‘I’m sorry, Mona, but Daddy’s requirements don’t stop just because it’s a Saturday. He’s very dependent on you. Won’t have anyone else.’
‘I’m tired. I haven’t had any free time since I came.’
‘I’ll decide when you’re to have a day off.’
‘Getting up in the night, working from first thing in the morning, I need to rest as well or—’
‘I think, Mona, that you have perhaps been paying yourself for more hours than you’ve worked. We’ll talk about it another time. I’ve got to go now. I’m meeting my sister for coffee.’
‘Or,’ I call after her, as she gathers her things, ‘I could take all my days off at once and you could pay for me to go home for a few days.’
I finish clearing the kitchen, counting the Saturdays and Sundays I’ve worked, keeping a record of how many days Dora owes me. Then I go down to Charles’s – and stop in shock.
The flat has been vandalised! The umbrella-stand has fallen over and the umbrella lies half-open across the floor. Papers from the table are strewn all over the carpet. A photo he keeps on the wall has fallen off and the frame lies snapped on the floor.
Charles is standing on a chair in the middle of his sitting room in bare feet, his walking stick in one hand. The room’s in chaos. His broken whisky glass lies upturned on the floor, the liquid forming a dark stain on the carpet. Books have been flung about, and a tin of biscuits has been wrenched open, half of its contents trodden into the carpet.
Charles himself is only half-dressed, in a dirty sagging vest and underpants. He’s got little goose bumps on his arms, and his legs look very white in the dim light.
‘Rats,’ he says. ‘A big ’un, just crossed the sideboard. They come in here and eat everything if you don’t keep on top of them.’
He thrashes at the cupboard, shattering a crystal glass decanter that he keeps there.
‘Charles, I can’t see any rats!’ I move around the flat, checking. If necessary, I think, I’ll drag Endymion down and make him work for once. But I can see no evidence of rodents. Must be one of Charles’s hallucinations.
I take the walking stick out of his hand. Help him down off the chair, find a fresh pair of cashmere socks to pull onto his unexpectedly soft white feet, and sit him in the armchair next to the gas fire, out of harm’s way.
‘Which one are you?’ he asks. ‘You all keep changing your hairstyles, it’s hard for me to keep up.’
‘I’m Mona,’ I tell him. ‘Dora’s helper.’
‘Mona, of course. My favourite girl, my favourite waitress. Of course Dora’s not here. I haven’t seen her for months. She’s got a very important job. On the radio.’
‘Yes.’
‘And Terence is all over the world and Anita, the Pretty One, she’s got her children. They’re all so very busy. Simon doesn’t work but he hasn’t been to see me in years.’ A tear has come to his eye.
‘Oh Charles,’ I say, taking his hand. He has these times when he’s back in the here and now, but it makes him sad. He’s happier in his muddled world, where the past and the present tangle and he doesn’t know who anyone is, or what he’s supposed to be doing. But he’s not safe in it. The mess in the flat is a result of his muddled world. I can’t leave him down here any more. I was right when I said to Ummu that he should not be left alone under the ground. I help him into a shirt, a waistcoat and jacket, clean pants and trousers and a scarf.
Then when I’ve gathered the soiled clothes he’s left on the floor in a pile, and squashed them into a carrier bag, I fetch some bleach from the kitchen and scrub at his chair where it’s wet.
Upstairs, I tell Leo to get up and let his grandfather sit on the sofa.
‘I’m playing Call of Duty. Leave me alone.’
‘It’s Saturday,’ I say. ‘Your weekend. A young boy like you, you need to get exercise. Play football, or go to a gym. Go on. Out!’
He looks at me for a few minutes, then, with a kind of twinkle he stands up.
‘Whatever you say, Mona,’ and he slouches off.
When he’s gone I take Charles’s old hand in mine. Funny how, compared to his feet, his hands are so worn, so crumpled, the skin waxen and cold. Blotchy with brown spots. I squeeze it. The human contact feels strange after so long. He looks at me. I can see he’s bewildered. Confused about who I am. But wanting to trust me.
And I don’t want to let go. Sitting here with this old man in his confusion, for the first time in weeks I feel some affection both from and for someone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Anita’s asked to meet me in a café on Westbourne Grove. I step into its ‘shabby chic’ interior, a world away from Deptford High Street. Here are the beautiful people, the androgynous, bronzed species whose taut skin seems to give off an inner light. As if it isn’t skin at all but some specially designed material, ultra-gorgeous. Even the waiters look super-healthy, flitting between tables, their skirts and trousers slipping just below their narrow hips revealing their tattooed lower backs. There’s no question that wealth creates beauty, health, fitness. You want to keep a woman down – you feed her junk food and dress her in things from the pound shop.
Anita’s sitting at a corner table, two large cappuccinos and a plate of croissants in front of her. She waggles her nails at me. ‘Nice colour, don’t you think? It’s called Sable. I’ve just had them done.’
‘Lovely,’ I say, making a mental note that I could do with a manicure. It’s been weeks.
‘But I’m a bit down,’ my sister says.
‘What’s up?’
‘I found a grey hair.’
I smile. I’ve never been one to shy away from the changes age brings. I was always, in fact, fascinated by the machinations of my body. How does it know to do the things it is supposed to do at the right time? I observe with detached interest the very slight droop around my mouth, the sharpening of my cheekbones, a more serious look about the eyes. And I like it. I have no problems with it. Max likes it too. I’m more me now than I’ve ever been.
Our bodies are like planets, obeying laws outside and beyond their control, and there is something rather beautiful about this. I’m impatient with the endless anxieties my sister Anita suffers each time she spots crow’s feet about her eyes, the faintest wrinkle in her frankly perfect skin.
‘My God, Anita,’ I say now. ‘Haven’t you got better things to worry about?’
‘Well, yes, as a matter of fact I have. I’m worried about Daddy. How’s it going?’
‘Oh, up and down. His old self one minute, the epitome of charm. Terribly confused and forgetful the next, needs reminding to eat. Says inappropriate things. And the other day he wanted to go to Billingsgate in the middle of the night.’
Anita laughs.
‘It’s not funny, Anita. He could get lost, hurt, anything.’
‘It’s the thought of him saying inappropriate things.’
‘They’re sometimes hurtful.’
‘I can imagine. But you mustn’t take them to heart. It’s not him, it’s his condition. God, it was hard work taking him out the other day. It took so long! It was exasperating. I can see why you need Mona.’
‘She’s not a qualified carer.’ I pull a corner off a croissant.
‘Well no,’ says Anita, sucking jam off her beautifully manicured thumb. ‘But she’s capable of doing the job. That’s the main thing. We agreed it would have been impossible to pay for a care home – at least until we’ve sold the house.’
‘Hmm,’ I say.
‘What?’
‘She’s furtive. She bought roses for Daddy. He thought they were for Mummy. He thought Mona had taken them to her in hospital. Then I saw she’d put them in her room. And there have been times she’s used his paper, pens and things.’ I hesitate, unsure whether to tell Anita how foolish I’d been, leaving my necklace in Daddy’s flat. I don’t want her to think me a complete idiot for trusting that Mona was too clever to steal valuables.
‘For goodness’ sak
e, Theodora. Mona’s poor! She’ll be desperate. You leave things lying around, she’ll think you’re not bothered about them. She’s bound to pilfer the odd item.’
‘I don’t want to mistrust her. I don’t want to accuse her of things she might not have done.’
‘I’d be careful.’
‘What do I do?’
‘Sack her? Find someone else?’
‘I can’t! Daddy’s devoted to her. No one else will do any more. As far as he’s concerned, the sun shines out of her—’
‘Daddy’s always liked a pretty young girl.’
‘She’s not a young girl, Anita. You’ve seen her – she’s my age. But Daddy’s got to know her. He needs consistency, and she’s always there for him. When she isn’t, he gets upset. What I need to know is, how can I make sure she doesn’t take things into her own hands? I’m out during the day. She’s there. I can’t keep an eye on her all the time.’
I don’t want to say I can’t cope or admit I’m afraid of things getting out of control, the way they did with Zidana. Anita doesn’t even know about Zidana. I don’t want to tell her that I’m afraid that Daddy is becoming so attached to Mona he is forgetting it’s me whose house he’s living in. Or that she has won Leo’s respect in a way I’ve never achieved.
‘Lock up your valuables, of course, Dora – tell her you’re watching her. That you know what she’s doing. That she’s here to look after Daddy and is earning money for the things she wants to buy. She must have a contract?’
‘Of course.’ I hadn’t thought about a contract. It hadn’t occurred to me.
‘Show it to her and remind her. Of her timetable. Of what she’s allowed and not allowed. If she’s pilfering already, who knows what she might do. A tight rein is what you need.’
‘Thanks, Anita. You’re right. I’ve perhaps been too lenient. Too keen to trust her.’
‘Think what she’s eating and drinking; what that’s costing you. She has a wage if she wants to buy extras.’
‘I sometimes wonder if she’s got another agenda other than being here to work.’
‘They all do, Dora! Like I said, you just have to keep a tight rein. It’s good you’ve got someone though. To be honest we all thought you were being a bit of a martyr, insisting Daddy move in with you.’
‘A martyr, Anita?’
‘The way you took him on when you had Leo to worry about. It seemed beyond the call of duty. But you insisted.’
I drain my cappuccino. This conversation is suddenly veering off into something else. Unsaid things are bubbling to the surface.
‘Someone had to. I thought you’d all be glad. In fact, it would seem you’re all thrilled to be let off the hook. You’ve shown a total lack of interest in him.’
‘You see? “Lack of interest”! It’s not our lack of interest. It’s your refusal to let us help. Like when Si and I came to take him out.’
‘Ha! Exactly. You came too late! If you visited more often you’d know he has his lunch at twelve. Neither of you had been for months. I’ve given up on Terence completely – he’s vanished as far as I’m concerned. Who else was going to be there for Daddy?’
‘You sure it wasn’t just your way of ensuring you got his—’
‘What are you saying, Anita?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. He’s living with you, yes, but suddenly, hey, you’ve got a live-in helper and the blue china’s in your house, Mummy’s statue is in your garden. It’s like you feel justified in helping yourself to everything, including the last remnants of Daddy’s affections. Yes. You always seem to do the right thing, but Simon wonders and so do I, whether sometimes this philanthropy has a hidden advantage. Daddy living with you means you can bask in his approval.’
‘What?’ I stare at her. ‘You’ve no idea, have you? Daddy isn’t the man he was, he doesn’t know how to approve of me any more. If there was at least that consolation, it wouldn’t be so hard!’
‘Well then. It means you have all the control over his house, his stuff. How come Mummy’s head is suddenly in your garden, for example?’
‘You didn’t want Mummy’s head. You used to hate it.’
‘Yes, but it was the assumption that somehow, because you’re the big sister, you could just take it. There’s some vested interest in your being so marvellous all the time, not letting the rest of us get a look-in.’
So this is it. The real reason she wanted to meet. Why didn’t she get to the point straight away? Save time on the niceties.
‘It just seems sometimes, Dora, that you’ve got it all . . .’ Her voice has started to wobble, with that pent-up tension that is obvious in someone who’s been keeping their true thoughts to themselves for some time. ‘The perfect job. The vindication of dealing with Daddy – and half the family heirlooms.’
‘I thought you wanted to have a civil conversation,’ I say. I stand up. Make as if to leave.
‘Sorry, Dora.’ She capitulates. ‘Don’t go. I shouldn’t have said those things. But I’m so tired. Absolutely knackered. Jemima’s been up three times a night for the last fortnight and my nerves are frayed. I suppose I’m upset about Daddy, too. As is Simon.’ She goes on: ‘Look, he’s sent some halva from his last trip to Greece for him. Here. He remembers Daddy used to like it.’
‘He can’t eat it,’ I say. ‘He can barely chew now, with his teeth. Another example of what I was saying . . .’
‘Bloody hell, Dora! What you don’t get is we do care. You just won’t let us.’
‘Oh please, come over, see him, be my guest.’
‘What you need to understand is that the boys do love Daddy. They do things their own way. Terence is sorting out his finances, it’s his way of contributing. I’ve talked to Ruth about it and she says he’s all cut up inside.’
I soften a bit.
‘OK. Well, for your information I don’t actually care about the stuff. If you want Mummy’s head, take it. All I ask is that you and Simon and Terence come and see Daddy sometimes.’
‘Actually, I was going to suggest you, Leo and Daddy come to us for Christmas,’ Anita says.
‘Oh?’
‘So, would you like to? You could bring Mona, too, of course, to help, then you’d get a bit of a break. But Daddy might enjoy being with the kids.’
‘Leo’s going to Morocco for Christmas, to Roger. But yes, thank you, that sounds nice, Anita.’
I feel the usual depression move in, knowing that while everyone else is in festive mode, I will only be aware of absences. Leo, of course, this year. And Max, as always. But at least Anita is contributing something.
‘Thanks, Anita,’ I say, and we peck each other warily on the cheek as I leave.
I don’t feel like going straight home when I leave Anita. I might as well make the most of Daddy’s sudden devotion to Mona.
I pop to Selfridges, where a make-up saleswoman offers to do my face, and I have my own manicure. I check my mobile several times. How long now since I last heard from Max? I have a rule that I won’t contact him until he’s contacted me. It’s a pride thing but I’m also afraid of my text arriving when he’s with Valerie. That I’ll blow our cover. After the manicure I treat myself to a new dress, some gloves. Then I go to the gold counter and look at the necklaces.
Nothing will replace the one that’s gone missing. The frustration I felt at Mona’s rigid expression when I asked her where it was assails me again.
I’m completely impotent. If I accuse her of stealing, she’ll deny it. If I sack her, I’ll be tied down caring for Daddy alone again. As I leave the shops I feel the absence of the gold chain round my neck, a chilly imprint on my skin.
It’s dark by the time I arrive home. The light’s on in the drawing room. Odd – Leo usually sits in the dark.
I push open the door.
Daddy’s there, on the sofa, watching TV, his feet up on the pouffe.
‘Daddy! What are you doing up here?’
‘Mona brought me up. It makes a jolly good change.’
&nbs
p; ‘But where’s Leo?’
‘Leo’s out at work,’ Daddy says in his happy stupor.
I leave Daddy and go to find Mona, Anita’s words running through my head. A tight rein is what you need. She’s walking all over me now, ignoring my rules, taking things into her own hands.
She isn’t in her room or in the kitchen and there’s no sign of Leo.
I mix a much-needed martini, wondering how Mona’s managed to get Leo out of the drawing room again. Then I take a slice of white bread from the bread bin and am about to squish a cheese triangle into it when Mona appears. For some inexplicable reason I hold the bread out of sight behind my back.
‘Mona, Daddy needs to go downstairs.’
‘I was just going to—’
‘Take him! Leo needs the drawing room and Daddy doesn’t like car chases. You’re not to bring him upstairs without asking me.’
I don’t say that I’m afraid of Leo’s reaction when he sees he’s been banished from his lair.
It’s then I notice the bag she’s carrying.
She’s been off shopping again, buying things with my money while she should have been watching Daddy!
‘Give me that.’
‘What . . .?’
‘The bag. Give it to me. I want to see what you’ve bought.’
She stares at me, blinking, that inscrutable expression on her face, then hands me the bag.
Inside are some crumpled garments, and the stench of stale wine.
‘What . . .?’
‘Your father’s clothes – I’m going to wash them. He . . . he soiled them. That’s why I brought him upstairs. His chair was damp. His flat was in a mess when I went down this morning. I thought there were burglars! I’ve cleaned the chair and left it to dry but Charles is warmer and more comfortable up here.’
And without looking at me again she goes off up to the laundry room to put the clothes in the washing machine.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
It’s Monday, and in the studios, Gina is poring over her computer, reading today’s cases.
‘Here’s a woman who thinks her sister’s unreasonably taken their father’s swimming medals. He had two, and the sister took them both when he died, arguing that as she’d cared for him, she was entitled to them. The caller thinks it’s only fair she should give her one. The thing is, they’re not worth anything but they have sentimental value.’
The Darkening Hour Page 15
