Still You

by Claire Allan

  The sight was pitiful but I knew I had to be careful. I moved towards her slowly.

  “Áine,” I said gently, but she could not hear me over the sound of her own crying. “Áine, it’s Georgina. Are you okay?”

  “I can’t do it any more. I don’t understand. I’m sure I used to play. I know I used to play. Without even looking at the music. I played all the time but maybe it’s this piano. I can’t make it sound like it should. I’ve been trying and trying and I can’t …”

  I sat down, slowly, on the stool beside Áine and, at a loss for any comforting words which could make this situation any less cruel, I simply took one of her hands in mine.

  But she broke the hold and sat staring at her hands again. “You should ask Jonathan. He will tell you. He loves it when I play. He’s going to learn one day. When he’s older. His mother will be so proud …”

  I nodded and listened, trying to place just where Áine was in her mind – and how I could get her back in touch with her life as it was.

  “Charlotte?”

  “A free bird,” she nodded. “Beautiful. Not like me. But she can’t play piano.” She stifled a laugh between her tears. “She’s awful at it. Tuneless. You can’t have it all.”

  “No,” I said. “I suppose not.”

  “Do you want me to play for you?” she asked. “I could.” She lifted the lid of the piano as if the past minute was lost somewhere in time and poised her fingers again over the keys.

  I rested my hands on hers. “I would love you to play for me but I wondered could we make soup? I’ve heard you’re a great cook?”

  “Did Charlotte tell you that?” Áine said, her face lit with excitement.

  Thinking of how her face had crumpled just minutes before when her fingers could no longer find the right keys to make the music she had so loved, I nodded again. “Yes, yes, Charlotte said you were a fantastic cook.”

  I stood up and Áine shuffled out from behind the piano and followed me out of the room. And I vowed that I would not try and think about how long Áine may have been sitting in that room playing over moments of her life while trying to play a tune on the piano. There was a sadness to the situation that was almost tangible and in that moment I almost decided to give up on the notion of making the soup from scratch. Maybe it would be too much? I could have maybe found a tin of soup in the cupboard and supervised Áine while she heated it. But it was important to hold on to what we could. Even simply adding some vegetables to a pot and seasoning them. The time would come, I realised, when Áine would spend more time lost somewhere else so while it scared her, and while I felt sad, I knew that the best way to lift us both out of our reverie was to get on with things.

  “Accept, move on, and never let the bastards get you down,” I whispered to myself – it was the mantra Sinéad repeated over and over when things were particularly tough. And it suited this situation too.

  If Áine’s hands had let her down at the piano they certainly seemed to know what they were doing in the kitchen. I watched as she expertly chopped, sliced and diced the veg and shredded the chicken breast before simmering her stock.

  “Of course if we had been better prepared we would have used the bones of the chicken from the Sunday roast and boiled up a nice broth,” she said. “Nothing tastes as nice – none of your shop-bought stocks or cubes do. If my garden were in better condition I’d be out there lifting herbs, chopping them, adding them. Oh and my home-grown carrots. Jonathan was raised on those carrots. I wondered if his hair would turn orange he ate so many of them. When other children were stealing biscuits – sneaking snacks when their mothers weren’t looking – you could always find Jonathan hidden in the garden, munching a carrot. I couldn’t ever be cross with him. Not even when he ate so many he got a stomach ache and was sick in the grounds of the chapel before Mass.”

  She laughed at the memory and I realised the room she was standing in already felt a little warmer. And I couldn’t deny it – I loved the story of Jonathan as a carrot-munching mayhem-maker. It was so at odds with his stiff-upper-lip persona that I enjoyed any hint of a chink in his armour.

  By the time the soup had simmered I had ensured Áine – who was thankfully less confused now – had her medication and I had made sure her nightgown and slippers were laid out for her. I lit a fire in the sitting room to fend off the cold. I served the soup in large, heavy Denby bowls at the rugged kitchen table. Áine sat down and savoured the smell and texture of the meal in front of her.

  “There is nothing so satisfying as enjoying a meal you have prepared yourself,” I said, not that I would really know. But the soup did taste good.

  “My mother used to say that.”

  “Was it your mother who taught you how to cook?”

  “In a way,” Áine said, softly. “In a way. And it was Charlotte too – the more adventurous stuff, mind. Charlotte always said you had to have the skill for it yourself – a nose for what worked with what. She said I was like a doctor – mixing potions which made you feel better.”

  “Charlotte sounds like she knew what she was talking about.”

  “She sure did,” Áine said, sipping on a glass of milk. “The only problem is, I think I realised it too late.”

  “Hindsight is a wonderful thing,” I said, thinking of all the things I had realised too late.

  “It’s nice to look back sometimes,” she said. “I know, you know. That I’m losing my marbles. Doting. As they would say. My mother – she was doting. Young and all as she was. She lost her marbles too. I remember trying to make sense of it. And when I got older than her, and it didn’t happen, I thought I was in the clear. But I know I’m not. I can’t control it – but I know what I take those tablets for. Jonathan liked to tell me at first they were vitamins – like I was already gone. Silly boy. I know why – I know how scary it is – both inside and outside. I know I’m a silly old woman sometimes. But I’ll do what he wants to make him happy – so I play along, you know. Because it makes him feel better. I let him send his carers and keep this house simple so I don’t get confused. Because I do get confused. It’s like I can almost see it – I can almost reach it but something doesn’t work. And then it’s like I black out. Maybe I do black out. And then I’m back … but another part of me is gone.”

  “I can’t imagine …”

  “No. No, it’s hard to describe. And I’m scared. I know we should expect such things as we grow older. I thought when I got to this age I’d be able to look forward to my twilight years. I’ve everything in order – these were supposed to be the good times. I was supposed to be able to look forward to falling asleep in my own bed, very peacefully and very contentedly, and just slipping away – not knowing what had hit me. When I first took ill – when I first started getting scatty – I told myself it was because I was tired or just old. It wasn’t anything serious, I told myself. I’m just doting, I told myself. But this isn’t just doting, and my wee plan to just slip away in the night some time is running away from me – along with my mind.” She looked into the bowl of soup as if it contained the answers to all the world’s tough questions.

  I didn’t know what to say – what could be said? I had been prepared for a lot. I had been prepared for ill patients, for patients who needed their medical needs tended to – who couldn’t dress themselves, or feed themselves, who needed all aspects of their personal care tended to as well. I hadn’t really prepared myself for someone who knew what was ahead. I hadn’t really thought about that part at all. I hadn’t thought of how a person came to terms with that – how they accepted such a diagnosis. I guess I just assumed that once a person’s mind started to wander, it continued to wander until it lost itself altogether. And I assumed that was the point where I entered the picture.

  I looked into my own soup bowl, wondering if I could find the answers myself, and we sat, two women lost in quiet contemplation over the soup we had created together, as the grandfather clock tolled out the turning of the hour.

  “What w
ould you like to do?” I said, conscious of the fact that for the here and now I had Áine with me – the Áine who knew who she was and what was going on – not the woman who couldn’t remember the tunes she had played so beautifully on the piano and who confused me with Charlotte.

  “Eat more soup,” Áine replied, shrugging her shoulders. “I might just serve another wee half bowl.”

  “I mean, generally,” I said. “What would you like to do? While you can? Instead of just waiting? Instead of being scared? We can do the garden and we can cook more – but what else? There must be something?”

  Áine put her spoon down into her bowl and sat straighter in her chair. “I’m not sure what’s real any more,” she said. “But I’d like to go to the seaside. I’d like to feel the sand between my toes and know it’s sand, and feel the chill of the water and eat chips out of paper at the shorefront after. ” Her smile was bright – as if a trip to the seaside and a walk along the beach was as good as it could get. “I know Jonathan would take me if I asked him – but he’s so busy, Georgina. And now he is wearing himself out coming here every evening and every weekend – and I don’t like to take him away from his work too much. Even at weekends he seems so snowed under.”

  “Then,” I said, “we’ll go to the beach tomorrow.”

  “And get chips?”

  “And a sausage too if you want.”

  “That sounds just perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

  The decision to go for a drive to the beach the following day made me feel that I would have to put my awkwardness aside and stay a little later to face Jonathan. I knew he was due to call after six. I would keep calm, cool and professional – tell him what Áine wanted, give him my list for the garden and leave without any inappropriate touching or embarrassing moments.

  I was all done with making a fool of myself – so I steeled myself when I heard his key turn in the door. Áine and I were in the sitting room, in front of the TV, when he popped his head through the door and said hello. He had the good grace to blush when he saw me – which made me feel better about blushing at seeing him.

  “Jonathan,” Áine said, “Georgina here is going to take me to the beach tomorrow. Do you remember how we loved the beach?”

  He looked at me, I nodded, and he looked back at his aunt. “I do, Auntie Áine, of course I do. We had some good times, but you know I could take you if you wanted?”

  “Áine said you would, of course, but that you are very busy at work,” I said. “I don’t mind taking her – it will do us both good to get some fresh air. Áine wants to get out for a bit. I thought it would help.”

  “Well, you are full of ideas, aren’t you?” he said.

  I wasn’t sure of his tone. Was he being rude, or complimentary, or indifferent?

  “Just a few,” I answered, trying not to read anything untoward into what he had said. “And on that subject, you wanted a list of ideas for the garden, things we might need?” I handed him the envelope.

  “Right,” he said, immediately putting it into his back pocket. “Well, you are on the ball.”

  Again I didn’t know how to read him, so I nodded. “I suppose so.”

  “Well, leave it with me,” he said. “And be careful tomorrow if you do take Áine out.”

  “I wouldn’t be anything but,” I answered, trying to mimic his own unreadable tone. “But, look, I’d better be off.”

  It was his turn to nod and I said goodbye to Áine and told her to make sure to dress warmly for the following day. He didn’t bid me goodbye as I left and I didn’t try to say goodbye to him.

  He was an odd creature and I already had an odd enough creature in my life in the shape of a husband to be coping with. Besides I was paid to look after Áine – not baby-sit some gruff, charmless businessman.

  Chapter 11

  Present Day

  When I arrived at Temple Muse the following day, I found Áine waiting in her overcoat, scarf, hat and gloves in the sitting room.

  “I’ve been ready a while,” she said. “I know, it’s silly of me. But I have been so looking forward to this. And I asked Maria to lay everything out this morning so it would be easy to find. No fooling this old mind.” Her smile was as bright as I had ever seen it.

  I sat down on the sofa opposite her, took her hands in mine and I felt myself choke with an unexpected wave of emotion. “Of course there’s no fooling you, Áine. I’m impressed by your organisation.”

  “I’ll not feel the benefit of this coat when I go outside. My mother used to warn me of that. And I’ve been wearing this coat for a while now … but I don’t mind. I even had Maria help me pack up some sandwiches for us. If you don’t mind taking a packed lunch with us?”

  “I don’t mind at all. Sure I have a flask in my car and a wee pint of milk and all – and there may just be a scone with strawberry jam.”

  “Home-made?” Áine asked.

  “Neither the scone nor the jam are home-made. I don’t get much time and I have even less talent! I wouldn’t know how to bake a scone if my life depended on it.”

  “I’ll find the time to teach you. That can be our next lesson,” she said, walking from the room and leaving me to follow her through to the kitchen where she was, gloves still on her hands, hat still perched on her head, taking flour from the cupboard and muttering about heating the oven and having enough buttermilk.

  “Áine,” I said softly and she turned to me, the mention of her name pulling her out of her reverie and leaving her standing, staring at the flour on the worktop – the packet opened, a small dusting of white powder having tumbled onto the granite.

  She looked at me and back at the flour, her face colouring. “I’ve been silly,” she said, her voice breaking.

  “We’re all silly sometimes,” I said, trying to reassure her and seeing the tears brimming in her eyes. “I found my phone in the fridge this morning. No harm done – none at all. And I will hold you to the scone lesson. I’ve never been able to bake. My home economics teachers used to despair of me. I told you before – it’s my daughter who is the cook in our house.”

  “You should bring her too,” Áine said, her face brightening. “It’s a long time since there were young ones about this house. When Jonathan and Emma were young we were always bustling about this kitchen – always into something. Emma would stand there – right there were you are standing – and ask to help and Jonathan …” she laughed, “he was keen to help with the tasting. A greedy guts!” Her laugh was girlish, the upset of just seconds earlier forgotten. She stood there, the tears still in her eyes but her face bright now, alive with some memory that obviously meant so much to her. In her hat and her coat and her gloves, in the quiet and cavernous kitchen of the big house on Temple Muse, before we set off on our journey to the beach where we would drink tea and chat some more.

  Even though the wind was just about starting to pick up and there was a definite chill in the air, Áine and I had taken a long walk across the beach front at Buncrana and now we stood side by side staring out over Lough Foyle, watching it open out into the Atlantic Ocean.

  “I suppose it’s too cold for paddling,” Áine said, glancing down at the soft waves which crept closer and closer to our feet as the tide made its way in.

  “I would say so,” I laughed. “I wouldn’t want to have to explain frostbite to Jonathan.”

  “He used to love the beach,” Áine said. “I’m sure he probably still does but when he was a boy he was never happier than when he was in water. It was his time in warmer climes, I suppose. But even here, even on the days we came down here in Lorcan’s car in the winter, he would be the one who’d tear off his coat as soon as he got out of the car.” She started to laugh, and clutched at her stomach as if trying to hold in the memory. “I remember Lorcan chasing him the full length of the beach – and there he was leaving a trail of clothes behind him saying he was going for a swim. By the time they were both back with me, Lorcan’s face was red and Jonathan’s was blue. I’ll never forget
it …” She paused, and held her tummy tighter before glancing at me.

  I saw it in that second – the fear in her eyes again at the memories she might lose and I reached out – in a way I knew I would for however long I could – and took her hand and rubbed it as we stared out over the rushing waves and listened to the wind whistle around our ears.

  “We’ll do our best, Áine. We’ll do our best to make sure you hold onto those memories for as long as you can. Tell me more. Tell me all you can remember. Who’s Lorcan? Was he Jonathan’s father?”

  Aine looked into my eyes and blinked, shaking her head. “No … no, Lorcan was … he was the person I should have … no … he wasn’t Jonathan’s father. Jonathan’s father was Jack.” She wiped a tear away and I wondered if some memories were too painful to remember even if you were scared to let go of them.

  1964

  The windows were wide open – the smell of the lavender plants on the sill permeating the kitchen while the range heated and Áine set about kneading the dough to make the bread for the next few days. The sounds of summer were all around – the buzzing of the bees in the garden, the tinny sound of the wireless from where Charlotte had been sunbathing on the lawn. The sound of the children playing had just quietened as Emma had come in, declared herself exhausted, and said she was going to read for a while in her room. Jonathan had wandered in just after and begged a glass of home-made lemonade from his grandmother who was now sitting dozing in her armchair. The heat didn’t agree with her, she had grumbled before leaving Áine to bake the bread alone. In the stifling heat of the kitchen beads of sweat were forming on Aine’s brow and still she loved kneading the bread – she found it therapeutic and rewarding. At the end of her labours she would have something that the family would enjoy with their dinner – a salad she had planned along with a few slices of home-roasted ham. Hopefully the heat inside the kitchen would have dissipated enough so that they could all eat together without anyone getting hot and bothered. It would be pleasant – and she imagined the children laughing and chatting, Jack telling his tall tales and Charlotte drinking it all in and complimenting her on her cooking. She was lost in her reverie when her sister walked into the kitchen.