Guppies for Tea

by Marika Cobbold

  By eight o’clock she lay in bed smiling at Amelia like a contented child. ‘I’ve had a lovely day.’ Then she frowned. ‘But where did your young man get to? I’m sure you said he was coming.’

  Amelia kissed her lightly on the cheek. ‘He had to work over Christmas,’ she said. ‘He was terribly disappointed.’ But Selma had gone to sleep.

  Amelia looked down at her for a long time, then with a shudder she turned away. I was willing her to die, she thought. I was standing here thinking it would be just perfect if she never woke up.

  She looked up to see her mother in the doorway. As they walked from the room Dagmar whispered, ‘It would be kinder all round if she just died.’

  Amelia looked at her with a small smile. Then she said, ‘I can’t help wondering why what is right and what is kind so often seem to be quite different things?’

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Of Course Selma did wake the next morning, and the morning after and each day she seemed to grow stronger. It was as if with every touch of a familiar surface, every feel of her lips round the rim of her own china cups, each sight of the trees and shrubs outside, life seeped back into her.

  ‘We’ll have to ask these people to move their things out now I’m back,’ she said as Amelia brought her breakfast on the fourth day. ‘I still don’t quite see why they had it all moved here in the first place.’

  When Amelia told Dagmar she rolled her eyes and sighed, ‘I told you you hadn’t thought this through. We’re meant to take her back tomorrow and she still believes the place is hers and that she’s back for keeps.’

  ‘You go back to Exeter as planned,’ Amelia said. ‘We might stay on a day or two. The Hamiltons aren’t back for another ten days.’

  ‘It’s not going to get any easier telling her,’ Dagmar warned.

  ‘I don’t expect it will, but each good day when you have only a hundred or so left, is a gift.’ Amelia improvised the answer and ended up quite pleased with it.

  So Dagmar left and Amelia was alone at Ashcombe with Selma. That was the problem, she was alone. Selma’s new lease of life had been as brief as a Swedish summer, and now, once more, the dark and muddled moments of her mind grew longer. She slept so much that Amelia became worried. Was it good for her to doze away large chunks of the day? Should she be stimulated like an overdoser, kept awake and aware? There was no-one to ask. She telephoned Dagmar every day but Dagmar’s only advice was ‘Take her back.’

  She wrote to Henry. She imagined herself talking to him, she asked his opinion and got so carried away at times, sitting in the window-seat chatting to him, that she felt quite let down when she paused and there was no answer.

  Sometimes, when she walked through the silent house, she imagined it floating in space, as whole and separate as a planet. She ventured out into the garden only after dark and she realized that if no-one knew about you, you had only your own word that you actually existed. Other times though, in the early morning or when evening fell so depressingly early at four o’clock, her thoughts would race like crazy horses through her mind; discovery, newspaper reporters, prison. She wished she hadn’t left Willoughby’s law books in storage, they would have told her if trespassing was a tort or a criminal offence. Surely she couldn’t be charged with theft; even the brandy on the Christmas pudding had been her own. But what about electricity and gas? One early morning she lay in bed wriggling and sighing until she thought her chest would split open, releasing this great putrid stream of worries.

  There was a poverty of light too over the days between Christmas and New Year. Each morning Amelia pulled the curtains back as far as they would go but still there was an air of evening about the house any hour of the day.

  ‘Those hedges need clipping,’ Selma said one morning when Amelia brought her breakfast. ‘I’ll have a word with Mr Edwards in the New Year.’ Amelia thought her grandmother’s voice sounded faint, as if the words were spoken from a much greater distance than halfway across a small room.

  ‘I’m not doing as good a job of looking after you as they do at Cherryfield,’ she said, ‘and I’m late with your pills again.’

  ‘I hate pills. My father died because of the wretched things. Too many and none of them agreeing with the others.’ She smiled weakly and held her hand out to Amelia who had to grab it quickly before it fell back on to the sheets. ‘There’s nothing much wrong with me you know. Nothing a few days’ rest here in my own home, with my little granddaughter to look after me, won’t cure.’ She shifted in the bed, trying to reach the tray at her side.

  ‘Anyway,’ she said dropping a piece of buttered toast on to her chest, ‘wild horses wouldn’t drag me back to that awful place. You know I hated boarding school as a girl.’ She closed her eyes and mumbled, ‘Hated it.’

  Amelia heaved herself up from the foot of the chaise-longue as if she was fighting her way up from under a mountain of rubble. I’ll tell her tomorrow. She sighed. I’ll get everything packed and ready and then just tell her and go, leave her no time to argue or worry.

  The next morning was New Year’s Eve and Amelia had to shake Selma gently by the shoulder to wake her. Even then, she opened her eyes only to smile and close them again, and her breathing was quick and shallow. Amelia stood looking at her and as she looked she grew more and more scared. She was like a whist player from the village hall caught up in a game of poker in Las Vegas: out of her league. Pale faced, she turned and ran to the phone, dialling the number of the health centre.

  Putting her stethoscope away, Dr Donaldson turned a grave face to Amelia, beckoning her away from the chaise-longue where Selma lay drifting between sleep and waking.

  ‘She’s very poorly I’m afraid, not really responding to the medication. Her blood pressure is right up, as for her leg …’ Again she shook her head. ‘I’d like to consult with her own doctor but he’s not on again until the second.’ She looked up from her notes. ‘We’ve got her registered as living at Cherryfield Nursing Home though.’ She glanced at Selma. ‘I really think she would be better off there now. When were you planning to take her back?’

  ‘A week ago, but she fears and dreads that place.’ Amelia felt the lump in her throat swelling. ‘How long has she got?’

  Dr Donaldson, like Sister Morris, shrugged her shoulders. ‘It’s impossible to say, days, weeks, maybe more.’

  Well, we’ve only got five days, Amelia thought, close to tears. Five days for Selma to die in peace. She gave her grandmother a long look, then she turned away and followed Dr Donaldson into the sitting room.

  ‘Which are the vital pills, the ones she couldn’t do without? I mean maybe she’s taking too many.’

  Dr Donaldson looked at her. ‘They’re all vital in keeping her alive, all but the painkillers of course.’ Then she looked around her. ‘I thought the Hamiltons lived here.’

  ‘They do,’ Amelia assured her. ‘But they’re completely neurotic about burglars, so I’m house-sitting. I had to bring my grandmother with me.’

  Dr Donaldson seemed satisfied with the answer. ‘How long before the Hamiltons come back?’

  ‘A couple of days or so,’ Amelia was deliberately evasive. ‘You couldn’t spare a commode, could you? It’s my back.’

  ‘If you’re quite sure your grandmother prefers staying with you here, I’ll send the community nurse along twice a day and I’ll try to come myself at the end of each morning surgery. We won’t be able to keep it up for ever though. I’ll see about the commode, they might be able to lend us one from the cottage hospital.’

  The nurse came that evening. She helped wash Selma, checked her blood pressure and changed the dressing on her leg.

  ‘I’d like to get up today,’ Selma said on the second day of the nurse’s visits. ‘I’m feeling much better.’

  They dressed her in a warm, emerald-green house-coat and lifted her into the wheelchair. She winced as her leg touched the side of the chaise-longue but she didn’t complain, instead she said. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t been able
to do as much of the cooking as I usually do this Christmas. My little granddaughter has managed beautifully though.’ She tried to turn to give Amelia an encouraging smile.

  When she left, the nurse said to Amelia, ‘You soldier on if you can, dear. Allow them to die in their own place, that’s what I always say.’

  ‘When do you think it will be, this dying?’ Amelia caught the nurse’s surprised look and gave a little apologetic shrug. ‘What I mean is, I’d like to be prepared.’

  The nurse’s brow cleared. ‘Of course you do. But who’s to say? But you’ll find the strength when the time comes, don’t you worry.’

  Amelia didn’t want her to go; all that cheerful competence, all that approval, the whiff of the real world where young women of thirty-one did not break into people’s houses to spend Christmas with their dying grandmother. She lingered in the doorway, watching the nurse stride off towards her car and, as the little red mini drove off, she felt as if her own sanity had gone with the nurse, riding away cheerfully in the passenger seat. ‘Wear a seat-belt,’ she murmured. ‘I might need you again.’

  She was in the kitchen the next morning, preparing Selma’s milky coffee when she heard the front door slam shut. It was too early for the nurse and anyway she didn’t have a key. Automatically Amelia had sunk her knuckle into the milk to test the temperature and now as she heard footsteps in the passage she stayed that way, staring at the door. The steps hesitated then stopped, the door was pushed open and a long pale face peered round. ‘Oh my Gawd,’ it said as it caught sight of Amelia. ‘Who would you be?’

  Amelia remembered that attack was the smartest way of defence and said, ‘May I ask who you are?’ Adding truthfully, ‘We weren’t expecting anyone.’

  The woman had obviously decided that if Amelia was dangerous she would by now have put down the coffee cup and picked up a knife, so she stepped inside but remained close to the open door just in case. ‘I’m Mrs Clover. I do for Mrs Hamilton every Tuesday and Thursday.’ She crossed her thin arms over the smooth tongue of her flower-sprigged apron. ‘This is Tuesday.’

  ‘Well don’t let me stop you,’ Amelia said. ‘With the Hamiltons returning Sunday, I’m sure you’ve got lots to do. I’ve hoovered the sitting room by the way.’ And she made for the door, her heart thumping so hard she felt sure Mrs Clover could hear it.

  Mrs Clover barred her way, braver now. ‘Mrs Hamilton said nothing to me about someone staying in her house.’

  ‘That was remiss of her.’ Amelia shook her head. ‘One likes to be told about these things I know. I’m Mr and Mrs Merryman’s granddaughter, Amelia Lindsay. My grandparents used to live here and the Hamiltons asked me to house-sit. Are you sure they didn’t tell you?’ she asked sympathetically.

  ‘They most certainly did not.’ Mrs Clover looked aggrieved, then her thin face softened. ‘I remember Mr and Mrs Merryman. I used to do for friends of theirs, the Franklins. I thought the old couple passed away.’

  ‘Not quite,’ Amelia said bitterly. ‘Now I mustn’t keep you from your work. By the way, the study is best left for now I think.’ She slid past and out of the door.

  Selma had gone to sleep again in her chair in the sitting room, so Amelia went upstairs to the bedroom to fetch her writing case. ‘I need you Henry Mallett,’ she said to herself as she hurried back down to Selma. ‘A chaplain would do wonders for my credibility just now.’

  She sat down in the window-seat and began to write:

  ‘My Dear Henry, Wish you were here.’

  She paused, chewing the cap of her pen, listening to the sound of the vacuum cleaner coming closer.

  ‘There’s something going on here.’ Mrs Clover appeared dragging the hoover behind her. ‘Look at this place. It’s different.’

  ‘My grandmother is asleep.’

  Mrs Clover glanced in Selma’s direction, then lowered her voice to a hiss. ‘I’m calling the Hamiltons. I’ve got their number in case of burglary or fire.’

  ‘Well this is neither,’ Amelia said in a tired voice, ‘so why worry them?’

  Selma snored and shuddered, her head lolling against the wing of the chair, her mouth hanging open. Her face looked so small and her skin was grey. The grey of a corpse on a mortuary slab before the undertaker had got to work with colour and brushes, Amelia thought with a shiver.

  ‘Please don’t call.’ She looked intently at Mrs Clover, as if she hoped pity was catching. ‘Please. We’ll be gone by Saturday.’

  Mrs Clover’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re squatters, that’s what you are. I should call the police, really I should.’ And as Amelia stood up and moved towards her she fled from the room.

  Amelia sat down again and buried her head in her hands. Soon they’d come and take Selma from her beloved Ashcombe, drag her from her chair, away from the view over the garden and the sea. Drag her back to Cherryfield to die with all her hopes gone and her illusions shattered.

  ‘They know who you are.’ Mrs Clover was back, speaking to Amelia from the doorway ready to retreat again. ‘They said to tell you to leave immediately and they’ll deal with you when they return. Lucky for you they don’t want the police. Not at the moment they don’t.’

  Amelia lifted her head and looked at her. ‘We’re staying.’ There, she thought, I’ve done it. As she got up from the seat, Mrs Clover took a step backwards and when she saw Amelia come towards her she turned and ran. Amelia heard a clanging noise, then a yell and as she hurried out into the hall she almost tripped over Mrs Clover lying prostrate on the floor her right foot tangled in the flex of the Hoover.

  ‘Here.’ Amelia put her hand out.

  Looking as if she knew she was going to regret it any moment, Mrs Clover allowed herself to be helped up.

  ‘I’m quite harmless really.’ Amelia smiled at her. ‘But we’re not leaving.’ It all seemed quite simple now, simpler by far than taking Selma back to Cherryfield.

  Mrs Clover shrugged her shoulders. ‘Suit yourself, but I’m not stopping here a minute longer, not with a criminal in the house.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Amelia said tiredly. ‘I’ll finish the vacuuming.’

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Outside, the sky was an unbroken dome of grey, allowing night to creep up with such stealth, Amelia thought. Selma had drunk some broth and now she sat in bed propped up against the pillows. She held on to Amelia’s hand and didn’t want to let go, so Amelia stayed and talked, their conversation weaving in and out of Selma’s memories like a needle and thread.

  ‘Of course you never knew your grandfather,’ Selma said suddenly and in a clear strong voice. ‘He died in Germany you know, before the war.’

  ‘I’d love to know more about him,’ Amelia said, realizing that for the first time she meant it. But Selma had gone back to sleep.

  The nurse, her name was Mary she told Amelia, stood looking at Selma. She was smiling. ‘I wish all my old people could go like her, in their own place with a relative to care for them.’

  Amelia was smiling too. It doesn’t matter a bit that it’s all an illusion, she thought. Selma believed she was in her own home, the lady of the house with tomorrow to plan for, and not a helpless inmate of a nursing home where tomorrow seemed more like a surcharge than a bonus. Mary certainly didn’t know any different, so perhaps illusion had turned into reality. Amelia waited as the nurse took Selma’s blood pressure and checked the dressing on her leg. Wasn’t a well-maintained, oiled and running illusion a must for a happy life? If we all saw ourselves and others and life itself for what it truly was, would any of us have the heart to carry on?

  She realized that Mary was speaking to her.

  ‘Her heart is remarkably strong, she could go on for weeks you know. Will you be able to cope? Isn’t there someone else who could come and stay with you for a bit?’

  Amelia shook her head. ‘Weeks did you say?’

  ‘It could be, then again she could go at any time. But she’s not suffering. She’s quite contented, isn’t she?’ Mary looked u
p at Amelia, her round face all smiles and approval, but Amelia returned to the study near to tears.

  ‘If you’re going to die, do it now please,’ she whispered between clenched teeth. ‘I’m like a juggler adding the last plate to an impossible number already spinning over my head, I’ve peaked. Any more and it’ll all come tumbling down, crash, crash, crash,’ she mumbled, banging her fist against her forehead. Selma snorted and turned over in her sleep, a small smile passing her lips.

  Amelia telephoned her mother.

  ‘You’re still there,’ Dagmar said. ‘I was just about to call Cherryfield to see how Mummy’s settled back in. You really must take her back immediately. I can’t take any more of this worrying.’ She sounded affronted, as if Selma’s continued stay at Ashcombe was a deliberate attack on her nervous system. ‘You know I’m sure there was something absolutely vital I had to tell you but I just can’t remember … Anyway, I’ve said what I think, now I wash my hands of you, Amelia, I really do.’

  ‘Ho, ho, ho,’ Amelia said and Dagmar hung up.

  A neighbour came to the door; Mr Squire who knew Amelia from the Merrymans’ days at the house. ‘Mrs Clover’s told us you’re squatting or something.’ Mr Squire, tall and stooping, scratched his bald patch. ‘It’s not really the sort of thing we go in for around here you know.’ He looked unhappily at a point to the left of Amelia’s ear.

  Amelia stood in the doorway saying nothing. I’ll smile him away, she thought.

  Mr Squire looked disturbed. ‘Ah well, I suppose it’s between you and the Hamiltons,’ and he left. Amelia went back to the study and continued reading Emma to Selma who knew the book so well she could drift off comfortably at any point in the story and come back as if she’d never been away.