by Louise Voss
Ed just stared at me. He had a stain of indeterminate origin on his blue cashmere and splodges of paint on his hands, which were hanging uselessly between his manspread legs as he sat on a kitchen chair. I’d found him like that when I’d come in twenty minutes ago. There were no signs of any dinner preparation and I was starving.
‘Ed? Are you listening?’
I poured us each a glass of wine, waiting for him to answer me, or at least ask me something about my day, but he didn’t say anything. Then, as I replaced the half-empty bottle in the fridge, something caught my attention. I rolled my eyes; it was a pair of Ed’s socks, balled up next to the eggs. I discreetly removed them and stuffed them in my pocket.
‘Where’s the painting you did at Suzan’s, then? I can’t wait to see it! Are you going to do more?’
He took the wine and finally made eye contact with me. ‘Might do,’ he said.
‘So you enjoyed it?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What did you paint?’
‘Some flowers.’
‘Was it difficult?’
‘Not really.’
I remembered with a pang the days we used to stay up late into the night, debating all sorts of things, from the latest line-up of Take That to cuts in arts funding, Trident, the existence of God, and which was the most flattering style of jeans for a man in his late fifties…
Then I remembered something else. Carefully scrutinising his face as I spoke, I said, ‘Hey, Ed, there was someone on the radio at lunchtime who sounded just like you, it was spooky!’
Did I imagine the tiny hostile flare of his pupils, an almost imperceptible narrowing of his eyes? Then the blank expression was back again.
‘What do you mean? Of course I wasn’t.’
I turned away, busied myself with emptying the dishwasher’s clean contents, thoughts crowding my mind. Being on the radio was something Ed used to boast about, not try to deny. Since he took early retirement he’d often rung up radio stations. He’d booked to be in the audience of Question Time within minutes of hearing the announcement that it was to be filmed in Kingston a couple of years ago, and he’d been fuming when he wasn’t picked to ask a question.
As I stacked cereal bowls and plates – and retrieved a second pair of socks I’d found, soaking wet, in the cutlery basket – I made a mental note to ask Suzan what time Ed left her place. If she gave him a firm alibi I’d know I had been mistaken.
But it was that flare of panic in his eyes when I mentioned it, the hard set of his lips, just for a nanosecond, that flung me into a grey cloud of doubt.
Unless the panic had been because he’d forgotten, then remembered again after already denying it? That was far more likely.
I put a clean saucepan on the hob with a clatter and changed the subject. ‘So, are you looking forward to Saturday?’
‘What’s happening on Saturday?’
‘Dinner with April and Mike. On the boat, remember?’
‘I don’t want to go! Do we have to?’ A muscle ticked in his cheek.
‘Why not?’
He and Mike used to be really friendly, but in recent years they’d been funny with each other, distant and strained. Something must have happened between them but neither man would admit to me or to April what it was, so we doggedly continued to arrange social events in the hope that it would blow over.
Ed shrugged. ‘I’m not really in the … er … mood. Not feeling great.’
He did look tired and a bit flushed. I felt his forehead – it was warm, but not feverish.
‘Come on, Ed, you know you’ll love it when you get there. And it’s not till the weekend. It will be a good way to celebrate the end of my first week of work.’
It was his turn to change the subject. ‘By the way, a doctor rang me earlier. Deckmush. Deshmuck.’
‘Deshmukh. What did he want?’
‘No. Wait. It wasn’t him. It was someone else. Can’t remember his name but he wants me to join some sort of, er, thing, you know – trial thingy. A new treatment for whatever my silliness is.’
‘Illness?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s all top secret though. I’m not allowed to tell anybody except you. I have to take pills, or have injections. It might be a … fake thing, or the real drug.’
‘A placebo? Sounds promising, Ed; you should do it. Can I talk to him about it?’
‘He said not to tell anyone.’
‘Except me, you said. Which hospital would it be based at? Or do they do it in a lab, or at the doctor’s surgery?’ I had no idea how clinical trials worked.
Ed shrugged. ‘I think he told me but I can’t remember. He said he would email me the, er, details.’
As I poured boiling water into the pan, switched on the gas and tipped in some fusilli, my instinct told me that something didn’t seem quite right about the way he was trying to relay this information – but then, nothing was right about someone getting dementia in his fifties. Of course he was likely to be vague about the details – the man couldn’t remember what he’d had for breakfast and was leaving socks in the dishwasher and fridge – I’d just need to wait and see what the email said.
Yet I couldn’t seem to stop all my old worries from popping up again, roiling inside my head like the water in the pan. Those understandable concerns I’d had back when I first met him, about the wisdom of dating a man who’d been the main suspect in a murder investigation.
5
By the end of the first week, I felt I was beginning to learn the rhythms of the job. I was in the swing of planning and promoting the concerts; I’d learned the names of the biggest student troublemakers, and that the vending machine had ants in it. All the important stuff, as Alvin claimed.
He and I were getting on well – so well, in fact, that he’d just taken me to The Feathers for a curry and a pint or two (although I was sure this was more about him wanting a legitimate excuse for a couple of drinks at lunchtime). Back at my desk, I was feeling a bit tipsy. Tipsy, and a bit guilty, too – I’d ended up confiding in Alvin about Ed’s diagnosis. I didn’t fancy Alvin at all, but he was a good listener. It was just that I knew Ed would hate that I’d told my new boss anything personal, let alone something we hadn’t yet told our close friends and family.
I got back to my PC and the document I’d been working on – an event plan for music at the graduation ceremonies at the Barbican the following month – but I couldn’t concentrate. I’d called Ed three times to check he was OK and he hadn’t picked up or returned any of the calls.
By 4pm I had visions of him falling into the river or electrocuting himself making tea. I was about to ring Suzan and ask her to pop round, when he finally called me back. He sounded very grumpy.
‘What’s with all the missed calls? I was in the bath!’
‘Sorry, honeybun. I’ve been trying you all afternoon. You’re OK?’
‘Of course I’m OK! Why wouldn’t I be?’
I didn’t reply. ‘Good … well, I’ll be home soon. Love you.’
It was Ed’s turn not to reply. I hated it when he didn’t reciprocate with an endearment.
‘That your husband?’ Margaret asked from across the office as she logged off her computer. I watched in astonishment as she managed to gather up a scarf, yoga mat, leggings, novel, iPod, headphones, washed Tupperware and extra cardigan and stuff them all into one bag.
I nodded, trying to discern if her tone was disapproving because I was making personal calls during office hours, or perhaps merely because I was in possession of a husband, but she sounded neutral enough.
‘I’m off to yoga. With any luck, that skinny hippie in the obscene shorts won’t fart every time he does a shoulder stand. But I’m not holding out much hope. You got anything good planned for tonight?’
‘No. Just cooking supper.’
She looked briefly scornful and I had an urge to say, ‘It’s not ALL I know how to do – I’m a black belt in taekwondo! I’m not just some downtrodden housewife,
you know!’ but obviously I didn’t. I really liked Margaret, but sometimes her willowy calm was tinged with a faint aura of superiority. ‘Actually, no,’ I said instead. ‘We’re going to my stepson’s. I’ve just remembered.’
‘Well, have a nice time. See you Monday.’ She hurried out, scarf trailing behind her, and I thought, great, if she’s left for the day, so can I. Alvin was teaching until six, and the office closed to students at four-thirty. I sent Ed a quick text saying I was on my way.
Half an hour later I was bumping down the potholed track towards our house. I parked at the back and went around to the front, the wide Thames streaming silently past and the leaves of the trees on the opposite bank just beginning to turn. It was a view I would never tire of.
Through her window I could see Suzan standing at an easel, head tilted to one side as she scrutinised her efforts. She waved at me as I opened my front gate, flattening myself against it to avoid the muddy splashback from two lycra-clad cyclists who whizzed past, swerving around the large puddle on the towpath that, annoyingly, was a permanent fixture for nine months of the year.
I turned the key in the lock but the door didn’t open. Ed must have Chubb-locked it, and I’d only grabbed the single Yale key off the dresser in the hall that morning.
I banged the knocker, then stooped and called through the letterbox. ‘Ed! Can you come and unlock the door? I can’t get in!’ My rectangular view showed the hallway silent and empty. ‘Ed!’
Surely he had seen that I’d left my big bunch of keys behind? And why would he suddenly choose today to double-lock the door when he went out? He never usually did.
Bloody dementia. Death by a thousand tiny cuts.
Delving in my bag, I grabbed my mobile and rang Ed’s, listening intently through the letterbox for its ring inside. But there was no sound, which either meant that Ed was out, or across at the lock – our house and Suzan’s had once been two halves of the lock-keeper’s cottage and our half had come with what the estate agents called ‘The Studio’, a small room on the now-redundant lock’s island that Ed used as his man-cave. Or maybe he was in, but had his phone on silent for some reason. I called the landline and immediately heard its ring echo around the house’s interior, on and on for the ten rings until the machine picked up. I sighed and redialled Ed’s mobile. No response.
Snap out of it, Lynn, I thought, panic beginning to bubble. He couldn’t have gone far.
I walked back out to the towpath and hurried across the narrow metal bridge, wrenching open the studio door – although there was no sign of him through the windows. It wasn’t locked, so he must be somewhere near. What if he’d fallen in the river? There were no boats around, even on this sunny autumnal afternoon, and no hikers or cyclists, apart from the two I’d just seen. My house keys were sitting on the desk, so I put them in my jeans pocket.
He definitely wasn’t in the office and the river was giving up none of its secrets. Heart in mouth, I glanced out on the far side of the studio, where there was a small patch of grass hidden from view by the building itself, visible only from the riverbank on the other side – and there he was.
He was sitting in a deckchair on the grass, stark naked, listening to music on his phone through earphones. Why hadn’t he answered when I’d rung?
‘Ed!’ I shouted, banging on the window, but he didn’t move. He must have had the volume up really loud. Irritated now I could see he wasn’t in danger, I yelled, louder. ‘ED!’
I walked out to him and poked his shoulder, finding that I was averting my eyes from the flaccid penis nestled in the dark hair surrounding it.
‘What are you doing over here?’ he asked, taking out his earphones and staring at me, astonished. ‘I thought you were at work?’
‘I was. I texted you to say I was coming back early. Quick, get inside the studio before someone sees you and calls the police! I’ve been calling you! Aren’t you freezing?’
He scowled, waving a hand across the vast, empty expanse of river. There was only woodland on the far side. ‘Nobody can see me! Only the, um, docks.’
‘Ducks,’ I corrected automatically. How long had he been sitting there with his dick out? Had those two cyclists seen him? There was no sign of any clothes around him or in the office, so he must have walked across starkers from the house. They must have seen him – they only passed me five minutes before.
I dashed into the studio and took an old oilskin off the back of the chair, throwing it over Ed’s lap as though it was a fire blanket and his genitals were in flames.
He blinked. ‘Thanks Mum,’ he said, and I had no idea whether he was being sarcastic or whether he was actually mistaking me for his mother. I helped him up and fed his arms into the coat sleeves, giving him a kiss on the mouth.
He reciprocated automatically – then reared back.
‘You’ve been drinking!’
‘Well, not really,’ I said. Ed had always had such a keen sense of smell.
‘Not really?’
‘I had a cider at lunchtime.’ I didn’t mention that it had been two pints.
‘But you’ve been at work!’ He looked utterly outraged.
‘I know. But Alvin wanted to go to the pub, and wanted me to go with him. He’s the boss.’
‘Alvin,’ Ed said as if it was a swear word. ‘Nice cosy time in the pub, did you have?’
I wasn’t sure if his syntax was out of whack because he was annoyed or because of the Pick’s.
‘It was OK,’ I said cautiously, guiding him out of the studio and back across the iron bridge towards our house, checking that there wasn’t anybody about. ‘I think Alvin and I will be mates – but honestly, Ed, that’s it. I don’t remotely fancy him; he’s the strangest-looking man I’ve ever met. When you meet him you’ll see what I mean. And he definitely doesn’t fancy me. He doesn’t stop going on about how lovely his wife is and how much in love they are.’
This wasn’t entirely true, but felt like the prudent thing to say. Then I remembered something else. I’d meant to tell Ed before but had forgotten: ‘Oh, and he knows you! He used to be at MADS years ago, before you and I met. He remembered that Mike calls you Edna.’
Ed padded with me across the bridge in his bare feet. He had feet like The Gruffalo, I’d never liked them. I could see gooseflesh sweep over his legs causing the thick hair on them to spring up like brushed fur, so I focussed on that, because his face was like thunder.
‘Don’t remember him.’
He splashed barefoot through the muddy puddle, through the gate and up the garden path, then stopped suddenly. ‘Wait, yeah I do,’ he said. ‘He auditioned for something I was directing. Death of a Salesman. Read so badly that when I stopped him, he chucked his, thingy – you know, the book thingy – on the floor and stormed out. He’s a twat.’
I wondered if Ed really had remembered, or was making it up. It didn’t sound like the sort of thing Alvin would do – but then I supposed I hardly knew the man.
‘Really?’ I said neutrally, unlocking the front door. ‘Let’s get you in the shower, you must be freezing – and your feet are filthy!’
‘Oh stop going on,’ he grumbled, but he allowed me to usher him up the stairs and into the bathroom. I turned on the shower and he dropped the coat to the floor and climbed in.
‘I’m not having you going for any more drinks with your boss, because I know he wants to sleep with you,’ he said, raising his voice to be heard over the water splattering off his head and shoulders. ‘That’s an order!’
I made a face that he couldn’t see through the opaque shower curtain and, childishly, flicked exaggerated Vs at him from my position, seated on the bath mat. His behaviour reminded me of when Ben had been an irrational teenager, shouting in Ed’s face at even simple requests to remove crusty cereal bowls from his bedroom, or to flush the toilet.
‘All right,’ I said, with no intention of obeying. I’d recently read a book on dementia care that stressed that the best way to deal with a deluded patient was t
o just agree with everything he said, unless it was a life-and-death situation.
Although it didn’t work in this instance.
‘You’re patron – patronating me, you bitch!’ he roared suddenly and before I even realised what was happening, he’d jumped out of the still-running shower, flailing at the plastic curtain, and launched himself at me, dripping and swearing, punching wildly at my head.
I rolled away from him and jumped up, immediately in a defensive position. The next time he lunged at me, I performed a double forearm block on him, then grabbed his elbow and twisted his arm behind his back.
‘OW!’ he yelled. ‘Get off me, you evil cow!’
‘Well, are you going to stop attacking me?’ He was lucky I hadn’t thrown him, but the room was too small and he was too big.
He struggled for a minute then went limp, sinking against me as I released my grip and hugged him from behind. Within seconds my t-shirt was drenched. The shower still spattered away and I felt weak with horror. I’d never even come close to doing taekwondo moves on him before. Was this what we’d come to already?
‘I’m sorry,’ he said eventually.
‘It’s not your fault.’
He turned then and kissed me full on the mouth. ‘I love you, Lynn.’
‘I love you too.’
‘Let’s get back in the … thing. The shaver.’
‘OK,’ I said, stripping off my damp clothes so fast that I banged my funny bone on the towel rail.
6
By the time we got to Ben’s flat, normal service had been resumed. Nobody would have been able to guess that there was anything at all wrong with Ed. Somehow this made it harder to contemplate what we had to tell Ben.
