‘I’ll tell you what worked for me,’ said Shirlee, waving a wooden spatula in the air. She had two of Polly’s frying pans on the stovetop. ‘This!’
She turned and whacked the spatula down hard and repeatedly onto the cushion on one of the kitchen chairs. Dust flew everywhere and Polly expected feathers to follow at any moment.
‘Boom!’ yelled Shirlee. ‘This is for all the kids who called me fat in high school. Boom! Uncle Marv, you pervy old bastard. Wanna see something? How about this? Boom! Teachers who told me I was dumb. Boom! Mom, who thought sons mattered more than daughters. I could go on . . .’
Polly looked at Maxine, who was laughing.
‘Shirlee did respond well to role play,’ she said.
Polly went over to the cooker and turned on the extractor fan.
‘Sorry about the noise,’ she said.
‘Good idea,’ said Shirlee, ‘plenty of carcinogens in this breakfast – yeah, mama – but they’re organic death foods, so that’s OK, isn’t it? And I’ve got my kosher lamb bacon. I felt bad about eating the piggy stuff that time.’
‘What are the sausages today?’ asked Polly.
‘Venison,’ said Shirlee. ‘Freedom eggs, organic sourdough, organic tomatoes, organic butter made by virgins with no mercury fillings . . . That clean-food freak Chiara can come back and blog this baby. This is the Clean English, à la Shirlee.’
The Clean English was delicious – just the thing for Polly’s hangover – and she relished having company while she ate. Too often these days, meals were something grabbed out of the fridge and eaten standing up at the kitchen counter. She couldn’t bear sitting alone at the table where they’d eaten all their meals as a family together. Laying it for one nearly killed her – and eating off her lap in front of the TV was almost worse.
‘So, tell me, Shirl,’ she said, sitting back in her chair. ‘Now I know what Maxine does for a living – I never like to ask people in a yoga context, because they come here to get away from all that – but how about you? You’ve been coming to my classes for yonks and I’ve still got no idea.’
‘Not much,’ said Shirlee. ‘I’m a lady of leisure. How do you think I get to come to yoga five mornings a week and then hang around jawing with you?’
‘So is there a Mr Shirlee, slaving at a coal face somewhere to fund your leisure? Or a Mrs Shirlee?’
Shirlee barked with laughter.
‘There’s no Mrs Shirlee at the moment, although I have had a few memorable trips to the island . . .’
Polly put her head on one side. ‘The island?’
‘Lesbos,’ said Shirlee. ‘Some very comfortable accommodation there.’ She grinned, waggling her eyebrows suggestively.
‘As for Mr Shirlee, what man could stand to be around me? I’d pussy-whip him to death. Or sit on him. No, it’s just little old me. I have the odd dangerous liaison – a few old friends with benefits who come and go – but mostly I’m happy on my lonesome. And if you’re wondering how I afford it, I have my aunt to thank for that. She had no kids and left me the house. Five bedrooms in Highgate. I quit my job, converted it in into three flats, sold two and live in the ground floor and basement, with enough change in the pot to survive.’
‘What was your job?’ asked Polly.
Now she’d started being nosy, she couldn’t stop. A look crossed Shirlee’s face that surprised her. Regretful.
‘I worked with autistic kids,’ she said. ‘Art therapy. It was great. I really miss it. I loved those kids.’
‘Couldn’t you go back?’ asked Polly.
‘Naaa,’ said Shirlee. ‘I got off the bus and it’s not that easy to get on again, at the level I worked at. Ideas about how to work with kids change all the time and it’s weirdly political. People guard their patch very closely. I chose to quit and I’ve got to sit with that decision.’
Polly was about to ask her if she couldn’t volunteer somewhere, but Shirlee got in first.
‘So how’s Lucas doing?’ she asked. ‘You said his finger’s healing up nicely, but how about whatever he was numbing with the excessive boozing?’
Polly stopped with her mug halfway to her mouth.
‘He’s OK as far as I know,’ she said tentatively. ‘He only went back to uni yesterday.’
Maxine’s face was fixed in gentle inquiry – her professional mask, thought Polly.
Shirlee, of course, showed no such restraint.
‘Well, what could possibly go wrong there?’ she said, laughing heartily. ‘No kid ever drank too much at college – except all of them. Know anyone nearby who can keep an eye on him?’
Polly shook her head.
‘I’m going to FaceTime him every day,’ she said, ‘and so is his sister. We reckon if we can actually see his face, we’ll have a better idea how he is.
‘And what can I do?’ she continued. ‘He’s not a little kid any more. He’s at that age when he’s going to do his own thing no matter what I say. You know how they egg each other on . . .’
But as she said it, she remembered how drunk he’d got at the country-house hotel with her mum. He hadn’t had any friends to egg him on there, and she’d practically had to drag him up to his room after dinner, when he’d started ranting about how his father had left them.
‘Don’t you want that sausage?’ asked Shirlee, her fork already hovering over Polly’s plate.
‘Oh, no,’ said Polly, snapping back into the moment. ‘You have it, I’m really full. It was delicious. Thanks so much, Shirlee.’
‘Yeah, and thinking about your kid’s killed your appetite, huh?’
‘Something like that,’ said Polly, enjoying the feeling of being real about something for once. ‘It is a worry. You’re right. Most young people drink too much – it’s become a student rite of passage – but Lucas seems to be taking it to extremes.’
‘And your husband’s not here to support you,’ said Shirlee. ‘That must make it much worse. What does he think about it?’
That was too much reality. Who knew what David thought about Lucas, or about anything? Who knew who David was any more, let alone where he was.
Hot, stinging tears sprang into Polly’s eyes. It was good to talk freely about Lucas, but there was no way she could open up about David, not even to these people who didn’t know him. If she exposed herself like that to anyone apart from Clemmie, she wouldn’t be able to carry on.
She got up quickly and walked out of the kitchen, calling out behind her in the cheeriest tone she could muster that she was just nipping to the loo.
She locked herself in the small downstairs cloakroom and sat down on the loo seat, controlling her breathing, re-earthing herself. After a while she felt calm enough to stop the tears that had threatened to engulf her. That was a relief, because she knew she wouldn’t have been able to hide post-blubbing eyes from those two – and it would have inevitably led to more probing questions from Shirlee.
Polly waited for what felt like a suitable length of time, then went back into the kitchen. She could tell immediately they’d been talking about her, but they put on a good front and even Shirlee kept her lip zipped for once. Polly wondered if Maxine had told her to rein it in a bit. Whatever the reason, Polly was grateful.
The conversation had returned to a pleasant level again, as they discussed the possibility of doing a yoga break together in Greece later in the year, when the phone rang.
‘Is this Mrs Masterson-Mackay?’ said a woman’s voice when Polly answered it.
‘Yes,’ said Polly. Ms, actually, but she couldn’t be bothered to make the point.
‘Oh, good morning, this is Julia, I’m the duty manager at Rockham Park. Don’t be alarmed, your mother is fine, but we just needed to ring you to discuss something that happened this morning.’
‘OK . . .’ said Polly.
Julia had said Daphne was all right, so why did she have that guarded tone in her voice? Like she was about to break bad news?
‘Well, the thing is, your mother was a littl
e bit confused today and we’ve called the doctor just to be on the safe side. We thought you’d want to know. She’s all right, as I said, she’s in her apartment and one of the staff is with her, but we thought you should know, in case you’d like to be here when the doctor comes.’
‘When you say “a little confused” – what do you mean exactly?’ asked Polly.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Shirlee and Maxine exchange a look. They probably thought it was about Lucas.
‘Well,’ said Julia, ‘she came down for breakfast dressed in an, er, evening gown and lots of beautiful jewellery, and asked the waiter when he was going to dance with her. She got rather upset when he declined.’
Polly closed her eyes, the scene all too easy for her to picture. She turned her back to Shirlee and Maxine and lowered her voice.
‘Did she say why she was wearing the dress?’ Polly asked, praying Daphne had been trying it on for a forthcoming modelling job and just needed someone to zip up the back. If she had been sent a designer dress to try on for size, it would be typical of her to want everyone at Rockham Park to see her in it.
But even as she thought this, Polly knew it was unlikely. Daphne’s booker always checked in with Polly first these days. There’d been a terrible mix-up one time, when Daphne had been expected at a shoot and hadn’t turned up because she’d forgotten all about it.
‘She said she’d come for the party,’ said Julia, sounding embarrassed. ‘She was just a bit muddled, and she’s done a few other things recently that were a little unusual in this way. We all appreciate Mrs Masterson-Mackay’s wonderful personality, but this seemed a little more, er, extreme, and when we tried to escort her back to her apartment, I’m afraid to say she got very distressed.’
‘OK,’ said Polly. ‘I’ll come right away. Thank you so much for letting me know.’
She sat down at the table, feeling like she’d been hit over the head with the frying pan.
‘You OK, honey?’ asked Shirlee. ‘Is it something to do with Lucas?’
‘No,’ said Polly, tears filling her eyes again. This time she didn’t fight them. ‘It’s my mum. She seems to think the dining room at her retirement village is the embassy ball. I’ve got to go and see what’s going on.’
‘Dementia?’ asked Shirlee, with her usual tact. ‘Loopy-loop?’
She circled her forefinger next to her head. It was so appalling Polly had to laugh.
‘I wouldn’t use the medical term “loopy-loop” at this stage,’ she said. ‘But she has been acting a little strangely recently. She rings me in the middle of the night to ask random questions, and she forgets a lot, but this seems like it’s cranked up to a whole new level. Can dementia come on that quickly?’
She addressed the question directly to Maxine. She had a shrink here, she might as well make the most of it.
‘Well, dementia is a very broad term,’ said Maxine, slowly and carefully. ‘It can be an early sign of Alzheimer’s, or it could be just mild vascular dementia, which progresses much more slowly. If you are concerned, you’ll need to get a diagnosis. But there are many other factors that could be in play here – she might just be dehydrated, or not eating properly, or taking medication erratically. I’m sure her doctor will check all those things and then probably do all the standard tests.’
Polly stared at Maxine as it sank in. Tests. That word made it seem so formal. She’d known Daphne’s night-time calls were peculiar, but she’d tried to convince herself it was just the disjointed sleep patterns of the elderly. Of course, it had occurred to her that they might be an indication of something more serious, but she hadn’t wanted to face up to it. No choice now.
‘It’s not an immediate life sentence, Polly,’ Maxine continued. ‘Some people have a little episode like this and then get right back to how they were before. It can even be a good thing, because it gets them some treatment at an early stage, which can do a lot to slow the pace of deterioration. If she was living alone, with no one to notice what she was doing, it could easily have developed too far to treat, so I think it’s good this has happened, in a way. Try not to worry too much. I know that’s hard, but the doctor will explain all this to you.’
‘Holy shit,’ said Shirlee. ‘Now you’ve got your mom to worry about as well as your boozing son, and your husband off fuck-knows-where. We’ll do the washing up, sweetheart, you go and get dressed, so you can leave quickly to see her.’
For a split second Polly’s instinct was to say oh no, she couldn’t possibly let them . . . but she pushed it away as fast as it came. She could let them and she was going to. Shirlee was right, she needed help, and she was going to take it.
‘Thanks, Shirlee,’ she said, getting to her feet and smiling at them, ‘and thank you, Maxine. Some help with the washing up would be absolutely brilliant. I’m so glad you two stayed today. It would have been very hard to handle that call about my mum on my own.’
She ran upstairs and got changed. When she came down again, the kitchen was immaculate and Shirlee was vacuuming the sitting room while Maxine dusted.
‘Now that you don’t need to do,’ said Polly.
‘We want to,’ said Shirlee. ‘Get going. We’ll just finish up here and we can shut the door behind us.’
Polly hesitated.
‘Are you sure?’ she said.
‘Hush yo’ mouth and git gone,’ said Shirlee in a fake Southern accent, laughing.
‘OK, Missy Shirlee,’ said Polly. She went out to the hall and sorted through the muddled pile of keys sitting on the side table, pulled out a set and took them back into the sitting room.
‘Here,’ she said, handing them to Shirlee, with one key singled out at the top. ‘Do the mortise lock with this one when you leave – and I want you to keep them. Then you can let yourself in on yoga mornings.’
‘Cool,’ said Shirlee, putting the keys in her pocket and smiling broadly. ‘Thanks, Poll. Now you get off to your mom, and text me to let me know when you’re able to take classes again. It’s fine if you need to skip a few – send me your contacts list for the regulars and I’ll email them all.’
‘You are an angel, Shirlee,’ said Polly, giving her a big hug, before heading for the front door.
Maxine followed her out and handed Polly a card.
‘Here are my numbers,’ she said. ‘You can call me any time if you need my professional opinion about anything to do with your mum, or with your son – Shirlee told me about that, I hope you don’t mind – or if you just need to talk about anything, Polly. No charge, just as a friend. I’d be happy to do it for you.’
Polly hugged her and went out to the car thinking how lucky she was to have such great yogi bears.
Polly could smell Fracas halfway along the corridor outside Daphne’s flat. She couldn’t help smiling. What else would Daphne put on if she thought she was going to a party?
But Polly wasn’t smiling when she got inside and saw her mother propped up in bed – her bare arms as scrawny as a plucked chicken, her face still in the heavy make-up she must have applied to go with the ball gown, except that now her mascara had run and her lipstick was smeared across her cheek. She looked like a Halloween fright mask.
Polly’s heart turned over. Daphne would be mortified if she could see herself like that. Especially as the doctor taking her pulse was rather a strapping young man.
‘Hey, Mummy,’ said Polly, leaning across the bed to give her mother a kiss.
Daphne turned her head, not lifting it from the pillow, and looked at Polly as though she could hardly see her.
‘Hello, darling,’ she said weakly. ‘This charming man is asking me a lot of questions but I’m so tired . . .’
She closed her eyes and seemed to sleep.
‘Hello,’ said Polly to the doctor. ‘I’m her daughter, Polly.’
‘I’m Dr Adebayo,’ he said, shaking her hand. ‘I’m just checking your mum over. It seems she’s been a little confused, and she does seem very tired, as she said. Is that norm
al for her these days?’
‘Not really,’ said Polly. ‘But she doesn’t seem to sleep much. She often rings me in the middle of the night . . .’
Her voice petered out. She was talking about her mother like she wasn’t there and couldn’t speak for herself. Wasn’t that what people did with patients who had dementia?
‘Are you awake, Mummy?’ she asked gently. ‘I’m just talking to Dr Adebayo here, OK?’
Daphne didn’t stir. Polly wanted to get that make-up off her more than anything. Her eyes lingered on Daphne’s face, with its extraordinary bone structure still as glorious as ever, but looking so grotesque. She pulled herself up and turned back to the doctor.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but it’s a shock to see her like this. She’s very particular about her appearance. She used to be a famous model – well, she still is, if you know about that sort of thing.’
Why was she blabbing on about that? She’d be telling him about ‘darling Cecil’ next.
‘So this is a sudden change of behaviour?’ asked the doctor.
‘Yes.’ said Polly. ‘Yes and no. She’s pretty forgetful these days and I look after her money for her now, because she finds that too much. And she does rather live in the past – it was so glamorous, it must be hard to accept it’s gone – but she normally knows what’s going on. It’s just the night-time phone calls that have been unusual, and they’re getting more frequent.’
‘Does she ring for any particular reason?’ he asked.
‘It varies. Sometimes it’s to ask when I’m coming to see her, or where I’ve put her biscuits.’
He looked at her inquiringly.
‘Her crispbreads,’ said Polly. ‘She loves them and she always keeps them in the same place, on top of the fridge, but sometimes she can’t find them and she rings me.’
‘Biscuits.’ said Dr Adebayo. ‘Do she think she’s eating properly? She looks very thin.’
Polly turned to her mother again. Her arms looked like bony little twigs. How had she not noticed that? Daphne had always been very slender, but this was alarming.
She looked over at the ball gown draped across the chair. Primrose-yellow duchess satin. It was a Dior couture piece the house had presented to Daphne when she’d retired from doing their shows in what, 1960?
The Scent of You Page 13
