The Darkening Hour

by Penny Hancock

  ‘I won’t forget Charles.’

  ‘And here’s some money. You must look after it for him. He gets muddled about what he spends.’ She hands me a note, ten pounds. ‘When I’ve more time we’ll discuss money: when I’m to pay you, what you’ll need for shopping and so on. Now you’re here I can cancel the delivery! Thank goodness. They’re always out of what I need. And the substitutes! Last week they brought fabric conditioner when I’d ordered a lemon. The only thing they had in common was the scent!’ she laughs.

  My heart races as she hands me the money. I think of the hours of credit this will buy.

  ‘Get him clementines. Any change, give it to me this evening.’ ‘Yes.’

  ‘Daddy will have a sleep after lunch and then you can clean. I’ll show you how to use the washing machine.’

  She goes to the door, turns. ‘Oh, one other thing, Mona.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Your headscarf. It’s fine to wear it out on the street – I understand it’s your religion. But in the house – it might startle Daddy.’

  And she leaves.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘Bye, Daddy.’ I bend down and kiss the cool loose flesh of his cheek. I wonder if I’ll ever get used to leaving him in someone else’s care.

  ‘Be a doll and buy me a paper before you go, will you?’ He looks up, takes my hand in his.

  ‘Daddy, Mona’s here to do that for you today.’

  It’s like leaving a child at playgroup for the first time, accepting that another adult must stand in your shoes. Not allowing your child to see it’s as hard for you as it is for them. Keeping quiet when you see your status as the centre of their world fade, another taking your place. It’s hard but necessary. I can no longer leave Daddy unattended all day. I want him to understand that it’s Mona’s job now, to get him his meals, to fetch him his paper.

  But when I’ve torn myself away, to hurry along the High Street towards the river, I feel light. Daddy’s being looked after! I can switch off, concentrate on work. It’s market day. Stallholders, wrapped up against the cold in scarves and fingerless mittens, are setting up. There’s the scent of fried breakfasts wafting from cafés, mingling with the constant stench round here of the market debris that’s left to rot. It occurs to me that now I’ve got Mona, I could leave early, stop for a coffee in Greenwich on my way – I don’t frequent the cafés on the High Street, with their dubious hygiene. But not this morning. This morning I’m eager to hear the latest on the chat show that’s being discussed – a potential promotion for me.

  I get to the corner and turn along the river path to the pier. I think of Max. Check for texts. Wonder when I might next see him. It’s going to be so much easier now!

  Last time it had all gone horribly wrong. It was over three weeks ago when a text arrived on my way home from work.

  Arrived early at St Pancras. Get here soon! I’ll book us a room.

  My body responded, as it always did when I heard from him, as if Max was right here, now. There wasn’t the usual time I’d spend preparing myself to meet my lover. I rued the days when I could have been spontaneous, when throwing on a T-shirt and jeans and washing my face was all it took to look glamorous. Getting older meant paying more attention to the details – make-up, hair, all took that little bit longer to get right, but that night there wasn’t time. I dressed in a linen shirt-dress, with rope-soled wedges. I would have to ask Max to start giving me more notice. Our spontaneous rendezvous would have to become a thing of the past. I begged Leo to see to Daddy, and called a cab. My mobile went as I came up the escalator at St Pancras.

  It was Daddy. ‘I’ve lost my pills. The white ones I think they were, the ones in the silver poppers.’

  ‘Daddy, I’m out this evening. You’re to ask Leo. He’s there, he’s not doing anything.’

  ‘Leo’s not there. I’ve called. I’ve banged.’

  When he’s particularly demanding, Daddy bangs on his ceiling – our drawing-room floor – with a broom handle, something that riles Leo.

  ‘I’ll phone him.’

  I thumbed Leo’s number into my phone – he wouldn’t answer if I called the house phone, he’d think it was Daddy from downstairs again – just as I spotted Max waiting under the statue of the embracing couple. There he was, crisp white shirt open at the collar, a linen jacket thrown over the top.

  ‘Leo, didn’t you go?’

  ‘I did. I’ve been.’

  I knew this tone. If I pressed Leo in one of his moods I’d end up with two dramas on my hands.

  The demands exerted by my son and Daddy tussled with the pull I felt from Max. He was here now. I’d reached him. I could smell him, I could feel the brush of his cuff against my cheek as he put his arm around me.

  He bit my ear. It contracted with his breath. Tonight Max made me think of caramels, golden, smooth, sweet. I wanted to sniff him, savour him, lap him up.

  ‘I’ve booked us a table in the restaurant.’

  He put his warm hand on my neck – I wasn’t going to be able to resist.

  ‘You’re to relax,’ he said. ‘You look stressed. I’m buying us champagne and you’re to choose the most expensive dish on the menu.’

  ‘Have we time to eat?’

  ‘My train’s not ’til after midnight.’

  I followed him helplessly into the restaurant.

  My martini arrived, the glass frosted with ice, but my mobile went again before I’d taken a sip.

  ‘Mum, he’s being awkward. He says he’s lost his prescription. He’s on about Grandma’s birthday present. You’re going to have to come home.’

  ‘I’ll have to go, Max.’

  ‘Theodora! If Leo can’t cope, phone one of your three siblings. He’s their dad too.’

  He was right. They were always offering to help out if I was stuck.

  I phoned Anita.

  ‘Oh Dora, I’m sorry, I’ve got a girly evening planned. I was about to go out of the door. It’s been a nightmare finding a babysitter. Have you tried Simon?’

  I could have argued but didn’t want to waste time. I phoned my little brother.

  I could hear the titter of young foreign students in the room behind him. ‘Sorry, Dor, I’m in the middle of an English class.’

  ‘At this time?’

  There was laughter, the clinking of bottles. I jammed the off button down and tried Terence. He was away on some conference.

  By the time I’d got home, fetched Daddy’s prescription, administered his pills, put him to bed, it was gone midnight. I was disappearing into the depths of my house to care for Daddy, while my siblings did as they pleased. I thought with resentment of Roger and Claudia with their cleaners and gardeners and cooks. I’d been no good at playing the diplomat’s wife, it was true, but there were aspects of that life I felt I shouldn’t have had to forfeit, just because I’d left it. I wasn’t a lesser person for following my career, or for choosing passion over marriage.

  But worst of all, I sensed Max drawing away, not just literally on the train that would be snaking under the Channel by now to France, but also in his heart. I wondered how long it would be before he tired of being let down and gave up on me. I’ve come to know, since Mummy died, that each moment happens only once – there are no second chances. My evening with Max was lost. I couldn’t afford to lose another one. After all, he didn’t have the same imperative to see me. He had a wife.

  I only had him.

  Now there’s Mona I’ll be able to see him without interruption, and the thought lifts my spirits. I’m walking along the river path now. The tide’s low, but the river is dark today, turbulent. As I hurry towards Greenwich a crazed voice rises from the shore: ‘For whosoever exalteth himself shall be abased, and he that humbleth himself shall be exalted.’

  I stop for a moment. On the high, weed-strewn wall across the inlet a thick rope has caught on a steel mooring ring, and has been twisted by the tide in such a way as to mimic a crucifix; the Christ figure’s head is swinging to one
side, his arms akimbo, his feet, the soggy ends of the rope, dangling in the encroaching tide. The owner of the voice stands beside this accidental rope effigy, preaching his sermon to the waves.

  Another of the local lost souls, I think, and hurry on.

  By eight I’m on the Clipper from Greenwich Pier. Winter is coming. The cityscape, as the boat lifts and drops on the swell, is all blue and grey: pale October sky, glinting tower blocks, slate-grey riverwater chopped up by the wash from the boat.

  I wonder how Daddy and Mona will get on. I mustn’t worry. Mustn’t think. There was no other choice.

  It’s a relief to walk into the normality of the offices, to wave at Ben on reception.

  ‘Morning, Theodora!’

  ‘You’re looking lovely as ever,’ calls Beatie, one of the admin staff.

  The voices come at me as I move through the building; people look up from their desks, smile and wave.

  I’m a big name. Theodora Gentleman – turning southeast England’s worries around. I nearly kicked up a fuss when I got shifted to radio from TV. I could have taken them to a tribunal. Whatever their arguments for shifting you, the fact is you’re no longer twenty-something, but a mature woman who doesn’t, in the view of the powers-that-be, pull in the viewers the way younger ones do. I wonder when it is one slips from being a presentable face to one that no longer cuts it. I come to the conclusion that it’s arbitrary. How can one wrinkle tip the scales from acceptable to unacceptable? But some divinity decrees that one day, you have crossed an imperceptible line, and if you kick up a fuss you’re out anyway.

  If you’re a woman.

  However, there are things about radio I’ve come to prefer. People are open in a way they aren’t on TV – I can probe deeper, get stories out of them. It’s the psychology of the confessional or the therapist’s couch: if they can’t see the face of the person they’re talking to, they’ll reveal more. It’s challenging, and I’m good at it. I’m on the way up. My goal is to have a show during prime time and Rachel, my boss, has been working at it. She’s asked me to go and see her today. So I grab a coffee from Hayley our intern and go to her office.

  ‘How are you, Dora?’ I feel as if Rachel examines me as she speaks. ‘You’re looking better, I must say.’

  ‘Better than what?’

  ‘Well, you’ve had a lot on your plate. Ever since your mother died, really. Caring for your father.’

  ‘Maybe it’s because I’ve got a live-in carer for Daddy now, ’ I tell her.

  I have to emphasise this. The day I told Rachel that Daddy had moved into my granny flat, she’d frowned at me.

  ‘You’ve taken on the sole care of your father on top of having your son at home? You’re a bloody saint, Dora.’

  Her expression belied the fact she was wondering whether I’d bitten off more than I could chew. I knew what she was thinking, that my looking after Daddy was going to impinge on my professionalism, the way young children are supposed to on working mothers. I was determined from the beginning to show her this wasn’t going to happen. But it was a close call, until now.

  She shifts some papers in front of her.

  ‘I’m very pleased to hear it, Dora. We were worried that you’d taken on a little too much. As you know, I’m keen for you to go for the new chat show that’s being mooted. You really stand a very good chance with your track record. The main thing is not to let your personal views impinge on the phone-in.’

  ‘Have I ever . . .?’

  ‘Not recently, no. But there has been the odd occasion, when you were under stress. Look, I’m only saying this because I’m gunning for you, Dora. I want to see your name in bright lights!’

  I feel my heart swell at the thought that moving on up to a prime-time show is now a reality. It is, of course, what I’ve always wanted. What I’ve been working towards. The show she’s talking about is a coveted one, involving celebrity interviews, and is more high-profile than anything I’ve done before. If I get it, I’ll be achieving a lifetime goal.

  ‘Dora! You’re looking fab.’ Gina, my researcher, hands me today’s agenda and runs through the callers she’s already spoken to. ‘We must go for a drink later. How about it?’

  I place a hand on her shoulder and squeeze. ‘Maybe later in the week. I’m still getting used to leaving Daddy with his carer.’

  ‘OK, one Friday then. Promise?’

  I nod. ‘All being well.’

  ‘Right. Better get on with the show.’

  ‘Remind me who we’ve got first?’

  ‘The mother-in-law who feels it’s her place to comment on the way this caller runs her home. The caller feels she’s doing quite enough having her husband’s mother in the first place.’

  ‘Couldn’t agree more,’ I say, accepting another coffee from Hayley.

  ‘It’s a popular one. Feelings are running high,’ says Gina.

  ‘I hope the mother-in-law isn’t listening!’ I say. It never ceases to amaze me what people are prepared to impart on National Radio, as if they were in a private sitting room.

  ‘Her problem, not ours,’ says Gina, settling herself at her computer.

  The adrenalin kicks in as the jingle goes out: ‘Theodora Gentleman, Voice of South-East England, here to turn your worries around.’

  I’m at my happiest on air. Engaged in conversation, deep in thought, orchestrating these discussions.

  I lean into the mic.

  ‘So, Sue, your mother-in-law has moved in. For the benefit of our listeners, can you explain the circumstances?’

  ‘It’s like she moved in the minute her hubby died,’ our caller Sue begins. ‘I’m all right with it – it’s like, what you do, isn’t it?’

  Her face floats into my mind’s eye. Plumpish, attractive, bags under her eyes, and straightened, light brown hair. She’ll be wearing something from H&M, fashionable, a little too young for her. Too much flesh on show. I always try to visualise my callers. It’s a way of keeping myself engaged, though from experience I know faces rarely match voices. The truth, if and when one ever gets to see it, is always a surprise.

  ‘When was this, Sue?’

  ‘Six months ago now.’

  ‘Does she have her own room? Her own space in your home?’

  ‘Oh yes. She’s got my son’s old room – he’s moved out, is at uni. She’s got use of her own bathroom. We’ve done all we can to make her feel at home. I didn’t have any choice. My husband insisted she couldn’t live alone after she was widowed.’

  ‘Can she look after herself?’ I ask. ‘Is she incapacitated in any way?’

  ‘Oh no. She’s very young for her age.’

  Sue goes on, explaining how she has never got on with the mother-in-law but has worked all her married life to smooth over potential conflicts.

  I say nothing. I’m not here to give my views, but I play the psychologist anyway, to myself. It’s always so obvious what’s going on. This time it’s a husband with an Oedipus complex. A son who is unable to detach entirely from his mother and to fully love his wife.

  ‘Which would be fine,’ Sue says, and I can hear she’s close to tears, ‘but now she’s determined to find fault with the way I do things.’

  Personally, I would have refused to have her move in at all, is what I’m thinking. It’s not as if the mother-in-law needs care like my father does. And, though I love him dearly, I don’t even have him in the house. It’s thanks to the flat that I’ve been willing to have him nearby. But I don’t give my opinion – that’s not what I’m here for. I’m just a facilitator.

  It’s something Max loves to hear about. My position at the mic, listening, suggesting, analysing – but keeping my true opinions hidden. He likes me to tell him what I really think of these conundrums – it’s one of the things we laugh about when we’re together.

  The discrepancy between what I say, and what I think.

  ‘Right, Sue,’ I say. ‘We have Donald on the phone who wants to make a suggestion.’

  Donald is, I
suspect, one of our regulars. I recognise his voice, though he changes his name each time he phones in. He’s one of those who love to offer advice, a psychotherapist manqué who spends his whole time listening for opportunities to offer spurious solutions to problems he hasn’t – and wouldn’t ever, or so he maintains – have to deal with himself. Or maybe he’s moved to phone simply so he can hear his own voice on air. There are plenty of those.

  ‘You’ve got to write up a contract,’ Donald says. ‘Make it clear what you’re prepared to provide, and what you expect in return. All parties must sign it.’

  ‘Well, there’s a thought, Sue. Now we’ve got Marcia who’s had a similar experience. Over to you, Marcia.’

  This morning the scenario’s genuine, but lots of nutters phone in. Gina filters the more extreme cases, but there are those with problems that make the programme all the more lively, people who enjoy sexual practices that lend the programme a salacious appeal that just slips through censorship. Foot fetishists or people looking for sex with no strings attached, women who’ve discovered that their sister is really their mother. I’m amazed that people are prepared to reveal their problems over the radio, ignoring the fact that the whole of the south-east might be listening in. I’m astonished that they confide, that they feel I’m their friend, someone they’ve never met and know nothing about. I wonder why they haven’t got friends they can talk to in private about these things. But I know I’m a construct for each of them; they make me what they’d like me to be. A sort of omniscient goddess figure . . . Theodora Gentleman. And to hand it to them, my listeners are appreciative. I get hundreds of emails, texts and tweets thanking me, even some grateful handwritten letters from older listeners.

  Rachel comes over as I’m about to leave.

  ‘Well done, Dora,’ she says. ‘Things are going so well for you. I’m talking to the directors later and hope I’ll have some good news.’