The Frances Garrood Collection

by Frances Garrood

  “Why ever not?”

  “I’m a priest!”

  “But you don’t have to be a priest forever. You can leave the church. We can get married, have children, live wherever you like. You can be a normal man!”

  “No. You don’t understand.” He stood up. “Please go now,” he said. “Please go, and — and don’t come here again. Please don’t come here again.”

  “Don’t make me go!” Gabs too was near to tears. “Please don’t make me go.”

  “I can’t — make you go. But I’m asking you. If you care for me at all, please go. Go now.”

  “All right. If that’s really what you want.”

  “It is. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for what I did. It was unforgivable.”

  Afterwards, Gabs had no idea how she managed to get home. She must have driven (she had borrowed a friend’s car as it was less conspicuous than her own), but she had no memory of that journey. She had no memory, either, of finishing the bottle of wine in the fridge, of having a shower, of putting her crumpled clothes in the washing machine. When Steph got in from work hours later, Gabs was sitting in a chair, staring into space. She didn’t know how long she had been there, nor did she care.

  “Gabs? What on earth’s the matter?” Steph put down her bag of groceries. “What’s happened?”

  “Happened?” Gabs tried to remember what had happened, and then immediately blocked it out of her mind again.

  “Yes. Happened.” Steph crouched down beside Gabs’ chair. “Something’s happened. Has somebody hurt you? One of your — clients? Tell me, Gabs. You have to tell me!”

  “Something’s happened,” Gabs repeated, but the words were meaningless to her.

  “Yes. Something’s happened. Now tell me what it was, Gabs. You have to tell me. Have you been — raped?”

  “Not raped.”

  “Well, what, then? Are you hurt?”

  “Not hurt.”

  “What has happened?” Steph gave her a little shake. “For crying out loud, Gabs. Tell me!”

  Gabs looked up into Steph’s face — into her sister’s kind, anxious face — and the awfulness of the morning’s events came flooding back to her, and she started to cry.

  “Heavens, Gabs. It must be pretty bad. You never cry!” Steph said, putting her arms around her. “Come on. You know you can tell me anything. Anything at all.”

  “Not this,” said Gabs through her sobs. “Not this.”

  “Yes. This. Especially this. Whatever it is.”

  “You’ll be furious. And it’s what I deserve.”

  “Why should I be furious?” There was a moment’s silence, and then Steph’s voice dropped. “Oh, heavens. It’s Father Augustine, isn’t it?”

  Gabs nodded.

  “Gabs, what have you done? Tell me what you’ve done!”

  “It was awful. Awful.” And Gabs burst into tears again. “It was the most awful thing, and it was all my fault. Oh, Steph — you should see him. He’s so ashamed. So desperately ashamed. And he apologised. To me. I think I’ve done him terrible harm, and he’s taken the blame himself.”

  “Yes. He would.” Steph’s tone was icy.

  “Whatever you feel about me, it can’t be worse than how I feel about myself.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s something.”

  “Please, Steph. Please try to understand.”

  “Oh, I understand. You seduced a good, kind, trusting man. You did it in cold blood —”

  “Not in cold blood! I love him!”

  “No, you don’t. You were thinking only of yourself. Well, it seems that you got what you wanted, and now you’ve got what you deserve.” Steph picked up her bag of groceries and took them into the kitchen, closing the door behind her, leaving Gabs on her own.

  And for perhaps the first time in her life, Gabs knew what it was to feel shame.

  As she sat in her chair, watching the dusk gathering outside the uncurtained window, listening to the sounds of Steph banging about in the kitchen, a final thought came to her, hitting her like a body blow.

  “I never kissed him,” she wept, overwhelmed yet again by what she had done. “I never even kissed him!”

  Mavis

  Four weeks after her stroke, Maudie had made little improvement, and Mavis was beginning to realise that she would have to arrange some kind of permanent care for her. The hospital had done all they could, and now it was time for her to move on. They needed the bed, the sister told her; it was time for Maudie’s care to be passed on into other hands.

  Mavis knew that what she was told was true; she could see that Maudie — unable to walk, speak, or feed herself — was using up valuable resources. But she also knew that her mother was being gently edged out into the twilight world of care for the elderly — the care of those for whom the medical profession had given up and for whom, in any case, there was probably little time left. Had Maudie been younger or of more value to society (a Judi Dench, perhaps, or a Queen Mother — one of those national treasures for whom exceptions could be made), no doubt more efforts would have been expended on her behalf. But she was an ordinary woman who had led an ordinary life; she was of little consequence to the world she had inhabited for almost ninety years, and when her time came, that world was unlikely to miss her.

  But Mavis already missed her. She missed her terribly. She missed the sound of her voice and the shuffle of her slippered feet around the house; she missed the daytime television programmes, the unnecessary trips to confession, and the demands for “just a little glass of wine, Mavis. Just a small one.” She even missed the occasional forays into the kitchen for purposes of pie-making, because at least they demonstrated that her mother still had life in her, that she still had things she wanted to do, however inconvenient the consequences for Mavis herself. And she resented those who appeared to assume that she would be relieved that she no longer had to personally care for her mother.

  “You’ll have more time to do what you want,” a well-meaning neighbour said. “You won’t be so tied.”

  But while Mavis had initially feared for her own independence when Maudie had moved in with her, she had come to enjoy having her around and had never thought of her as a tie. Apart from the inevitable restrictions it placed on her relationship with Clifford, she had neither regretted nor resented her mother’s presence, for Mavis remembered the kind, funny, outgoing person Maudie used to be, and she was grateful to have had such a woman as her mother.

  The hospital recommended a nursing home. It was conveniently placed, within walking distance of Mavis’s house, but it was basic. Maudie had only a few thousand pounds in savings, so there was no money for the posh or the private. But the staff were kind, on the whole, and Maudie’s shared room looked out onto the garden. It could have been worse.

  Maudie, however, hated it.

  “Bad!” she yelled every time Mavis went to visit her, using one of the few words still at her disposal. “Bad!”

  “But what’s bad, Mother? What is it that’s bothering you? Look! You’ve got a lovely room, and nice — what’s your name, dear? Ivy? — Ivy over there to share it with you.”

  “Bad!” persisted Maudie, thumping the table with her good hand. “Slumpish.”

  “What?”

  “Slumpish. Bad slumpish.”

  “Look, I’ve brought you a bottle of wine. Matron says you can have a small glass before your supper.”

  Maudie eyed the wine and shook her head.

  “Slumpish,” she said, although she accepted a small glass. “Muffkin.”

  Mavis was at a loss as to what to do. She visited Maudie every day, bringing her small treats and trying to help her with her speech (which only seemed to get worse), but Maudie remained unhappy. The small television in her room didn’t work properly, and the one in the day room — which appeared to be on all the time — was turned down so low as to be inaudible. She didn’t like the food, and she couldn’t communicate with her fellow inmates (most of whom were as confused as she was
). It was altogether a very distressing situation.

  The only thing that seemed to bring Maudie any pleasure was Gabs’ visits. Gabs wasn’t able to visit her often, but Maudie was always delighted to see her.

  “Bad!” she would cry. “Bad girl!” And she would smile her new, lopsided smile and hold out her one functioning arm for a hug. Mavis tried not to feel jealous — she herself rarely enjoyed such a welcome — but Gabs told her that this was always the way. The misery and the complaints were kept for the nearest and dearest, since they were the most likely to take them to heart. She, Gabs, was a mere outsider, and therefore not a rewarding target for emotional outbursts.

  Mavis wasn’t the only one missing Maudie, for Pussolini — that most self-centred of animals — was pining.

  “Are you sure?” Mavis asked the vet when she phoned for his opinion. “He doesn’t seem the type to pine.”

  “You’d be surprised,” the vet told her. “I’ve even known a horse to pine for its owner. That’s unusual, I grant you, but cats are domestic animals, and they become very attached to people. This one obviously loved your mother.”

  “What can I do?” Mavis asked, looking at the new, subdued Pussolini, who was making his way unsteadily back to Maudie’s room (the only place where he would settle). “At this rate, he’ll starve to death.”

  “Give him food he can’t resist,” said the vet. “Chicken, perhaps, or some nice fish. There’ll be something he will eat. You just have to find out what it is.”

  But Pussolini refused to try the chicken and spat out the fish. All he would take was milk, and that had to be warmed before he would drink it. His temper hadn’t improved — he still snarled and spat at Mavis — but the spirit had gone out of him, and the snarling and the spitting were half-hearted, mere echoes of the sounds he used to make. Mavis toyed briefly with the idea of taking him to visit Maudie, but immediately dismissed it as impracticable. The last time she and Maudie had tried to get him into his cat basket, there had been an epic battle, necessitating a visit to the hospital for antibiotics (and in Mavis’s case, stitches). It was not an experience worth repeating, and in any case, the inevitable parting at the end of the visit would only serve to cause further distress.

  And then there was Clifford.

  Clifford had made a good recovery from his operation, but was still milking his condition for all it was worth, and Mavis was running low on sympathy. She had heard detailed accounts of everything that had happened, from the moment Clifford entered the hospital (“with four new pairs of pyjamas. Four, Mavis! Because Dorothy says you never know”) until the day he left it (with, apparently, only two pairs of pyjamas, because the hospital had managed to lose the other two), and while she tried to show an interest, she had to admit, if only to herself, that the whole thing was becoming deeply boring. They had only managed to meet once, since Clifford still wasn’t allowed to drive, and that had involved two bus rides and a long walk in the pouring rain. Much as Mavis had been looking forward to seeing him, she couldn’t help wondering whether it had all been worth it just for the pleasure of holding Clifford’s hand and listening to Clifford’s interminable accounts of his medical adventures. Afterwards, she realised that he hadn’t even asked her how she was, merely commenting on her new hair colour (courtesy of Gabs). Needless to say, he hadn’t approved. As for Maudie, his only comment had been that she had “had a good innings”. Mavis had always disliked this particular expression, because it seemed to her that when one was missing someone, the length of their innings was irrelevant. When she came to think of it, Clifford himself had had a reasonable innings, but she doubted whether he would like to be reminded of it.

  Mr. Strong, too, had been causing her problems. His appearance wasn’t the only dapper thing about Mr. Strong; he led a dapper little life and ran a dapper little business, and didn’t like either being interrupted. Hitherto, he had been quite accommodating where Mavis’s mother was concerned, but apparently this accommodation didn’t stretch to lengthy hospital visits, and when initially Mavis had wanted to spend much of her time at Maudie’s bedside, he had not been at all understanding.

  “But why?” he had asked. “Why do you need to be there so much? She’s in the hospital, and the nurses will look after her. You have a job, Mavis. Responsibilities. I’m disappointed in you.”

  The disappointment was mutual, and Mavis told him so. She had worked loyally and conscientiously for many years, and felt that she was owed a little flexibility in what was, for her, a crisis.

  “I have no other family,” she told him. “If it were my husband, you would understand, wouldn’t you?”

  “Of course.” Mr. Strong had a grey little wife and understood about marriage. “That would be different.”

  “Why? Why would it be different?” Mavis wanted to know.

  “I am my wife’s next of kin.”

  “Well, I’m my mother’s next of kin.”

  “Marriage,” said Mr. Strong, “is a special case.”

  “Well, my mother’s a special case,” Mavis said. “She’s been a wonderful mother to me, and I’m not letting her down now.”

  “But you tell me she’s confused. She probably doesn’t even know you’re there.”

  “She does sometimes, and besides, that’s not the point. I know I’m there. And that’s what matters.”

  “Well!” said Mr. Strong, who was not used to confrontations. “You may have to consider how much you care about your job, Mavis. There are other people out there who would jump at the chance to work for me.”

  But Mavis was not going to succumb to threats, nor did she believe that there was anyone at all out there who would want her job. She knew that she was invaluable to Mr. Strong; that when it came to menswear, she had an eye for colour and style; that she was good with the ditherers and the last-minute present buyers; and that Mr. Strong would be very foolish indeed to get rid of her. She also knew Mr. Strong’s little ways, of which there were many, and she knew his customers. Mr. Strong could posture and protest all he liked; she was pretty sure that her job was safe.

  And if it wasn’t? Gabs had once told her that there was more to life than “slaving away in a silly little shop,” and while Mavis had been quite offended at the time, now that she thought about it, she reckoned that Gabs had a point. She might not be irreplaceable, but neither was her job. She had a little savings; she could afford to buy time to look around and take stock (not Mr. Strong’s kind, either). She would try to do her job as well (and as regularly) as she could, but whatever happened, Maudie would come first.

  But now at last there was good news, for Clifford had been given the all-clear and was allowed to drive once more.

  “I’ll come over to your house, shall I, Mavis? Now that we shan’t have any interruptions from your mother.”

  Mavis didn’t like Clifford’s tone but had to agree that the idea was a good one. Dennis had now more or less taken up permanent residence in his flat, and even if he were not there, Mavis would always worry that he might suddenly appear, like the man in Brief Encounter. Besides, she was still embarrassed about the discovery of her device and annoyed about the missing champagne. As it was, Clifford could come over on her day off, and she would make a nice lunch for them both.

  At first things went smoothly. Clifford was in good form and seemed gratifyingly pleased to see her. He had brought wine and flowers, and even complimented Mavis on her appearance (compliments had been in short supply recently). He was pleased with the lunch (Mavis had prepared all his favourite things), and when he showed her his scar, she was suitably impressed.

  “That cat doesn’t look too well,” Clifford remarked as Pussolini tottered through the dining room. “Are you feeding him enough, Mavis?”

  “Of course I’m feeding him. It’s just that he’s not eating. He’s pining for Mother.”

  Clifford shouted with laughter. “Pining? That cat pining? I don’t think so,” he said.

  “Well, he is. The vet said so.”

>   “In that case, that’s a good thing, isn’t it? He’s a horrible animal — you’ve said so yourself often enough — and if he manages to starve himself to death, that’ll be one less thing for you to worry about.”

  “Mother loves him.”

  “But she’s never going to see him again, is she?” Clifford helped himself to more cheese. “She need never know.”

  “Are you expecting me to lie to her?”

  “No need to lie. Just don’t tell her.”

  “So you’re suggesting that I watch him slowly starve and do nothing about it?”

  “You don’t have a lot of choice, do you?” Clifford picked out his teeth with a cocktail stick, a habit Mavis abhorred.

  “He drinks a little warm milk.”

  “A little warm milk! For goodness’ sake, Mavis. He’s a cat! Why go to all that trouble for a cat? Especially that one.”

  “I’ve become fond of him,” Mavis said, realising that in a funny way, it was true. The house often felt terribly empty these days, and it was good to come home to something alive, even if that something was only an evil, pining cat.

  “Well, you’ve certainly changed your tune.”

  “Maybe I have. But I get lonely, living by myself.”

  “Well, if that cat stops you from feeling lonely, you’ve certainly got a problem,” Clifford said.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve ever been lonely, have you?” Mavis asked him.

  “Probably not.”

  “Then you’ve no idea what it’s like.”

  “I can imagine what it’s like.”

  “I don’t think you can. Any more than I can imagine what it’s like to have — to have heart surgery.”

  “That’s different,” Clifford told her. “You can have no idea what it’s like being put under an anaesthetic and not knowing whether you will ever come round.”

  “I’ve had an anaesthetic —”

  “Ah, but not one like this. Can you imagine what it’s like saying goodbye to your family, being wheeled away from them, not knowing whether you’ll ever see them again?”