Behind Closed Doors

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘This evening,’ I told him. ‘In visiting hours. She’s just in a normal ward now, out of A&E. And home, as I say, tomorrow.’

  He nodded, eyes bright, not quite trusting himself to speak. In a moment I saw him straighten his shoulders as he set about tidying the newspapers from yesterday, putting them in the recycling pile in the kitchen. Then he came back and insisted on taking the ash out of the grate himself, laying the kindling, and generally getting the house bright and cheerful for her, even though she wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. I realized he’d thought the worst, as I had. At least I didn’t have that, I thought: the terrible grief my father would of course have one day – but not right now – of losing his life partner. The love of his life. I’d been spared that, with my life partner. But an empty, lonely feeling prevailed instead.

  ‘Nance must have been pleased,’ I said. ‘When you told her?’

  He chuckled, bending down with almost super human ease to put a match to the fire. ‘Nancy’s a tough old bird. I think she’d almost moved in. Was practically rearranging the furniture.’

  ‘No!’ I was shocked. But then, not really. This was how Dad’s generation spoke – and acted. And Dad was an attractive man. It was no secret that Nance had always fancied him, and let’s face it, who wants to be lonely for the last decade of their life? And Nance might be Mum’s best friend, but she’d always had very sharp elbows. I tried not to be horrified. Husband number five.

  ‘Much too bossy for me,’ he grinned. ‘And she practically bathes in gin; we’d be permanently pickled. It would never do. No, your mother’s a much kinder, softer person.’

  I saw his eyes fill as he gazed into the flames which leaped up from the crumpled newspaper. I gave his shoulder a squeeze as I passed. ‘She is,’ I murmured.

  ‘Like you, love,’ he said abstractedly. But I didn’t answer. ‘Anyway, enough of me, what about you?’ He straightened up, rubbing his hands together. ‘I reckon that Dan’s after you.’ I smiled and went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. ‘And he’s not a bad prospect, either,’ he called after me. ‘Got loads of dosh, courtesy of his consulting work. On all sort of boards. You wouldn’t starve.’

  I grinned and reached up to the shelf for the teabags. ‘You’re as bad as Helena,’ I called out. ‘And no doubt Nancy’s been stirring the pot while she was here? Putting him forward as a candidate?’

  There was no answer. I poked my head round the door as the kettle boiled. ‘Dad? I said—’

  ‘Yes, I heard. I was thinking about it. She didn’t, actually. But Nancy’s a selfish old girl. I think she was keen in the beginning, but not so much now. I think she’s realized she likes that boy single, and at her beck and call. Not sure the reality of sharing him with someone else is that attractive.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ I went back to the fridge for milk. ‘God, Nancy’s shown herself in her true colours today, hasn’t she? And I bet she thought she was covering herself in glory, playing Florence Nightingale and offering tea and sympathy.’

  I heard my father chuckle from the next room. ‘Funny how that often happens in a crisis. Brings out the best in some people, and in others, brings out the worst.’

  I thought about that later as I was driving my father to the hospital, armed with Vogue, grapes, and some clothes for the morning. About how good Dan had been at the hospital, and how unlike his mother he was. I wondered where that softness had come from: his father had sounded a bit dictatorial.

  ‘How well d’you know Dan?’ I asked, as casually as I could, but not getting away with it.

  Dad sat up, pleased. ‘Not terribly well, actually. He was in London until his marriage broke up. But he always seems like a nice boy. Kind.’

  ‘Yes, he is kind. He was brilliant at the hospital.’ We were at some red lights and I quickly checked my phone.

  ‘Helena’s fond of him?’ he offered.

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘Darling, you shouldn’t text and drive.’

  ‘Sorry.’ I dropped my phone on my lap as the lights went green. ‘I wasn’t actually using it, just looking. And I’d really like to know why that’s so different to reading a map.’

  ‘Not different at all, but plenty of people drive up the backside of a lorry reading maps.’

  My mother was positively perky when we arrived in her ward. She’d been eyeing the door, waiting for us, and was sitting up in bed. The hospital gown was grim and I immediately handed her a pale grey pashmina which she took gratefully. Together we arranged it artfully around her shoulders, this sort of thing being important to Hartley women.

  ‘Thank you, darling,’ she said as Dad gave her a kiss. I watched as they gazed tenderly at one another for a moment.

  ‘All right, old girl?’

  ‘Never better.’

  ‘Gave us a bit of a shock.’

  ‘I like to keep you on your toes.’

  ‘As long as you’re not turning them up.’

  We giggled, never a family for public displays of affection. Better at silly jokes and pashminas, which she was readjusting round her shoulders.

  ‘They took my earrings,’ she told me indignantly. ‘Said I might hurt myself on them. I said I’d been wearing earrings in bed for sixty years and I hadn’t suffered an injury yet.’

  ‘’Elf and safety,’ I told her. ‘I’ll take them home for you. Are they in here?’ I bent and looked in her little cabinet. Dad, sitting on the other side of the bed, just blinked a lot and took her hand. For once he seemed rather lost for words. The little old lady, last seen being carried into the ambulance, was a very different kettle of fish from the one sitting up swathed in cashmere, demanding her Chanel clips.

  ‘No, Becky’s got them,’ she told me. ‘Becky!’ she tried to call out, but her voice was thin. It nonetheless carried enough, and I turned to see the sulky redhead, from the waiting room, turn her head as she tucked in a patient. She came across, smiling.

  ‘More lippy, Cecily?’ She grinned.

  ‘No, but thank you, darling,’ my mother purred. ‘I just wondered if I could retrieve my earrings. This is my daughter Lucy, and my husband, Henry,’ she said, extending her hand as if we were at a drinks party. ‘Becky’s been wonderful,’ she told us. ‘She’s been looking after me. Marvellous girl.’ I was surprised. I realized Becky didn’t even recognize me. It occurred to me then, that when I’d imagined she’d been staring at a screen, online shopping, perhaps, she’d doubtless been madly organizing beds remotely. Or some other urgent medical task. And no lunch break, so just shove in a Curly Wurly. I gave her a grateful smile.

  ‘Thank you. So much.’

  ‘I’ll get your sparklers,’ she told Mum with a wink.

  ‘They’re in the safe,’ Mum told us as the nurse moved on. ‘And Becky told me they’re the nicest things in there. Everything else …’ She shuddered, looking around at her inmates in horror. ‘Well, you can imagine.’ Her voice was a bit louder now. She was clearly feeling a lot better. ‘And this one,’ she hissed, jerking her head at a catatonic woman next door, deathly pale, mouth open, eyes shut. ‘I mean, she might as well be dead. Look at her, poor thing.’

  ‘Mum …’ I warned nervously.

  ‘In fact, half of these poor creatures, if they were animals, honestly, no sane vet—’

  ‘Yes, yes, OK,’ I interrupted hurriedly, wondering if she hadn’t had quite enough saline and should come home now. Quite punchy. Dad was still gulping and staring adoringly, and it occurred to me that this moment might not come again: when he might tell her something rather tender and lovely. Three seemed a crowd, suddenly.

  ‘Tell you what, to save Becky coming back, I’ll go and get your jewellery from her. Dad, I’ll see you out there. I’ve got a quick phone call to make. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mum. Pick you up early.’

  Before either of them could argue, I was on my way. Becky was straightening up behind the counter in the waiting area, having clearly locked a safe beneath it. As she handed me the earrings, a diamond ring
and a Cartier watch, I thanked her for all she’d done. I also agreed I’d be back any time after seven, because, she told me, the ward badly needed the bed. I took a seat at the front where I did indeed get out my phone, for about the tenth time that day. But no. No message. And no reason why there should be one, of course, I thought, pocketing it slowly. I mean, yes, I’d left a long, chatty one after the lunch. But it was a thank you. He was hardly going to text back saying – thank you for your thank you – was he? No man would do that. A girl might. Might say – lovely to see you! But not a man. The television above the nurses’ station was on again: the news. I tried to distract myself with the political situation in Scotland. More cries for sovereignty. Then I got my phone out again and read the message I’d sent.

  ‘Can’t tell you how much I enjoyed lunch and what good fellows the Goodfellows are! The curry was delicious and I think you should take all the credit. Tilly would insist! Many thanks again. Xx’

  Obviously I’d laboured long and hard over it. The kisses had been a difficult decision, but surely it would be odd not to? I practically left kisses for the window cleaner. And surely we’d almost had a moment at the door? But … perhaps I was deluding myself. Perhaps I’d been a bit pissed? Although I hadn’t thought I was over the limit. I felt slightly foolish, all of a sudden. A bit out of my depth, which made me feel panicky. It was an old, familiar feeling that I’d sworn to myself I’d never feel again. I had vowed I’d never again put my emotional health in someone else’s hands, that I’d be the one in control, I’d be the one calling the shots, wearing the trousers. Which was why Dan was a much more … suddenly I froze. Stared at the television. Listened to what George Alagiah was saying.

  ‘A man has been arrested in connection with the murder of the theatre critic, Michael Palmer. Mr Palmer was found dead at his home in West London earlier this year, following a break-in. Andrew Parker, seventeen, has been charged with his murder.’

  A photograph of a young blond boy flashed up on the screen. ‘In Herefordshire, the River Wye has once again burst its banks …’

  I turned away, shocked. Stared blankly into the middle distance. George Alagiah’s mellifluous tones drifted on.

  29

  When my father came and found me a few minutes later, I was still sitting there, staring blankly at the wall. He bounded up, looking jaunty and happy.

  ‘All right, darling? Let’s go.’ He rubbed his hands together. I turned my head and looked at him blankly. ‘Luce?’ he said as I got to my feet. ‘What’s wrong? You’re as white as a sheet.’

  ‘Someone’s been charged with Michael’s murder,’ I told him. But my voice sounded odd. Distant. ‘It’s just been on the news.’

  ‘Oh!’ He looked astonished. Then his face cleared. ‘But that’s marvellous, darling. I mean – clears it all up.’

  ‘He’s seventeen,’ I told him. There appeared to be no saliva in my mouth.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘There was a picture. He looked … like a child. Like Ned did, at that age.’

  ‘OK, well—’

  ‘He’s probably – you know – a petty thief. A local lad. Chancing his arm. Nicking laptops, that kind of thing. Not a murderer.’

  My father shrugged. ‘Well, unintended consequences and all that.’ He looked at me carefully, as if searching behind my eyes. ‘Come on, love,’ he said gently. ‘Let’s go to the car.’

  We began to walk out. I kept my head bowed. I could sense he was recovering his buoyancy beside me, fairly bounding along by the time we got to the front doors. Not particularly fussed that a young lad had been arrested for Michael’s death, still very much with his dear wife in the ward down the corridor. And d’you know, he didn’t really feel they were doing enough in their declining years. He felt that the moment had to be seized. That now that his ulcers were under control, and her eyes and everything else – waterworks and what have you – they might go on a cruise. But I wasn’t really listening, I was wondering how Andrew Parker had grown up. Fatherless? Possibly. Unemployed, almost certainly. Did he even have a home? Was he on the streets? Seventeen … I felt a bit sick. I let us into the car and let Dad ramble on as we drove away.

  He was telling me about a trip the Frobishers had taken. Just around the Balearic Islands, so not far, but hot and sunny and—‘Don’t you think it’s odd that they didn’t come and tell me?’ I said suddenly, cutting into his chatter.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The police.’

  He looked surprised. ‘Well no, love. They’re just concluding their inquiry.’

  ‘But Michael was my husband. And I was questioned.’

  ‘Well yes, of course you were, you were there, in the house. But they will have questioned lots of people. They don’t have to come and tell you how they’re getting on.’

  ‘Don’t they?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge, although actually, Nance did think she heard the door, but when we looked, no one was there, so who knows?’ He smiled: patted my knee. ‘Look, I know it’s a shock, and particularly to hear it on the news like that, but once you’ve got your head round it you’ll be so relieved. I wasn’t the biggest fan of Michael, as you know, but to have found the man who ended his life is surely a good thing. It gives a sense of closure.’

  Boy. He was a boy. And he hadn’t ended Michael’s life. I had. My heart was beating very fast. My mouth was dry. I held on tightly to the wheel. I mustn’t look at Dad. Mustn’t say anything. Worry him. I licked my sticky teeth.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I whispered. ‘Just the shock. That’ll be it. Tell me about the Frobishers’ cruise.’ And he did. About how they’d sat at the Captain’s table most nights, and how Jeannie, because of her dodgy knees, had had a wheelchair when they reached Formentera; a lovely cabin girl had scooted her around. Not that they went far, just into the main square for lunch. And not that he’d need a wheelchair, his legs were so much better, but nice to know it was there. A team of medics on board too, no doubt a defibrillator in every cabin! He told me Dickie had had the dressing on his septic toe changed by a very saucy blonde and I managed a feeble laugh. They’d asked Mum and Dad to go with them next year and they’d said no. But maybe they should change their minds?

  ‘You should,’ I managed, as we pulled into the drive. ‘You’d enjoy it.’

  Dad fairly skipped from the car. As soon as we were inside, he bustled to his study, muttering about being convinced he’d put the brochure Dickie had given him somewhere. Maybe in his desk …?

  Luckily his study was the one room he’d forbidden me or anyone else to clean, on the basis that yes, it was messy, but it was his mess and he knew where everything was. Happily, this was untrue, because he spent ages looking for things, so I knew it gave me a few moments. A few moments to hold on to the back of the sofa, bend my head, shut my eyes and think.

  OK. OK, they’d said murder. But surely that should have been manslaughter? Surely, if the boy had been a petty thief, there’s no way he’d intended to kill? It had just been a mistake. So manslaughter. But why had they said it? This was the BBC, not some local radio station. Why had it been on the national news in the first place? Because Michael had written for a national newspaper once? Probably. And Helena told me there’d been a bit on the news when he’d died, not that I’d seen it. Had in fact deliberately avoided it. And so therefore – I whipped out my phone. Yes. Two missed calls. One from Imo, one from Helena. They’d both left voicemails. Plus a text from Ned. All were along the same lines. I listened to Imo’s voicemail.

  ‘Soo delighted, Mum! They’ve got him. All that worrying for nothing! Now you can relax – oh, thank God. Ring me!’

  Thank goodness my phone had been on silent. I sat down and quickly messaged back on our family WhatsApp.

  ‘Such good news! I saw it too! Can’t talk now cos Mum and Dad need supper.’

  No. I deleted the last bit. No lies –

  ‘cos am getting supper, but will ring you all tomorrow!’

  I added a row of smi
ley faced emojis to keep them happy.

  ‘Da-dah!’ My father appeared in the doorway, brandishing an Abercrombie & Kent brochure. ‘Found it. Darling, you’ve still got your coat on. And don’t let the fire go out.’ He hastened to put a log on. It had become something of a leitmotif for my father: not letting life go out. I straightened up. I removed my coat and went to hang it up.

  ‘Shall we have fishcakes tonight, Dad? There are a couple in the freezer. And we could watch an episode of The Crown.’

  ‘Good idea. And let’s have a G&T while you rustle it up.’ He hurried to the drinks cupboard and poured a couple of large ones. Amazing how fast he could move with a bit of adrenalin. I took my drink to the kitchen with me. I’d drunk half of it before I realized the pan was burning on the hob, with nothing inside it.

  The following morning, it seemed to me I’d never really been asleep at all. I’d spent a fitful and frightening night in the gloaming, that terrifying place where the sweet release of sleep is always on the horizon, but never quite achieved. And where hallucinations are common. I got up wearily and prepared to collect my mother. Before I left, I arranged my face into a bright smile and popped into Dad’s bedroom to let him know I was going. He was already shaving at his basin in his paisley dressing gown.

  ‘I’m going to start driving again, now that my legs are better,’ he told me, covered in Trumpers shaving soap. His eyes were defiant. ‘No reason why I shouldn’t?’ His chin jutted.

  ‘No reason at all. Although I might come with you for a bit. It’s been a while since you’ve done it.’

  He hesitated, about to protest, but then realizing he’d done well to get the general concept through, went back to listening to the Today Programme, which ordinarily made him roar with rage, but this morning saw him soaping himself merrily.

  My mother was up and ready to go, already sitting bolt upright in the chair by her bed in the ward. She was dressed in the clothes I’d brought her yesterday, clutching her handbag. Her overnight bag was packed and ready at her feet. She was also beautifully made up. Now that she could see, her make-up was much less erratic.