‘Hi, Hil. It’s me.’
‘Thank God you are up . . .’
Hilary starts sobbing. Michele lifts her outstretched right foot and looks at her painted toenails.
‘Mum is in hospital.’
Michele lets go of her foot and straightens her back.
‘Why?’
Again sobbing.
‘Hil, what happened?’
‘She fell down the stairs.’
‘Which stairs?’
‘The big ones.’ More sobbing. ‘Apparently she tried to call . . . to call you. As she was lying at the bottom of the stairs.’ Sobbing. ‘She couldn’t move. But the mobile was in her skirt pocket. And then she fell and then she tried to call you, but you didn’t pick up . . .’
Michele stands up and walks out on to the balcony. The wooden decking feels cool under her bare feet. She forbids her mind to race ahead.
‘Has she broken anything? Is she conscious?’
Michele pauses to give Hilary a chance to catch her breath. The panting becomes less audible. A pigeon settles on a branch in the pear tree, gently bobbing up and down in the wind.
Hilary’s sobbing resumes.
‘I can’t do anything if you don’t tell me the facts,’ Michele says.
‘The facts, the facts, the facts! You always want to know the damn stupid facts. I’ll give you the facts: Mum needed our help last night and we weren’t there. She was at the bottom of the stairs all night, knocking on the neighbours’ wall. Tap, tap. Tap, tap. All night long. Until they finally woke up and wondered about the noise and knocked on her door. Then they called the police, who broke the door down.’
The pigeon looks incredibly happy and content on its branch. It is quite amazing how such a thin branch can support such a fat pigeon.
‘Why didn’t she call an ambulance if she had the phone in her hand?’
‘I don’t know!’ Hilary screams hysterically. ‘How should I know? Perhaps her battery was flat.’
Michele realizes that this was the wrong question to ask.
‘Has Mum broken anything, Hilary? Is she conscious?’ Michele repeats, her voice now stern.
‘She is so confused. And so frightened.’
‘What does the doctor say?’
A vision of their mother in a hospital bed, unable to move, has appeared in Michele’s mind.
‘I haven’t spoken to any doctor. Mum called. We need to go and pick her up.’
Michele interrupts her sister. ‘Which hospital?’
‘They say she’s fine. Didn’t you hear what I said?’ Hilary is beside herself. ‘They won’t tell you anything different. She is fine. But she isn’t. And she won’t ever be. Do you understand? And it’s our fault. I promised Dad we’d look after Mum.’
‘Hilary, I am sorry but I’m not going to talk to you any further until I’ve spoken to the hospital myself.’
The pigeon suddenly opens its wings and flies away. The branch continues to bob. There is a silence at the other end of the phone. Michele fixes her gaze on the bobbing branch. It anchors her.
‘What’s the name of the hospital?’
‘Chelsea and Westminster.’
‘Which ward?’
‘I don’t know. And there is no point ringing them. You won’t be able to speak to anyone there. We need to go.’
‘We will go. I will get dressed and pick you up.’
Michele cuts the line before her sister has time to say anything else. She steps from the balcony inside. For a moment she stands motionless at the desk, gathering her thoughts. Then she sits down, wakes the computer out of sleep mode and Googles the hospital to check the phone number. The hospital confirms that her mother was admitted, but no doctor is available to talk to Michele.
6
Michele – Nine Months Later
I hear the noise of the Hoover coming around the corner. My office door is open. I’ve been staring at the screen for over an hour, senselessly clicking on sites to waste my time. At least if I had bought a dress, a suit, some shoes. We need new towels, too. But I haven’t. I couldn’t make up my mind. If I can’t tear myself away from my desk, I should at least have gone through my emails, trying to reduce my ridiculously full inbox. But I haven’t done that either. I am mentally exhausted. It’s easier to stay glued to the computer than to focus my mind and my body on leaving. The cleaner has come around the corner. She is waving at me. I wave back with a smile. We have seen each other before. Numerous times. Although she is employed by a cleaning company, she’s probably been coming here for two, perhaps even three years. Anita from Portugal. She continues to hoover. I stare at the screen once more and can’t even make up my mind whether to buy some shoes. I don’t want to go home.
Anita has stopped hoovering and is wiping down the lift doors. I pretend to be busy at my screen. I click on the John Lewis site. I could at least order some towels. Most of our towels are a disgrace, worn so thin that they have holes and are frayed at the edges. I see the dark-blue and dark-green towels my mother-in-law gave us as a wedding present. I never liked them. I don’t want a dark colour. But I don’t want white or pink or light blue either. Hil has nice towels. Cath Kidston, that’s it. That’s where they’re from. I scroll down the towel list to see if they do Cath Kidston. I could buy a couple for Mum, too.
I’ve done the right thing with Mum moving in. The conversion worked well and they were incredibly quick. Twelve weeks from start to finish. We’ve moved her furniture and most of her stuff. We went through it with her to see what she wanted to take. Her main concerns were her pottery and Dad’s clothes. I decided that we should take all the books. I had asked the builder to put shelves along the free walls. Nearly all my parents’ books found a space. We also took the paintings. Hilary visits her every morning and I found Larissa, who comes between four and seven. I am happy with Larissa. Sarah recommended her, so she must be good.
The Cath Kidston towels on the John Lewis site have sold out. I google Cath Kidston and click on the link. Beautiful towels with lovely patterns in light colours. I order five small towels and five bath towels. Then I add two small and two big ones for Mum.
I don’t like to think of her sitting in our converted basement. I’m rarely home. I often work late. Mum doesn’t sleep much. She is always awake when I get home. And she hears me coming in, although the basement is practically a self-contained flat. But we kept the door to downstairs. In case Mum needs help quickly. And this door is always open. Mum asked for it. And of course I understand. I wouldn’t want to be locked away in a cellar either.
‘Michele, darling, is that you?’ I hear her call the moment I unlock the front door. I then feel obliged to go down and say hello and we sit together. She in her rocking chair, click-clack, click-clack, backwards and forwards. I usually make tea and sit with the cup on my lap at her kitchen table. It was easier when she was still living in her own house. Whenever I visited her, I busied myself with something – washing the dishes, washing her clothes. Now everything is already done by Larissa. And even when I go back upstairs, it’s never as if I am closing the door. I can only close the door to my bedroom now. Therefore, at the weekend, if I am at home, I tend to sleep late and then read for hours in bed. I have started to take a Thermos with me to my room in the evening. I have lukewarm coffee in the morning and can avoid going down to the kitchen. I like Mum to believe I sleep until two or three in the afternoon.
‘You are like a teenager,’ she said last Sunday.
She doesn’t of course know how right she is. She was merely referring to my weekend sleeping habits.
‘Mrs Michele is working late these days.’
I am startled and lift my eyes. Anita is standing in the door. I take off my reading glasses.
‘You are working late too,’ I say, smiling.
‘But my work day doesn’t start until six in the evening.’
For a moment we smile at each other in silence. I need to change the subject.
‘How is your son?’
Her son is twenty-five and has broken his leg. He is living at home again after a brief marriage. He wants to look for a job but hasn’t because of his broken leg. Apparently the fracture is not healing properly. The doctor messed up. I make the appropriate noises: ‘Oh, poor him!’ ‘Oh, poor you!’ I put my glasses back on as a sign that I need to return to my work. Just as she is about to turn away, I remember the fridge.
‘Anita, could you please clean the fridge today? Thank you.’
‘It’s on my list of things to do, don’t you worry, Mrs Michele.’
I fetch my purse from my handbag, type in my card number and pay for the towels. For a moment I hesitate, then I click on the Chie Mihara shoe site. I know their new spring/summer collection by heart. I am on this site almost every night. I have now finally made up my mind to buy a pair. After all, I am already holding the card in my hands. I order high-heeled green sandals. They will go beautifully with my red summer dress.
7
Clara lies in a room with eight beds. The nurse who greeted the sisters said that she would be able to leave in the next couple of hours.
The rubber soles of Michele’s flat canvas shoes squeak on the linoleum floor. Hilary hasn’t said a word in the car on their way to the hospital.
‘No scenes in front of Mum. We’ll talk later.’ Michele briefly touches Hilary’s hand.
Clara’s bed is the third on the right. A large, noisy family is gathered around the patient opposite. They speak Russian. Michele knows a few words from her business trips. A blanket covers Clara’s body up to her chin. Her face is as pale as the wall behind her. Her eyes are wide open, staring at the ceiling. Michele kisses her mother on the forehead. Fright has turned Clara’s eyes into two blank circles.
‘Please get me out of here,’ Clara whispers without taking her eyes off the ceiling.
Hilary has moved around to the other side and places her head next to her mother’s face on the pillow. Michele draws a chair closer to the bed. Underneath the blanket she feels for her mother’s hand. It is ice cold.
‘Are you freezing?’ she asks.
Clara shakes her head. Then turns her face to look into Hilary’s eyes, repeating, ‘Please get me out of here.’
Hilary is fighting back tears. ‘Yes, we will. We are waiting for the doctor to check you out and then we can take you home.’
‘Good.’ Clara closes her eyes. Her breathing becomes deeper.
Michele has moved her mother’s hand from underneath the blanket, holding it now between her palms. For the moment her mind is still. But she knows that the situation has changed; decisions will have to be made far more quickly than she anticipated. Suddenly the curtains are drawn around them. Michele and Hilary both jump.
‘We gave your mother a couple of sleeping pills just before you arrived,’ the nurse explains. ‘She didn’t sleep all night. Why don’t you grab a coffee outside and come back in an hour to take her home?’
‘You know what that means?’ They are standing outside the building. Tears are streaming down Hilary’s face. She throws her arm randomly up towards one of the floors. ‘We can’t leave Mum alone. We can’t just simply drive her home and leave her there and pretend nothing has happened.’
Michele looks briefly into Hilary’s anguished face, then her eyes wander across her sister’s shoulder to the other side of the road. She thought she saw a café when they parked the car. Yes, there it is. She puts her hand on Hilary’s arm.
‘Let’s have a coffee.’
Hilary doesn’t move.
‘I will take Mum home with me,’ she says.
Michele stares again into Hilary’s face. Left-over mascara from last night has smeared under her eyes, which are red from crying and lack of sleep.
‘You don’t have to play the martyr.’
She gently wipes the mascara from Hilary’s face. Hilary throws her arms around Michele. For a moment they hug.
‘Charles is fine with it. I’ve already mentioned it,’ Hilary continues after they have sat down with their coffees at a small table on the pavement.
‘And I spoke to Maria before I came to pick you up,’ Michele says.
The coffee is doing Michele’s lingering headache good. Hilary looks at her questioningly.
‘The last woman we employed for Mum,’ Michele explains. ‘She offered to come back. She lives on the road parallel to Mum’s. She needs the money. She is good and I trust her. She could even come tonight. On Wednesday we will look at the home in Hampstead. You’ll see, it’s beautiful. Perfect for Mum, perfect for us because it’s so close.’
An ambulance with its siren on approaches and turns into the forecourt of the hospital. For a moment talking becomes impossible. Michele empties her coffee cup.
‘Mum kicked her out once,’ Hilary says. ‘It’s not a good start.’
‘Maria wouldn’t hold it against her.’
Another ambulance with its siren on pulls up. When the wailing stops, Hilary suggests they walk down to the river.
There are strong currents flowing beneath Battersea Bridge. In the distance the sun glints on the surface of the water. A beautiful white boat passes.
‘I’ll take Mum back with me, we’ll look at the home on Wednesday and perhaps in the meantime you could ask your architect friend for a quote to convert the basement,’ Hilary says.
A girl waves at them from the boat. The two women wave back.
‘It is just so that we have an idea how much it would cost,’ Hilary continues. ‘It might be far too expensive. It might not be possible at all, because of building regulations or what have you. But then at least we’ll know there’s no alternative to the home.’
Michele puts both hands on the iron railings and wonders if she feels pushed into a corner by Hilary’s suggestion. The wind blows her skirt gently against her legs. They could be at the seaside. Almost. Hilary is offering her a compromise. A very reasonable suggestion. If Hilary takes Mum for the next week or so, the least Michele can do is obtain a quote from Stephanie. She will, however, also call the residential home to enquire how long they have to decide. If need be, she is willing to pay for the first couple of months straight away so that the place is guaranteed. She won’t of course tell Hilary or her mother. And she won’t tell Jim about the quote for the basement conversion.
On Wednesday Hilary calls. Jack has fallen off the swings. He seems to be fine but she’d better take him to A&E for X-rays to make sure he hasn’t hurt his head. Michele hears her eight-year-old nephew wailing in the background.
‘I won’t be able to visit the home today,’ Hilary apologizes. ‘I’m sure you understand.’
8
Clara – Ten Months Later
I hear her turn the key, open the door, close it. For a moment there is silence while she quietly removes her shoes. Then she tiptoes into the kitchen. I hear her take a glass. Silence. Then water is running out of the tap. I know she will stand at the top of the stairs to the basement, holding her breath, listening. Nothing except darkness will meet her. I am pretending to be asleep. But I am sitting in my chair, motionless. I stopped rocking when I heard the taxi outside. Only my toes touch the floor. The muscles in my legs are straining. I hope I don’t get cramp. I wish I had put the soles of my feet down. Now I don’t dare move, even slightly. I might lose control and the runners might hit the ground hard, too hard, and Michele might hear. I don’t want her to know that I am still awake. I don’t want her to come down.
9
Michele places the tip of the knife on to the ridge of the fish’s back and slits it open.
‘I spoke to Felix today,’ Jim says.
She inserts the blade and slips it underneath the skin.
‘Did you know he has a girlfriend?�
� Jim continues. ‘He sounds happy.’
Michele places the fork behind the gills and pushes down to sever the head. She puts skin and head on her spare plate.
‘He sent me a picture of them both.’ Jim fetches his iPhone. ‘A stunning blonde.’
He hands the phone to Michele. She wipes her hands on her napkin.
‘She looks so in love with my little boy,’ Michele coos at the small screen in her hands. ‘What does she do?’ she asks, handing the phone back to Jim.
‘She’s studying medicine at Edinburgh and is working in the same bar as Felix this summer. She loves hiking. They went to Wales last weekend, just the two of them with a tent. And she loves dogs.’
Jim has not bothered to dissect the fish as neatly as his wife. Instead he now digs straight into its body, while Michele smiles to herself. Felix has always loved dogs, in fact animals full stop. And his biggest regret so far in life has been that his mother never allowed him a dog as a child.
‘Well, she appears to be the woman for him!’ she says.
Jim is pulling a big bone out of his mouth, nodding. For a moment they eat in silence.
‘I had a meeting with George today,’ Michele says eventually. ‘He still has his doubts about Sea Shelf 3. He doesn’t trust Rashid, despite the new geology report.’
Jim’s head is bowed low over his plate, sieving through the bones for some fish.
‘Are you listening to me?’ she asks after a brief pause. A cold chill touches her bare arms. Further south, down by the river, a thunderstorm must already be raging.
Clara's Daughter Page 4
