The Cactus

by Sarah Haywood

  “You’ve met each other, I see.”

  “Yes, Rob’s just introduced himself. He’s kindly helping me cart this stuff from my car. You need at least four arms when you’ve got a baby.”

  “I’ll carry them upstairs for you,” said Rob. “Hi, Susan, by the way.”

  “I don’t want to put you to any trouble. You’re here to visit Susan.”

  “Oh, it’s no trouble at all,” Rob said, edging past my bump.

  I was left alone in the hallway as everyone disappeared upstairs. By the time Rob eventually descended, looking pleased with himself, I was more than a little irritated.

  “Right, shall I fetch the boxes then?” he asked. He lugged them in, one by one, and stacked them in a corner of the hallway. When he’d finished, he stood, rubbing his hands, waiting for me to say something.

  “Before you go, I’d just like to point out,” I said, “that I’m a very busy person, and if I make an arrangement with someone for one o’clock I don’t expect them to turn up at quarter past.”

  “Lighten up, Susan, it’s only a few minutes. There was an accident on the M6, so I was late dropping Ed off. I’m sorry, though, I should’ve given you a bell. Why don’t I take you for a bite to eat to make up for it?”

  “I have a prior engagement,” I said.

  “Oh, shame. Right. I suppose I’d better leave you to it, then. Another time, maybe.”

  Well, I couldn’t let him assume I had nothing better to do all day than await his arrival. That would be a show of weakness, and who knows where that would lead? Once he’d sloped off I sat down at my kitchen table and looked at the tapas dishes. There was far too much food for one person; it would probably end up being thrown away. What a lamentable waste. I wasn’t sure, at that moment, that I felt like eating any of it myself. When I returned to the sitting room, I spotted, through the bay window, that Rob’s van was still parked outside; I could see him tapping out a text message on his phone. I hesitated. Would it really be weakness? Or just a sensible way of using up surplus food? Plus, I had my detective work to think about. I went outside and knocked on the window of Rob’s van. He wound it down and leaned out.

  “There’s been a last-minute change of plans,” I told him. “You’re welcome to share my lunch with me.”

  “That’d be great. I’ll just finish sending this message to Ed.” Updating his puppet-master, no doubt.

  When I led him into the kitchen, Rob expressed surprise at the array of dishes.

  “Wow. Do you eat like this every day?”

  “A varied diet is important when you’re pregnant,” I explained.

  * * *

  Returning to the kitchen after a brief visit to the bathroom, I found that Rob had got up from the table and was standing by the work surface, studying, with more-than-innocent interest, the notes I’d made on duress and mental capacity in the drafting of wills. When he spotted me, he started wittering on about looking for a piece of kitchen roll to mop up some spilled olive oil. I turned my papers over so they couldn’t be read, then threw a cloth to Rob. The spillage was almost nonexistent. I was about to confront him over his spying antics, but then decided against it. It would be better for my own counterespionage agenda not to reveal, at this stage, that I was on to him.

  To my disappointment, I didn’t manage to extract from Rob any more information that was useful to my case, despite subtle and repeated probing. I concluded that he must either be cannier than he appeared, or must be used to giving evasive answers under close questioning. It goes without saying that he failed in his attempts to trick me into disclosing anything about my legal action. Having finished skirting around the edges of estate-related matters, we ended up talking about irrelevancies (among other things, on his part: his childhood in a small town on the Welsh borders, his hippie parents who were converting an old hayloft in Italy, his two younger sisters and their ever-expanding families; on my part: what I thought about life in London, why I hadn’t gone on to be a solicitor or barrister after my law degree, the standoffishness of my father’s side of the family).

  Rob also updated me on his quest, telling me he’d joined Facebook but hadn’t been able to find Alison on there. He wondered if she’d changed her name. He’d sent friend requests to two of her old flatmates, who he hoped would have some information on her current whereabouts. I wished him success. If anyone had happened to be in the room with Rob and me they would have thought we were two friends having a good-natured weekend lunch together, rather than members of opposing tribes assessing each other’s strengths and weaknesses.

  Before he left, I showed Rob my windowsill full of cacti, which I knew he, as a horticulturalist, would appreciate. I explained that this wasn’t my complete collection; the other half was on my desk at work. Its extent and variety impressed him. Reaching out a finger to a large bunny ear, he talked about the way the cactus had evolved spikes, rather than leaves, in order to reduce the surface area through which it could lose water, while still providing some shade for the main body of the plant, often little more than a modified stem; many people, he said, wrongly assumed that spikes served only to ward off predators. He also remarked on the cactus’s thick waxy skin, its well-developed root system and its broad, succulent trunk, all of which facilitated the storage of moisture or the minimization of its loss.

  Putting a finger in the soil, Rob asked me how often I watered my cacti and whether any of them had ever bloomed. Apparently, to stimulate them to produce flowers, I should water sparingly during the dormant period (I always water sparingly), then give them a good drenching to mimic a brief rainy season. He picked up each of the containers in turn, remarking that several of the plants were pot-bound and would soon cease to thrive if they weren’t repotted. And light, too, he said—they would benefit from being in a position with more direct sunlight, at least six hours a day. I must say, although I may have been impressed by his expertise in plant cultivation, I was more than a little disgruntled. I’ve managed to nurture some very impressive specimens without anyone else’s interference. Admittedly, none of them has ever bloomed, but that’s a detail.

  * * *

  Later that evening, as I was sorting through the boxes Rob had dropped off, I heard Kate’s familiar tap on the front door. She was returning my copy of The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, which I’d lent her a couple of weeks ago.

  “I quite liked it,” she said, “but I didn’t get Miss Brodie. She didn’t seem very likable. I can’t enjoy a book if I don’t warm to the main character.”

  “I disagree. I’d rather read about someone interesting than someone who’s just nice.”

  “Talking about nice people,” Kate said. “What a lovely man that Rob is. Very helpful. Very funny. We had a really good chat when we were upstairs.”

  “Did you? But I should warn you—if you’re interested in him, do bear in mind he’s a friend and ally of my brother, so deeply flawed and completely untrustworthy.”

  “I’m not interested in him.” She laughed. “I’ve got enough on my plate at the moment. And anyway, he seems rather fond of you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. For a start, he’s on a mission to get back together with his ex.”

  “Well, all I know is that when he was up in my flat he was telling me he’s never met anyone like you. He was talking about your dry sense of humor and your quirky way of looking at things.”

  “Kate, he’s playing a game to get information about my legal case,” I told her. “He’s more devious than you’d think from his laid-back manner. I can only assume you’ve been reading romantic fiction again—something must be rotting your brain and clouding your judgment. I’ll have to sort out some more literary classics for you. Have you read any Virginia Woolf?”

  16

  “Is it possible ever to know someone completely? To know all their thoughts and feelings, their hopes, their dreams, their sorrows and regrets
, the parts of themselves they hide from public view? Only God can truly know us like that.” The vicar smiled the beatific smile of someone blessed with certainty that he has wisdom and virtue on his side.

  “Yes, I do appreciate that you’re unable to give me a divine insight into the workings of my mother’s mind or the state of her soul. However, I recall that she considered you to be a friend, and that you visited her regularly at home. I assume you’re able to express an earthly opinion on whether she was rational and lucid in the last few months of her life.”

  The vicar—Jeremy he’d told me to call him, but I can only think of him as “the vicar”—put the leather-patched elbows of his tweed jacket on his desk and stroked his graying, man-of-the-people beard.

  “I’d very much like to help you resolve your concerns. I can see you’re hurt by the contents of Patricia’s will. However, I’ve got to be careful of what I say. There are things that she told me—discussions we had—which were in total confidence. I wouldn’t feel comfortable revealing all she unburdened to me. I’ll do my best, though, to answer any questions that don’t intrude on matters I believe she’d have preferred to take to the grave.”

  I had no idea what the vicar was talking about. My mother wasn’t the sort of person who had secrets, certainly not from me. She was a simple, straightforward woman. Some people might even say boring—certainly an archetypal housewife and mother of her generation. I could only assume he was endeavoring to confer on himself the status of personal confidant. This didn’t surprise me. I understand that vicars often have an inflated sense of their own importance, resulting from their congregations treating them as minor celebrities, founts of all knowledge or gatekeepers to the afterlife. His dog collar wasn’t having the usual effect.

  * * *

  It was Christmas Eve. Kate and I had set off from London in the early-morning gloom, keen to avoid the worst of the mass exodus that would build inexorably as the day progressed. She was to drop me off at St. Stephen’s Church so I could interview the vicar, and I’d then make my way to Aunt Sylvia’s house by train and taxi. As usual, the offspring were squeezed in the back of the car, which was jammed full of luggage, child-related equipment and bulging black bin liners. “Father Christmas will be visiting us at my parents’ this year,” explained Kate with a wink. Both Ava and Noah were wearing snowman jumpers, and Kate had a Father Christmas hat pulled down over her ears. At least she wasn’t wearing antlers.

  It was more uncomfortable than ever in the tiny car. My seat had been pulled forward to accommodate a suitcase behind it, and I had to curl my legs to one side because a large, sharp-cornered parcel occupied most of the passenger foot well. My bump prevented me from utilizing the seat belt in the conventional way. Instead, I had to push the lap part below my bump and the diagonal part above it. The baby had recently started to press against my bladder, and no sooner had we managed to crawl out of London than I needed to use the services. I had a feeling it was going to be another long journey.

  By the time I finally heaved myself from Kate’s car outside St. Stephen’s, the sky was as dark as nightfall and it was sleeting. Kate ran around to the boot and extricated my small suitcase and my large paper carrier bag full of presents. Disinclined though I was to waste my time and money buying gifts for people in whose pleasure I had absolutely no interest, it would, obviously, have been very poor manners to turn up at Aunt Sylvia’s house empty-handed.

  “Are you going to be alright?” Kate asked, as I maneuvered my bags into a barely manageable arrangement. The icy rain sliced at my cheeks and hands. “Shall I help you carry your stuff up to the doors of the church?”

  “No, no, it’s only a short way. There’s no point in two people getting wet.”

  After exchanging hasty goodbyes and Merry Christmases, I shuffled along the slippery stone path, heaving my wheeled suitcase—on which I’d balanced the present bag—behind me. The umbrella did nothing to stop the sleet drenching my coat, my hair and my luggage. As I began to mount the worn steps leading to the doors of the church, the paper handles of the carrier bag gave way, and my carefully wrapped parcels tumbled out like favors from a piñata, landing in a shallow, muddy puddle by my feet. I must confess that I took the Lord’s name in vain. I pulled open one of the heavy oak doors and wedged it ajar with my suitcase, then stooped awkwardly to retrieve my parcels one by one from the water; harder than it sounds when you have a belly like Father Christmas himself. I put the pulpy gifts in a pile in the small vestibule and pushed the door closed with an echoing thud.

  I can see why people think of churches as places of sanctuary. Even from the vestibule I could smell the familiar, comforting aroma of old wood, furniture polish and candle wax. It was mixed with the scent of pinecones, which I established came from a decorated Christmas tree in the front corner of the church. Dotted around were arrangements of red-and-white flowers, tied in ribbon and trailing ivy. The only lights were near the front of the church, where an old woman in a housecoat was lovingly polishing a brass eagle lectern. She looked up, and I recognized her straightaway: Margaret, my mother’s neighbor.

  “Hello, Susan, dear. So nice to see you. Tut-tut, you’re drenched. Come with me, I’ll get some paper towels from the ladies to dry you off. Jeremy said you were coming to see him today. You’re looking well. Pregnancy certainly suits you. When’s the baby due?”

  She shuffled toward a door hidden in the shadows just before the chancel, and I followed.

  “In three months,” I told her. “I’m glad I’ve seen you, Margaret. I wanted a word with you, too. I don’t know whether you’re aware of my mother’s will.”

  “Yes, I am, dear. Edward told me he’s allowed to stay in the house. He said there’s some sort of argument about it. Not that I see him very often. He seems to sleep all day and entertain visitors all night. We used to see more of that Rob who was staying with him—he’d always stop for a chin-wag—but he’s moved into his own place now. Wills are such a problem. People don’t always end up with what they rightfully should.”

  We’d reached the toilets. Margaret grabbed a handful of paper towels and began dabbing at my hair and face. I’d normally have batted her away, but I felt too exhausted to bother. I stood there and allowed her to fuss over me. I was going to say “in a maternal way,” but I don’t recall my mother ever fussing like that. At least, not over me.

  “All done. I’ll just tell Jeremy you’re here. I’ve finished my bit of cleaning and polishing for the day so I’m heading home now, but why don’t you drop into ours when you’ve finished? You know where to find us.”

  * * *

  The vicar proceeded to describe to me, with the usual pious embellishments, his initial dealings with my mother and the events surrounding her second stroke. I knew most of it already. My mother started going to church shortly after her first ministroke, about three years ago. The vicar immediately sensed that she was “a very spiritual woman”; she told him that walking into St. Stephen’s “felt like returning home.” She quickly threw herself into the life of the church: joining Bible reading classes, baking cakes for fund-raising events, helping with the flowers. The vicar had no sense that her thinking had been in any way impaired; she seemed to him to be an intelligent, sensible, capable woman who “found her faith to be a great source of comfort and reassurance.”

  My mother’s second stroke, two years later, had occurred while she was serving tea from the trolley after the service (this one was a full stroke, although not catastrophic). The first the vicar knew that something was wrong was when the large aluminum teapot, from which she’d been pouring, crashed down onto the floor. My mother was standing there with an odd, twisted expression on her face. He and Margaret helped her to a chair, but she was unable to speak and didn’t react to what they said to her. Someone phoned for an ambulance, while they reassured her that everything would be fine. The vicar found my mother’s address book and phoned Edward, Aunt Sylvi
a and me. As it was a Sunday, I was able to travel straight to the hospital in Birmingham, where I found that my brother and aunt had already arrived.

  You can imagine my distress at seeing my mother with tubes and monitors attached to her, and with no knowledge of where she was or why. That’s by the by, though; my own feelings are irrelevant. The fact is, my mother’s recovery was remarkable. She was out of hospital in less than a week, and within a couple of months—with medication, speech therapy and physiotherapy—was, on the face of it, back to her normal self. Initially, the vicar said, he called in on my mother almost every day, as our family home was only a few minutes’ walk from the church. As she recovered, his visits became less regular, until she was able to resume attending church. Even then, he continued to call on her for afternoon tea once a week.

  “Why did you do that? Do you visit all your parishioners at home?” I asked.

  “I’d love to be able to, if I had infinite time,” he said. “But, sadly, that’s not possible. I’m afraid I have to limit my home visits to those who’re housebound or who I feel would benefit from one-to-one ministry in the comfort of their own home. I continued to visit your mother because it was obvious to me, after the stroke, that she was anxious and depressed. She had a sense of her own mortality, a feeling that she didn’t have much longer in this world, and there were things on her mind about which she didn’t feel entirely at peace.”

  “What sort of things?”

  “That, unfortunately, would be straying into matters which your mother revealed to me in confidence, and which I’ve already explained I don’t feel able to disclose.”