixty or seventy years were not welcome; they were beginning to distress her. Sometimes, they took her to places where she had no desire to go. She closed her eyes firmly, breathing deeply as Ellen Crowley had shown her. Gradually, she began to grow still. It was as though she became conscious of falling asleep behind her own eyelids. Her body grew heavy, there was the welcome approach of darkness. She slept.
*
The insistent ringing of the phone finally woke her. She stretched out her right hand and lifted the receiver, feeling a strange weight across her chest as she did so.
‘Hello?’
‘Alice? Are you all right?’
‘Fine, love. Just waking up.’
She took her time with each word: they seemed to want to rush, one into the other, as she spoke.
‘You slept well, then? We were worried, you looked very tired yesterday evening.’
‘I’m fine; I’ll be grand. Really.’
‘Sorry – didn’t mean to wake you. I’ll call you later, all right?’
‘Thanks, love. ’Bye.’
Alice hung up carefully. The strange weight on her chest turned out to be her left arm, pressing down on her heavily. As she tried to move it, the numbness turned to tingling. She tried to rub it with her other hand. This felt a lot more serious than pins and needles, but she was too exhausted to work out why. The inside of her head felt strange and very, very tired. She’d just close her eyes again and sleep for another little while.
*
It was late afternoon when Alice finally woke. She looked around her in amazement. Where was she? Gradually, the bedroom came into focus. She could see bright sunlight behind her heavy curtains; there were the sounds of children playing on the street. There was something urgent she had to do, something pressing. Of course – it was Keith’s christening tomorrow. She had to put the finishing touches to the cake. And Beth was home. She must put on the coffee for Beth’s breakfast.
Alice pulled herself, with difficulty, over to the side of the bed. She shrugged away the useless feeling which seemed to have gathered all down her left side. Barefoot, she went downstairs to the hall, standing for a moment in the flood of sunshine that washed through the stained-glass windows. She smiled with pleasure, feeling her feet grow warm, soaking up deep pools of brightness from the polished floorboards.
Beth must be waiting for her in the kitchen. And she must remember to tread carefully with her prickly daughter; the last thing she wanted to do was make her angry. She would listen very closely to her, too, so that she’d know the right things to say when she told Peggy about all of Beth’s successes. Peggy wasn’t the only one who could have daughters that did well for themselves.
‘It’s called a franchise, Mother. It means I own the business, but I rent the name from a more established company, so that I can cash in on their reputation.’
They were sitting together at the kitchen table, drinking tea. Alice’s cup and saucer were in front of her, and so was the little gold and white china jug, half-full of milk. Beth was sipping her tea out of a mug. That was one of the things she had to be careful about: she must not mention the mug. Alice was relieved that she had remembered in time.
Beth was still speaking.
‘And the business is growing very nicely. It’s the same employment agency I got work with almost eight years ago, when I went to London first.’
She sipped at her tea again. Alice was silent, waiting. There was something about London, too, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.
‘Anyway, they made me manager three years ago, and I bought out the franchise last January. I’ve got four people working for me, now.’
Alice nodded. That was a good thing, wasn’t it?
There was a wallet containing photographs on the table, just in front of Beth. Alice watched as her daughter pushed them towards her.
‘These are of my new house, in Greenwich. I live right beside the common, where the Observatory is. Take a look.’
Now Alice felt comfortable. This was something she could understand, something she could be enthusiastic about. A house! A good investment, so much better than throwing your money away on one of those rented places. Flats were such a silly idea – good money after ba
d, she always said. She pulled the glossy photos out of their wallet, and pored over them, one by one. Beth was smiling, but Alice felt her disappointment grow, picture after picture. She had to remember to be extra-careful here, not to criticize, not to exclaim over the bad condition of the floors, the problem with damp, the tangle of briars and undergrowth which her daughter called a garden. But she couldn’t help herself. She remembered all the natty little terraced houses that she’d hankered after, at the end of the War, hankered after even still, if the truth be told. Surely there must be lots of those in London?
‘Would it not have been easier to buy a new house? That looks like an awful lot of work to me.’
The sunshine in the kitchen was abruptly shattered, and Beth, tight-lipped, was stuffing the photographs back into the wallet. She took her mug immediately over to the sink.
Alice continued hurriedly.
‘I’m sure it will be lovely when you’ve finished – what do you plan to do first?’
But she was already too late. Beth was looking at her watch.
‘I haven’t decided. Look, I’d better be getting over to James’s. I promised Olive I’d pick up the wine for tomorrow. I’ll probably be back by tea-time.’
She dried the mug briskly. Alice was afraid to tell her that that was the hand-towel, not the tea-towel. She’d wash the mug again after Beth left.
‘Do you want anything from the shops?’
‘No thank you, dear.’
And then she was gone. Alice was puzzled. Her cup and saucer seemed to have been whisked away into thin air, just when she was about to sip at her tea. And she hadn’t heard the back door slam, either. How come she was still sitting at the table in her nightdress? She never did that – she rarely even came downstairs in her dressing gown, unless to bring a cup of tea back up to bed. And her feet were cold. Where were her slippers? Suddenly, James was beside her. Confused, she looked around her. There were no signs of Beth. Was this some sort of test? Was James a trick of the light?
He was kneeling by her chair, had taken her cold hands in his.
‘Alice? Are you all right?’
She squeezed his hands. They were warm, real. And there was a different quality to James’s presence now, a reassuring solidity which Beth’s had somehow lacked. She thought carefully for a moment. This seemed right; it couldn’t be Keith’s christening tomorrow – she’d just seen him recently, and he was a man, one who raked her garden, held her coat for her, drank tea with her.
‘James?’ she said cautiously, expecting him to disappear in a puff of smoke.
‘Yes – it’s me,’ he said, rubbing her hands. Even she could hear the relief in his voice.
‘I think,’ she said carefully, ‘that I’ve had a little turn.’
She tested the words on herself; they sounded right, too. It meant that she could still understand, still follow what seemed to have happened to her.
‘I think you’re right. Come on, let’s get you back upstairs. You’re freezing.’
Tucked up in bed again, there were still gaps she needed to understand.
‘How did you know?’ she asked, almost shyly, hoping that there wasn’t some fearfully simple answer that everyone but she would automatically know.
‘Mrs McGrath called me. She was worried that she hadn’t seen you at Mass or at the shops this morning. And you didn’t answer when the vegetable man called. When your curtains were still closed at four, she phoned me.’
Alice nodded. Yes, all of that made sense. Vegetable man meant Mondays; Sunday she had been at James’s.
‘Did you speak to me this morning?’
He nodded.
‘Yes. We’d all been worried to see you looking so tired yesterday. I phoned around ten, but you sounded groggy.’
So that was all right, then. It was all adding up. Things had only been funny since this morning.
‘What time is it now?’ she asked suddenly.
‘Half past four. Ellen Crowley is on her way – and I want no arguments.’
He poured her a glass of water, which she took, and sipped at meekly.
‘You’ll get none,’ she said.
*
‘So, what’s the diagnosis?’
‘I’ll want to check you out more thoroughly when you feel up to it, but for now, I think I can safely say that you’ve had a very mild stroke, but a stroke nevertheless.’
Ellen was packing her blood pressure gauge into her doctor’s bag. Alice spoke to her quietly.
‘This is what we discussed after the hospital in July, isn’t it?’
Ellen nodded.
‘Yes, it is. You’re going to have to take things very easy, Alice, and I want blood tests done as soon as possible. We may need to put you on to blood-thinning medication to avoid the possibility of another attack. Also, it’s probably better for you not to be on your own so much.’
‘I don’t want to go to hospital.’
Ellen smiled at her.
‘That’s not necessary right now. But you do need to let someone know you’re all right, on a regular basis. And perhaps your grandchildren could take it in turns to stay over at night.’
Alice nodded.
‘I’ll be sensible, I promise. But I really don’t want to give up my independence.’
Besides, she was feeling clear-headed again. Exhausted, certainly, but no longer confused. She’d take her future a day at a time.
Ellen nodded.
‘I know. And I know you’ll be sensible. And you know where I am if you need me. It’ll take me a couple of days to arrange for your tests, but I’ll call you before the end of the week.’
‘Thanks, Ellen.’
She could hear the lowered voices outside her bedroom door. She was grateful to James for not intruding: he could have insisted on being present, on taking charge, stealing her autonomy from her – all for her own good, of course. But he’d chosen to respect her privacy instead, had treated her as a competent human being, not as a helpless, stricken victim.
He came back into her bedroom after Ellen had gone.
‘I’m staying tonight, in my old room. You can shout if you need me. We’ll talk tomorrow about whatever needs to be done.’
He bent down and kissed her forehead.
‘Right now, I’m going to make you some chicken soup.’
He smiled at her, and made his way towards the bedroom door.
‘James?’
‘Yes?’
‘Please don’t tell Beth, not yet.’
He came back and sat down on the side of her bed.
‘Alice, I can’t do that. It’s just not fair.’
‘Please, James. I need the time without everyone fussing over me. Tell you what, you keep this secret, and I’ll tell Beth one, too. Then you can both swap secrets after I’m gone.’
He smiled at her childlike tone.
‘I can’t promise that.’
‘Give me a week – let’s decide from week to week. Please.’
He sighed.
‘All right – you can have one week. But I still don’t feel right about it.’
Satisfied, Alice lay back, sinking into the grateful softness of her pillows. She felt sleep approach, almost at once. Surprised, she allowed herself to be carried away on the first wave. She’d just rest for a little while; James was sure to wake her for her soup.
*
She opened her eyes to find him standing by her bedside.
‘Have you got my soup?’ she asked, not liking him to think that she’d nodded off, that she hadn’t waited for him.
He grinned at her.
‘It’s a bit cold after fourteen hours sitting in the kitchen, but I’ll heat it up for breakfast if you like.’
Fourteen hours! She hadn’t slept that long a stretch since she was an infant.
‘Is it really morning again?’
‘It sure is. What would Madam like for breakfast, apart from cold chicken soup?’
‘I’d like to come down to the kitchen. I wa
nt to see how steady I am on my pins, while you’re here.’
He nodded.
‘Good idea.’
To her surprise, she pulled on her dressing gown with relative ease, the heaviness in her left arm having become a tingling sensation, more like the warm aftermath of night-time cramp. She negotiated the stairs without difficulty, aware all the time of James, of his eyes on her, watching. She filled the kettle by resting it in the sink and turning on the tap with her right hand: her left seemed to have lost most of its strength. She saw James glance at all the yellow notes stuck to the tiles.
‘That’s how I manage to cope with being forgetful,’ she said firmly. ‘And I’m quite happy to write as many as you want, and to keep in touch as often as you want. But I’m not leaving my home.’
He took the teapot off the dresser.
‘Ellen said you’d say that. She also told me the real story from July. She assumed I knew, but we’ll let that pass. I think I know why you didn’t tell me, but you’ll have to be honest with me from now on. You know I respect your independence, and I’ll never treat you like an invalid. But you have to trust me to do what’s right. Deal?’
‘Deal,’ she agreed.
‘As long as we can set up some sort of a safety-net, some routine that we can follow to the letter, I’m happy to go with that from day to day,’ he continued. ‘And – the first thing you’re getting is a mobile phone. That means, no matter where you are, shower, garden, shops, out for a walk – wherever: you’ll just have to press one button, and it’ll ring my number.’
Walled Garden Page 20
