Behind Closed Doors

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘Hetty!’ I gasped. She turned: smiled. I grabbed a towel from the laundry basket and thrust it at her, but she only looked down at it in her hands in surprise. I instantly wrapped it around her waist, tucking it in firmly.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I breathed. She was tiny, and still very pretty, her face like a small crumpled violet. But I sensed she was confused. Many machines appeared to be whirring in here. The washing machine, the tumble drier, Mum’s old Kenwood mixer and – oh dear God, the ancient deep fat fryer, bubbling away furiously, full of boiling oil. I lunged and turned it off.

  ‘Helena! How lovely!’ Hetty exclaimed.

  ‘It’s Lucy, actually, and I’ve got you a skirt. I’ll wake Bertie and get Ron to take you home, shall I?’

  ‘I tried to wash my things,’ she told me, ‘but it’s all so different. And Lorraine usually does it.’ She looked upset and I realized she was shivering. My mother’s silk skirt was going to be totally inadequate.

  ‘I can imagine; so confusing, other people’s machines. Tell you what, I’ll wash it all later and pop it round tomorrow. Meanwhile,’ I plucked some tracksuit bottoms of mine from the clean laundry basket, ‘we’re going to put these on, OK?’ I took the towel away, drying her first, and sat her down on the stool by the ironing board. As I helped her into the warm, fleece-lined trousers I seethed quietly. My parents. So irresponsible.

  ‘That’s better,’ she said politely, but she was still shaking.

  ‘Good, good,’ I purred. ‘And now here’s a lovely cardigan of Mum’s …’ It was mine, actually, but thick and warm; my mother only seeming to possess the flimsiest of clothes. I gently guided Hetty’s arms into it, hoping I wouldn’t break them; they were like twigs. Then I found one of Mum’s pashminas, which I added for good luck. I shouldn’t have gone to London. On so many levels. What an error that had been.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen my spectacles?’ Hetty peered about myopically.

  ‘No, but we’ll find them. Come on, let’s go and get Bertie.’

  ‘Oh yes!’ The mention of his name seemed to galvanize her, and I guided her back into the sitting room, relieved that the shivering seemed to have calmed down.

  My father, by now, had collapsed in an armchair, eyes shut, arms hanging limply, but still singing gustily. Nancy was nowhere to be seen. I snapped Nina Simone off, irritated.

  Dad’s eyes sprang open. ‘Hey! I was listening to that!’

  ‘Dad, where’s Nance?’

  ‘Gone to find your mother and Hetty, upstairs. She thought you looked a bit shirty.’

  ‘I am shirty. Help me get Bertie up, would you? I’ll go and get Ron.’

  Dad looked surprised. He sat up a bit and raised his eyebrows. ‘Party’s over?’ he enquired.

  ‘I think so, don’t you?’ I said sweetly.

  As I shook Bertie awake my father roared helpfully: ‘Bertie! Party’s over!’

  ‘Wha-a?’ Bertie peered blearily into my face. He smacked his red-veined old chops and smiled. Tried to focus. ‘Always fancied your wife, Henry.’

  ‘Daughter,’ Dad told him. ‘But compliment accepted. Ron’s outside, apparently.’

  ‘Ah, Ron. Mustn’t keep him.’ Bertie struggled obediently to his feet, yawning and beaming at me as if he couldn’t quite place me. Nancy reappeared.

  ‘Your mother’s asleep,’ she told me. ‘And I can’t find Hetty but – oh there you are, dear.’ She beamed at her friend, who I’d deposited temporarily in an armchair by the fire. ‘You look cosy. Where are your specs?’

  ‘I think I might have them,’ Dad said abruptly. He took a smallish, winged pair off his face. ‘Where are mine?’ He gazed around, peeved. ‘Hope bloody Joan hasn’t got them.’

  ‘Christ – Joan and Roger, where are they?’ I glanced around. Dear God, not more bodies unaccounted for.

  ‘Went early,’ Nancy told me. ‘Joan still drives, but she likes to go in the light.’ She smirked. ‘She doesn’t drink, of course. Frightfully dull.’

  I liked the sound of Joan. I eyed Nancy beadily. She’d found a cigarette to light and was puffing away. ‘Does Dan know you’re here?’ I asked. She froze, mid-exhale.

  ‘No!’ she breathed in a stream of smoke. ‘Don’t tell him.’

  ‘We decided Nance needed cheering up,’ my father told me. ‘She’s had a terrible time.’

  ‘Terrible,’ Bertie echoed.

  ‘So we sprang her,’ my father told me, trying to look important, but only succeeding in looking naughty.

  ‘We tried to get her a You-ber,’ Bertie informed me, ‘but they said it was too far, so we got her a taxi from the station. Joan didn’t approve, of course. Dismal old bag. Oh, there are your glasses, Henry.’

  He bent slowly and picked up a pair of broken spectacles from the carpet: gave them to my father.

  As the two of them examined the mangled spectacles, I beetled outside and through the gates to wake Ron. He struggled to attention immediately, ramming his cap on and starting the car, as keen as I was for him to get on the road. Under my instruction he drove right to the front door. Then we went inside and, between us, escorted Hetty and Bertie out of the house, and into the back of the car. Bertie protested loudly that he was quite capable of walking to the car on his own and shook us off, then headed straight into a rose bush. Once we’d sorted him out and picked the thorns and leaves off him, we poured him into the back seat with his wife. I saw the car safely round the corner, feeling slightly guilty about Ron coping on his own at the other end, but then I remembered the Millers were loaded, and had a live-in housekeeper. I hastened back inside. My phone stopped me, just short of the sitting room. It was Dan.

  ‘Lucy? Did you call?’

  ‘Hi, Dan. Listen, all’s well, no need to worry, but the parents have had a bit of a party.’ I swung around and headed outside into the drive again, out of earshot.

  ‘Oh Christ. Where?’

  ‘Here, I’m afraid. I went to London and they got a taxi for your mother. Sprang her. Their words.’

  ‘Oh God. I’m in London too, had to come up unexpectedly for a meeting. She swore blind she wouldn’t move and I left her food … Lucy, I can’t really get back till tomorrow. Can you cope?’

  ‘Course,’ I told him firmly. ‘But I might put her to bed here and take her back in the morning. She’s a bit – you know.’

  ‘God knows where that generation put it. I tried her gin the other night and it was practically neat.’

  ‘Well, they don’t, that’s the problem. Put it anywhere, I mean. Because there’s no flesh on them any more. Although your mum copes better than most. Anyway, I’ll hang on to her, don’t worry.’

  ‘Thanks, Lucy. I’m super grateful. Oh, and see you on Friday.’

  Somewhere dim and distant, in what I would like to think was a normal life, I realized I had a date. I agreed that I would indeed see him then.

  I darted into the sitting room. There was no sign of Nancy again. For an old girl of nearly ninety, she was remarkably nimble on her feet. My father was on his, now, clearing up.

  ‘I put Nancy to bed, together with your mother,’ he said casually, as if butter wouldn’t melt. ‘They were both a bit tired.’

  Up the stairs I went, leaving my father half smiling, and with an annoying hint of a halo over his head. Sure enough, there were the two old birds, fully dressed. I removed Mum’s shoes and her glasses and Nance’s great ropes of amethyst beads lest she strangle herself, and took off her shoes, too. I was about to remove her turban, but hesitated, wondering what on earth I’d find underneath. Pulling the eiderdown over them both, I put another blanket on top, and drew the curtains. Then I turned off the light and went out.

  When I got downstairs, my father had found the stereo button again. Nina was purring softly once more. He was efficiently clearing the dining room, clearly enjoying himself now. I helped him in silence, knowing now was not the moment. As he wound his way towards the kitchen, however, he made the mistake of putting his foot in Hect
or’s water bowl.

  I sprang to steady him. I took the tray of glasses from him and helped him out, before his strange orthopaedic shoe got wedged.

  ‘Easy, Dad,’ I couldn’t resist saying, as I eyed him carefully. His eyes accepted a tiny defeat. Making the most of it, I turned him around and headed him towards the stairs.

  ‘Why not have a bit of a zizz yourself and come down and help me later?’ I suggested.

  He hesitated at the bottom. ‘Might just have forty winks,’ he conceded eventually. ‘But I’ll be back,’ he warned. ‘I won’t be long.’

  I watched him go, muttering about bossy bloody females and how hag-ridden he was, but he went, nonetheless, and I knew I wouldn’t see him again until morning.

  I threw off my jacket, rolled up my sleeves and surveyed the chaos, then set about it. As I went back and forth to the dining room and sitting room, I realized I felt a hundred times better than I had done a couple of hours ago. I also realized I was humming along to Nina Simone.

  17

  Dan was waiting for me at the pub when I pushed through the door of the Rose and Crown on Friday. It was warm, softly lit, busy but not crowded, and he was perched at the bar with a beer, engrossed in a newspaper. It made a welcome change from seeing someone staring at their phone – not that I met many men in pubs, it occurred to me; indeed, I hadn’t, for about a hundred years. I had the advantage of seeing him first and he was wearing a soft blue jumper which I could tell even at this distance was cashmere. It went rather well with his still boyishly pink complexion and his swept back fair hair. He turned and smiled broadly as I approached, folding away his paper and getting to his feet. I apologized for being late which I wasn’t really, and he assured me he’d just got there, although when I looked at his half-empty glass it appeared he’d been there a while. When he’d ordered me a gin and tonic he asked after my parents, and I told him they’d finally recovered from the morning after the night before and explained about my day administering to the severely hung-over. On the down side, I told him, it had been exhausting, but on the plus side, it had had the advantage of rendering them horizontal and immobile on their respective beds as I’d popped in and out with soup and Alka-Seltzer, my father mumbling about the possibility of a dodgy prawn in the fish pie.

  Dan chuckled as he paid the barmaid for my drink and passed it to me. ‘They’re incorrigible. After you’d dropped her off with Betty, Mum apparently spent the whole day lying on a sofa with a mask over her eyes, complaining that climate change had made the days much brighter than they used to be.’

  ‘At least you’ve got Betty,’ I told him, sipping my drink. ‘She looked eminently more capable and sensible than our sweet but decrepit Irene.’

  He made a face. ‘Except she doesn’t drive, which is annoying. But yes, I can at least leave Mum for a couple of days and be in London. As long as she’s not snuck out by any reprobates, of course.’ He grinned.

  I grimaced. ‘Sorry about that. We’ve had words about not leading the neighbours astray.’

  We had, actually. When they’d recovered sufficiently, I’d sat my parents down like a couple of children and explained that I had to be able to go away, or even go on holiday, and not return to find the place trashed and the pair of them insensible. Not to mention all the damage limitation I had to perform with their friends’ carers and children.

  ‘It’s our house to trash,’ Mum had pouted.

  ‘Of course it is, but aside from a chip pan fit to explode—’

  ‘Hetty,’ Mum interjected quickly.

  ‘—you’d left an electric ring on high, with a bone-dry pan on top of it. Not for the first time, either. The Aga man’s coming tomorrow, but until then, I think we avoid using a cooker you have no idea how to work. Plus, Bertie’s got blood poisoning.’

  ‘Bertie’s always got blood poisoning,’ interjected my father stubbornly. ‘He never managed to clear it up since Egypt. It’s a recurring condition.’

  ‘Which, according to Lorraine, their housekeeper, re-occurs every time he sets foot in your house.’

  ‘Or the McPhersons’, to be fair,’ he pointed out.

  ‘They’re much worse,’ my mother agreed with a shudder.

  I didn’t remember the McPhersons, and asked Dan now if he knew them.

  ‘Oh, they’re a dreadful influence,’ he told me as we were handed the bar menu. ‘You don’t want to let them go round there. He’s got a horse down at Ronnie Taylor’s yard. I once drove Mum and Archie there to go racing – didn’t see them for three days.’ He raised his glass and smiled, his eyes blue and twinkling. ‘Welcome to my world.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I muttered, rolling mine back.

  ‘Although I have to admit,’ he looked a bit sheepish and lowered his voice, ‘it’s a darn site easier without Archie. He became my main charge.’

  ‘Oh really? God, not even yours. An adoptee.’

  ‘Exactly. When he married Mum, he was reasonably hale and hearty. He didn’t half go off the boil quickly, though. I think he’d gone into training before, to snare her. Apparently he put in quite a few hours on the golf course, and then of course he gave the whole thing up when he moved into our house and never played a round again. He just sank into a sybaritic routine of lunching at his club in London once a week – which he could naturally afford to rejoin – and hobnobbing with all her friends down here.’

  ‘Did you mind?’ I asked him, as, having both ordered steak and chips, we moved to a table in the corner, which he’d reserved.

  ‘What, that he’d clearly married Mum for her money?’ Dan shrugged. ‘Not really. As I said before, it’s hers to do what she likes with. And she was clearly lonely after Piers had buggered off with her hairdresser. At least Archie was unlikely to do that.’

  I hadn’t met Nancy’s third husband, but he’d been rather dashing, according to Mum. Quite a bit younger than her, in the mould of a Roddy Llewellyn, she’d told me. My mother’s knowledge of the Royal Family is encyclopaedic, but she’d had to remind me who he was.

  ‘You know, Princess Margaret’s young beau.’

  ‘Oh. No, not really.’

  According to Mum, after flirting outrageously with Nancy’s beautician, Piers had finally disappeared with her mobile – and nubile – hairdresser. That in itself was a mystery, since Nance was never without a turban. It had at least relieved her of the effort of looking twenty years younger, though, which, as she’d confided to Mum, was a blessed relief. All that plucking and bleaching and lifting cans of baked beans in the air …

  ‘None of us siblings was too displeased to see the back of him,’ Dan told me now. ‘And since he’d only been married to Mum for three years, we did fight – successfully – to keep his hands out of the coffers. But there was no malice about Archie, so no, I didn’t object to two old people getting together for companionship.’ He shrugged. ‘And I suppose, from his point of view, a more comfortable life.’

  Our steaks arrived. ‘Well, quite. Otherwise she’s just rattling around in an empty house.’

  ‘Until the next one appears.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Husband number five!’ he declared, miming a quiz show host opening a magic box.

  I giggled. ‘D’you really think?’

  He sighed rather despairingly. ‘Trust me, it’s only a matter of time.’ He poured me a glass of red wine and we tucked into our steaks. ‘But beware, Lucy,’ he waved his knife, ‘you get sucked into this existence remarkably quickly. It’s like quicksand. If you’ve got any aspirations to lead a normal life and continue with something even approaching a job, think again.’

  ‘But you’ve been in London these last few days?’

  ‘Well, I’m lucky in that I’ve reached the consultancy stage of life, the departure lounge, as I call it. I basically just sit on a few non-exec committees and advise – which sounds grander than it is. The real work starts when I come back to assess whether my mother’s been as good as gold and pottering in the garden, or out on the razz with Claire McPherson.’


  I blinked. ‘Golly. I must make a note of these troublemakers. I don’t remember them. Where do they live?’

  He paused. Looked a bit awkward. ‘Pains End.’

  ‘Pains End.’ I stopped. Put my fork down. ‘But that’s where the Carringtons live?’ I went a bit cold, suddenly.

  ‘Used to,’ he said shortly. ‘The McPhersons bought it from them about ten years ago.’ He didn’t look at me when he said it.

  I swallowed. ‘I didn’t know that,’ I said slowly.

  ‘I’m sorry I brought them up, Lucy. I’d forgotten that was the house you were heading for.’

  I met his eyes which were kind and truly apologetic. He meant on the night of the accident. The Carringtons had been hosting the party to which Helena and I had been invited. We never made it. And neither did someone else, in a tragic, more terminal sense.

  ‘No, don’t be silly. It’s been years.’

  He shrugged. ‘Still painful though, I can tell.’

  ‘Yes,’ I admitted. ‘Not a day goes by, actually.’

  ‘Really? Actually, sorry, I don’t know why I said that. I can imagine. It would never go away.’ He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘I was there, as a matter of fact.’

  I looked up sharply. ‘At the party?’ How odd. I’d never considered real life continuing in the wings whilst so much drama was happening somewhere else. In a quiet country lane. At a crossroads.

  ‘It wasn’t strictly my age group, but I knew Helena was going. In fact, if I’m brutally honest, I was only there because I knew she was bringing you.’

  I glanced up at him in surprise. ‘Oh! I don’t remember—’ I’d been about to say, ‘I don’t remember you,’ but realized how rude it sounded.

  He laughed. ‘No reason why you should. I was Hel ena’s friend, and even she was a couple of years younger than me. I just sort of – knew you from afar. When you came to the pub, sometimes.’

  I remembered coming here, to the Rose and Crown, with Helena when I was home from university. Despite living in London, she still drifted back at weekends and met all her mates here: a fun, rowdy gang. Ant had been one of them. But when I moved to London, I no longer came down. I’d met Michael by then.