My neck was stiff, as though I’d swum too many lengths. I’d done the journey in under two hours, no mean feat from north London, even if it had meant doing ninety on the A23. It felt like an adventure, the rashest trip I’d ever undertaken. ‘Don’t be crazy,’ Marie would have said if I’d consulted her, which was why I hadn’t: as far as she knew I’d gone to the office, rather than driving down to Sussex. Of course, I didn’t normally take the car to work, but I’d be back before her (she had her evening Pilates class) and unless things went badly she need never know where I’d gone or how quickly I’d got there.
The front door was up three stone steps. To the right of them was a concrete wheelchair ramp – more utilised than the steps, I imagined. I pushed the door open. A small reception desk, with a bell and visitors’ book, guarded access from the hallway to the corridor beyond. I signed a name, rang and waited. A couple of women in light blue uniforms entered and exited distant doorways. Then a woman in a dark suit appeared.
‘Can I help?’
‘I was hoping to speak to the head of the home.’
‘Mrs Thomas? Our director?’
‘If she’s the person.’
‘Is it about a relative?’
‘Yes.’
‘We do have a long waiting list, I’m afraid.’
‘That’s not a problem,’ I said, saving my fire.
‘She’s in a meeting at present. There’s tea and coffee in the sitting room. Just sign your name here …’
‘I already have.’
‘Ah yes. Take a seat then, Mr Pope. She won’t be long.’
I stuck a Kenco capsule in the machine, added milk from one of the little cartons, and sat in a wicker chair. The room had the blandness of a doctor’s or dentist’s waiting room: chairs, magazines, a large noticeboard with photos of all the staff and their designations. The chef and gardener were men, all the rest (nurses, physios, entertainments officer, etc.) women. Mrs Thomas had a place all to herself at the top. She looked formidable.
How often had Rob come here? I wondered. Though nearer to Hadingfield than to Parsons Green, it was no easy journey: he didn’t drive and would have had to take two trains and a taxi. I’d no idea how long his mother had been here. Two years? Five? All I remembered was him saying that after selling the family home, and briefly living in a flat close to him, she’d become incapable of looking after herself, and he’d moved her to a nursing home near Carforth: she still pined for the old village, and the home was one she knew, because she’d visited former neighbours there. It had been easy for me to find on Google; there were no others in the area. I could imagine Rob sitting here, while staff prepared her to come down. Or did he barge straight into her room? God forbid I ever end up in such a place, he used to say. But it seemed pleasant enough: spacious, friendly and – in the waiting room at least – free of any whiff of incontinence. If the moment came, and she didn’t (or couldn’t) object, I’d not hesitate to place my mother somewhere similar.
I sat there long enough to put names to the nurses who passed through wheeling their charges towards the dining room. The smell of stew in canteen metal made me feel hungry. I was about to make myself a second coffee when Mrs Thomas swept in.
‘Mr Pope?’
‘Simon, please.’
We shook hands.
‘How can I help?’
‘It’s about my mother. Is there somewhere quiet we can talk?’
She laughed. ‘Yes, there’s a lot of through-traffic here, I’m afraid. Lunch is our residents’ main meal, you see, and wherever possible we bring them down. Come with me.’
The room she took me to overlooked the garden – it was more a conference room than an office. We sat up one end of the large oval table.
‘I believe you’re looking for a home for your mother. Can I take some details?’
‘Actually, no. I mean, yes, you can, but that’s not what I came about. My mother’s dead.’
‘I’m very sorry.’
‘No need to be. This was some time ago.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t …’
‘I’m explaining myself badly. My mother was a resident here. Perhaps before your time as a director.’
‘I’ve been here since 2006.’
‘During your time then, just. She died in 2007. Perhaps you remember her?’
‘We do have a lot of residents and sadly most aren’t with us for long. What was her name?’
‘Elizabeth Pope.’
‘Lizzie! Of course. She was a great favourite with the staff. Loved to sit in the garden when the sun was out. Always appreciative when we had someone from the Women’s Institute come in to demonstrate flower arranging, say. She liked to borrow books from our library, though I often wondered how much she was getting from them, given her dementia. As I recall, that’s why the family …’
She paused. I was family. But she’d never seen me before.
‘My brother Robert took care of everything,’ I said. ‘I was living in Australia at the time. I came back for the funeral, but I never had the chance to visit her here.’
‘Your brother – isn’t he a writer?’
‘He was, yes. Tallish, dark hair.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t picture him,’ she said, deaf to the ‘was’. ‘I do remember going to your mother’s funeral, though. I don’t get to many, but she was one of my first residents to pass away. In Carforth, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s right. Quite a small occasion.’
‘That’s usually the way, if they reach a good age. I suppose you and I must have spoken. Forgive me – I don’t remember.’
‘Nor me,’ I said, growing into the part. ‘It was a strange day. The family home had been sold some time before and she’d lost touch with most of her friends. I was living abroad, as I say, so I never visited her here.’
‘Well, I can assure you, Mr Pope –’
‘Simon.’
‘I can assure you she was very well cared for, Simon. You’re not the first person to come here long after their loved one has gone, wanting to see where they spent their last years or months. Families are so far-flung these days and the grieving process takes time. Do feel free to look round the garden. Lizzie was very fond of it, as I say. Was there anything else?’
‘Just one thing. I wondered about the manner of my mother’s death.’
The smile evaporated.
‘Whether it was peaceful, you mean? Whether she suffered?’
‘Yes, partly that.’
She seemed to relax. ‘She died here rather than in hospital, I remember that much. That’s how it usually is, if the family has agreed to DNR.’
‘DNR?’
‘Do Not Resuscitate – if it’s clear the resident’s quality of life is poor and they’re gravely ill. When it’s reached that point, we think it’s cruel to subject them to invasive procedures. Much better for them to pass away here, among family or staff they know, rather than in a hospital, among strangers.’
‘And do you ease their passing?’
‘I wouldn’t put it like that. When a doctor has been consulted and advises us that a resident won’t recover, we help to make them comfortable.’
‘By withdrawing food and water?’
‘When it’s clear there’s no hope.’
‘And by administering morphine?’
‘Morphine or an equivalent. In strictly regulated doses.’
‘I always understood she died of pneumonia.’
‘Yes, that’s often the stated cause on death certificates.’
‘But not the real cause?’
‘Yes, real, but shorthand. There may be other underlying causes. Haven’t you talked to your brother about all this?’
‘My brother died eighteen months ago.’
‘I’m sorry, you should have said. Poor man. My condolences. But didn’t he discuss your mother’s death when you were over for the funeral?’
‘He found it too difficult,’ I said, which seemed a better lie than saying we
were estranged. ‘Before she went, he worried about how much pain she was in. I sometimes wondered’ – I smiled, so she could take it as a joke if she wished – ‘if he’d overdosed her with morphine while no one was looking.’
‘It’s a natural reaction to want to ease a loved one’s pain,’ Mrs Thomas said, letting me know she understood I wasn’t accusing anybody. ‘But we have to act within the current law and ensure relatives do the same. We can’t leave morphine lying about. A qualified nurse comes round with the trolley three times a day. Only she has access to drugs.’
‘That’s good to know,’ I said. ‘Mum’s death hit my brother hard and I wanted to reassure myself that …’
‘That she had died peacefully, in the right way. Of course. And she did. You have nothing to worry about.’
If I’d been pushier, I’d have asked to see the visitors’ book for 2007, so I knew exactly when Rob came in those last days of his mother’s life; and to speak to the nurses and doctors who’d looked after her, in case they’d noticed anything suspicious. But I knew I’d get nowhere. There was nowhere to get.
‘Now,’ she said, standing up, ‘would you like me to check which room she was in, so you can have a look at it? It may take a little while, but –’
‘It’s fine, I ought to get off,’ I said, as she held the door open for me.
We walked a few paces along the corridor.
‘Actually, the rooms are all pretty much the same, apart from the views,’ she said, pausing by an open doorway. I peered in, at her behest: hospital bed, wardrobe, desk, armchair, bedside cabinet, table on rollers, television high on the wall. ‘Lily will be a hundred next year,’ she whispered, nodding at the ghost-like figure in the bed. Her mouth gaped open, but she was sleeping, not dead. For a moment I was back in Rob’s poem. There he was, in the chair by his mother’s bed, taking notes.
‘I’ll leave you to look round the garden,’ Mrs Thomas said, down in the hall. ‘Make sure to stop by the pond. Our patients love to watch the fish.’
‘It’s been a real help,’ I said, resisting the word ‘closure’, but hoping my handshake would convey a sense of finality, for both of us. If she looked at her records, she’d soon discover that Rob was an only son, and with security camera footage and some googling the trail might lead to me. It had seemed a risk worth taking: to establish that Rob hadn’t killed his mother. If I knew that he’d fictionalised himself as a murderer, it was easier to believe, or argue, that his Don Juan-ising was invented too. Though I still couldn’t be sure, after today I felt more confident – happier to give him the benefit of the doubt. A useful trip, then. But I wasn’t going to hang about and risk my own fiction being unmasked. The garden was large – lawns, pagoda, weeping willow over a large pond – but my tour perfunctory. Within five minutes I was through the gateposts and on my way.
Despite some heavy Friday traffic, the journey back was a breeze. I’d even time for a cup of tea at home before collecting the children. Over supper, I decided to come clean with Marie. How could I not? After the showdown in the summer, I’d made a pact to be open with her. It was just as well I did come clean – with the arrival of the penalty notice a few days later (three points off my licence and a £250 fine for speeding), she’d have found out anyway. She was angry about the speeding, but less so about the stunt I’d pulled. In fact, she seemed almost impressed. Not that she shared my belief that Rob had now been exonerated. ‘If he thought he’d get a poem out of it,’ she said, ‘he’d not have hesitated to kill his mother – that’s the kind of man he was.’ But if the trip had finally cured me of my ‘obsession’ with Rob (and I assured her it had), my masquerade was forgivable. Anything to get him out of my system.
16
Jill had to be faced. In some ways the pressure was off me, with Louis no longer gung-ho. But I’d promised to go back at some point and the issue of publication couldn’t wait forever. Rob had left a will and I felt duty-bound to honour it. After the visit to the nursing home, I was more confident of winning Jill round. Not that I’d tell her about my trip; she’d be outraged. But it had strengthened my hand.
She kissed me when I arrived, which I took to be a good sign. The luxury chocolate biscuits she brought out were similarly promising. We faced each other across the kitchen table, just as we’d done on my first visit. Then she’d been a general laying out her battle plan. Now came the peace negotiations. The poems sat between us, like treaties waiting to be signed.
I made the obvious points. That Rob was an important poet. That everything he wrote was of interest to his admirers. That his will instructed Louis and me, as executors, to put together a posthumous collection. That the use of the first-person pronoun didn’t necessarily mean the poems were autobiographical. That some were almost certainly made up. That others might be hommages to poets Rob admired and which critics more widely read in poetry than I would recognise. That the reference to Rob’s mother (supposing it was his mother) being ‘happy at last’ after Rob (supposing it was Rob) has given her morphine (supposing it was morphine) might mean she was peacefully asleep and/or free from pain, not dead. That poems thrive on ambiguity and metaphor. That she was taking Rob’s too literally. That ordinary readers wouldn’t infer from them what she had inferred. That they would enrich his oeuvre and enhance his reputation.
‘The best of them are love poems written for you,’ I said.
‘A few maybe. But that doesn’t make me feel any better. What we did and said to each other in private isn’t a matter for anyone else. Here, look,’ she said, pulling out a poem called ‘Posterity’, ‘“written for your eyes only,/not to be published”.’
‘But his will says the opposite: that he wants his unpublished poems to come out as a book.’
‘There are scenes he’s recreated I find too painful to read,’ she said, not listening.
‘Which?’
She shook her head.
‘Just one example.’
‘Between ourselves?’ she said.
I nodded.
‘You know that poem about a man and woman lying in bed? And he asks her how many lovers she’s had before him? And he becomes angry and violent?’
‘It didn’t sound like Rob.’
‘It wasn’t. It was my ex-husband. Our marriage only lasted a year. Mainly for the reasons the poem describes. There’s another poem about a man giving a woman a split lip: that would have been him, not Robbie. If you publish those poems, he’ll recognise himself. He took the break-up very badly. And he’s still around.’
‘So Rob didn’t change the details?’
‘They’re all there, exactly as I told him – even the bit about me drinking lapsang tea. He uses things I said to him in other poems, too. Take that one about the shower. I was cleaning my teeth one night while he was in the shower and I noticed the drops bouncing against the glass screen were lit up in some way. Look, you’re swimming in pearls, I shouted at him. OK, it wouldn’t take a genius to come up with that, but I hate the way he used it in another context. You do understand my objections?’
‘Of course. But as Rob’s executor –’
‘And another thing,’ Jill said, still not listening, ‘you made copies of the poems to show other people.’
‘Only Louis, as joint executor. No one else has read them.’
Apart from Marie, I might have said, because she’s my wife and there are no secrets between us. But if Jill knew that, she’d ask what Marie thought of them and I’d have to admit that Marie was on her side.
‘He has them in his office. Where God knows who might come across them.’
‘Louis knows they’re confidential.’
‘What’s to stop him making more copies? I don’t know who to trust any more.’
‘You can trust me, Jill.’
‘I used to think so.’
It was as if she was trying to batter me into submission. Or ease me into it. The anger of that first phone call had gone. The chilliness, too. She kept reminding me how she’d com
e round to the idea of selling Rob’s papers. Since she’d given way on that, could I not do the same over the poems? ‘Robbie’s sex poems’, she called them – there was no more mention of morphine.
‘You say you want to do your best by him,’ she said. ‘Then don’t publish. And don’t punish the woman he loved.’
The woman he loved. As if only she could lay claim to that title. Either she’d known about Rob’s affairs but he’d convinced her the women meant nothing to him. Or now that the shock of finding out had worn off, she’d convinced herself of it. If she really believed he had loved only her, she’d nothing to be jealous of; maybe in time she would see that. But for now she was adamant. Over my dead body was her line. She even hinted that she meant it literally.
‘If the poems ever come out, I don’t know what I’ll do to myself.’
‘Come on, Jill, don’t say that.’
‘I’m being honest. I’ve always struggled with depression. And it’s been worse since Robbie died. It wouldn’t take much to tip me over.’
As I left, she backtracked (‘Forget what I said earlier about … you know’). But the dart had been planted. She’d let me know how much was at stake.
On the way home, I remembered a conversation I’d once had with Rob. Pre-Jill, it must have been, pre-Hadingfield anyway, when we were still seeing a lot of each other. The place was a café in Frith Street. For once he’d arrived ahead of me. It was the only time I ever saw him with a glossy magazine.
‘Cat or dog?’ he said.
‘Dog,’ I said. ‘Why?’
‘It’s a personality test. Light or dark?’
‘Light.’
‘Meat or fish?’
‘Fish.’
‘Lennon or McCartney?’
‘McCartney.’
‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘All your answers are the opposite of mine. Apparently, you’re affable, generous but lacking in will-power. Whereas I’m a right bastard. One more. Life or art?’
The Executor Page 21
