How the heck had she fitted into that? Polly had been trying to get Daphne to donate it to the Victoria & Albert Museum for years. Polly used to try it on herself when she played dress-ups and it hadn’t fitted her since she was twelve. There was no way her mother was going to wear it again.
‘She has lost weight,’ she said. ‘I just hadn’t noticed how much. She’s always been very slim and it must have happened incrementally, but I can see now how desperately thin she is. I feel awful.’
She picked the dress up and showed him the size of the waist.
‘She was wearing this.’
‘I think your mother definitely needs to eat more,’ said the doctor. ‘I’m going to take some blood and test for anaemia, and she’s probably dehydrated as well, which can trigger an episode of confusion in an older person. It’s very important she drinks enough water.’
‘But I can’t understand how she’s got so thin,’ said Polly, starting to feel seriously distressed. ‘She has lunch every day in the dining room here – three courses – and sometimes she goes down for dinner as well.’
So she can show herself off in two different outfits, she thought.
‘But does she actually eat it?’ asked the doctor.
Polly remembered the meals at the hotel. Lucas, who had an insatiable appetite, had eaten most of Daphne’s food. Polly had been so concerned about him that she hadn’t considered the implications for her mother’s health.
‘Of course, because of her profession, she’s always been very careful about what she eats,’ Polly said. ‘But now you mention it, I think she has got worse. She appears to be eating a meal, but she just plays with her food, really. Pushes it round the plate.’
‘I’m just going to take her temperature and a few more things, but what I think your mum needs is some fluids and nutrition intravenously. As long as she can have someone around to keep an eye on her, I would like to get the district nurses to put a drip in here and to make regular follow-up visits. Hospital admission is better avoided if possible for a patient at this stage.’
What stage was that, Polly wondered, not liking the sound of it, but relieved he was trying to keep Daphne out of hospital. She’d read the stories about old ladies abandoned in wards, too weak to ask for help.
The moment Dr Adebayo left, she reached into her pocket to pull out her phone. It wasn’t until she was about to hit the number that she fully realised the person she’d been going to ring was David.
She sat down quickly on the sofa as it sank in. It hadn’t been a conscious thought, just a purely spontaneous response to being so upset about her mum. He was her go-to for those moments. Still.
For a second she felt something like pure desolation. How could he just disappear from her life like this? Then she pulled herself together. She couldn’t fall to bits, she had to be strong for her mother – for herself.
After a moment’s thought, she rang Clemmie.
A five-minute chat with her daughter – who was particularly comforting because she understood the situation from both a personal and a medical point of view – made Polly much better and she went back into the bedroom to take the awful make up off Daphne’s face.
Daphne hardly seemed to notice as Polly gently wiped it away, but when she followed up with her mother’s moisturiser, smoothing it on in an upwards direction, Daphne smiled.
‘Thank you, darling,’ she said very weakly. ‘A little bit more on the neck, please.’
Polly kissed her forehead, relieved to see Daphne’s vanity intact. That was a very vital sign in her case.
An hour or so later, a knock on her mother’s front door announced the arrival of the district nurses, two lovely, smiling women, who had come about Daphne’s drip.
Leaving them to get on with it, she took the opportunity to check on Digger, who she’d had to leave in the car.
As he sprang out and went running round the monkey puzzle tree, in what had become a bit of a ritual for him, Polly wondered how she was going to manage the dog for the next few days. One of the conditions for Daphne to be treated at home was that Polly needed to stay with her full-time while the drip was in. Obviously Digger didn’t fit into that scenario.
Polly walked round to the other side of the tree to see what Digger found so fascinating about it, savouring the fresh January air on her face after Daphne’s rather stuffy apartment. It felt like a salve for her overactive brain, like a cool rinse on the scalp at the hairdresser.
The grounds were nicely laid out and Polly continued round the side of the building, breathing deeply to enjoy the notes of wet leaves and bare earth, while she pondered what to do.
The best she could think of was to ask her doggy neighbour if she could look after him for a few days, and if she said yes, drive him there and then come straight back to her mother. Nearly a two-hour round trip. What a palaver, but what choice was there? And if the neighbour couldn’t have him, she’d have to ring Clemmie.
Damn you, David, she thought. Damn you for adding a whole new level of complication to my life, without a second thought for what effect the non-negotiated sole custody of a rescue mutt would have on me.
But then Digger came running over to her with a stick in his mouth and dropped it at her feet, front paws forward, bottom back, tail wagging furiously, looking up at her expectantly.
She looked down at the scruffy dog, with his rufty-tufty black fur sticking up like Sid Vicious’s hair, and found she couldn’t resist him. Yes, having to look after him was a massive pain, but it was beginning to feel more than worth it.
She threw the stick for him for what seemed like the umpteenth time, while texting the neighbour – and then Shirlee, to ask if she wouldn’t mind emailing the yogi bears as she’d so kindly offered. What a help that would be.
Noticing the battery was running low, Polly went back to the car to get her travel charger. When she opened the glove box she saw the perfume she’d brought last time for the man she still thought of as Mr Mitsouko, who had turned out to be the stepdad of Chum from St Andrews. That had been surprising, to see Chum again after so many years. Surprising and nice. She’d always liked Chum. She wracked her brain to remember what his stepdad’s name was . . . Bill, that was it. She couldn’t remember the surname and hoped that would be enough to identify him.
She grabbed the perfume box and, whistling for Digger, headed back inside.
Julia, the nice manager who had rung Polly about her mother, was on the front desk and quickly identified Bill – and was happy to tell her which apartment Mr Edmonstone lived in. Polly set off with Digger on the lead, hoping he’d behave himself. She couldn’t bear to put him back in the car just yet.
Bill’s face broke into a broad smile when he opened his front door to them.
‘Hippolyta!’ he said. ‘What a lovely surprise. Do come in.’
‘Is it all right if Digger comes in too? He’s not usually as badly behaved as he was that day in the dining room.’
‘Of course he can come in,’ said Bill, reaching down to pat him. ‘That was just as much the fault of Edward’s dog Artemis as this little chap. Artemis is not at all well behaved. Do come through and sit down. Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?’
Polly was about to say no, then thought better of it. He lived alone. She understood what that meant now and how much he might enjoy having a chat with someone.
‘Some tea would be lovely, if it’s not too much trouble,’ she said, sitting down in the comfortable armchair he had indicated.
‘Excellent,’ said Bill. ‘I’ve just made a pot. Is strong Indian all right?’
‘Just what I like best,’ said Polly, jerking Digger’s lead as he made a lunge for Bill’s passing slippers.
‘Sit,’ she hissed quietly at the dog, ‘and behave yourself.’
Digger looked up at her dolefully and settled himself on the floor, his head resting on his front paws.
Polly looked round the room, which in terms of layout was a mirror image of her mother’s sit
ting room, but looked so different in every other way. The walls were painted dark red and it was rather overcrowded with mahogany furniture and gold-framed paintings, and some well-stocked bookshelves. A silver tray on a side table held two decanters and some whisky tumblers.
But more than the furnishings, it was the smell that struck her. Old books and whisky combined with the unmistakable spice of cigar smoke. Sure enough, she spotted a humidor, a large ashtray and a heavy lighter with an onyx base. Bill was clearly fond of a smoke. The combination of all these distinct elements was cosy and reassuring.
Floris No. 89, thought Polly, or the most classic men’s cologne. Or perhaps Penhaligon’s No. 33 for the cigar smoke.
Bill came back in with a tray, which he put down on the coffee table. Polly took in the silver teapot, strainer, milk jug, cups and saucers, the plate of biscuits and two small tea plates. He must have had it all ready for his own afternoon cuppa.
‘Do you think Digger would like a drink?’ he asked.
‘I’m sure he would,’ said Polly. ‘He’s just been doing some intense stick-chasing. The stick won, mostly.’
Bill laughed and went back into the kitchen. Polly heard him put the tap on, then he came back into the doorway holding something out in his hand.
‘Digger,’ he called, ‘would you like one of Artemis’s treats? And some water from her bowl?’
Digger’s head quickly came up, hearing his name and smelling the treat, and Polly let go of his lead so he could pad off to the kitchen.
Bill walked back into the sitting room, sat down opposite Polly and poured the tea.
‘Would you care for a shortbread?’ he said, holding out the plate of biscuits. ‘Edward brings these for me. He says they’re all butter, which they seem to have decided is good for us again. Lucky I never stopped eating it, eh? I like it on a cream cracker.’
Polly smiled as she picked up a shortbread finger.
‘How nice it is of you to call,’ said Bill, the saucer perched on the fingers of his left hand, the handle of the cup delicately gripped with the other hand, little finger most definitely not raised. He leaned forward and picked up a cube of sugar with the tongs.
‘Do you take sugar?’ he asked.
Polly shook her head, fascinated as he dropped the cube into his cup and then stirred it noiselessly. It was like watching some kind of elaborate tea ceremony. Daphne had gone over to teabags and mugs years before, but Polly was pretty sure Bill did this every afternoon.
‘Have you come to visit your mother again?’ he asked, carefully putting the silver teaspoon on the saucer – no rattle – and taking a sip from the cup.
‘Yes,’ said Polly, wondering how much he might know. Did they gossip in a place like this? Was everyone laughing at Daphne, coming down in her ball gown and trying to dance with the head waiter? If they were, she didn’t think Bill would join in, but he’d probably heard about it.
‘She had to have the doctor to see her,’ continued Polly, ‘so I came to hear what he had to say.’
‘Everything’s all right, I hope?’ he said.
‘Well, it seems she was dehydrated,’ said Polly, ‘and she hasn’t really been eating, which isn’t a great combination for anybody.’
Bill nodded, taking another sip from his cup and putting it back on the saucer again.
‘It made her go a bit potty,’ said Polly suddenly. There was something about Bill’s face that was so kind it made her want to confide in him.
‘Ah, yes,’ said Bill. ‘I’ve heard that we wrinklies – as Edward calls me – have to drink plenty of water, and not just in tea, because that’s a diuretic. I really prefer my water with a tot of whisky, but that doesn’t count either, apparently.’
Polly laughed.
‘It was so nice to see Ch– Edward the other day,’ she said.
‘Call him Chum, if you want to,’ said Bill. ‘I’m just an old fusspot who insists on calling him Edward. Yes, he said the same about seeing you. You should meet up here some time. That was a Monday, wasn’t it? He normally has lunch with me on a Friday. When your mother is feeling better, perhaps you’d both like to join us.’
‘That would be lovely,’ said Polly.
‘Although you and Edward will probably have things you want to remember without the old wrinklies hanging about. Gay days at university and all that.’
Polly smiled.
‘And it would do Edward good to have some congenial company,’ said Bill, looking at her quite beadily. ‘He’s had a bit of a rough trot recently.’
‘Oh, I’m very sorry to hear that,’ said Polly.
‘Yes. People feel sorry for us poor old crumbling geriatrics, but I think mid-life can be a very difficult time too. You start to feel like you’ve chosen your track and that’s it, there’s no chance that the signals will change. Full speed ahead in whatever direction you’re pointed in, heading into a tunnel and hoping you don’t come up against the buffers at the other end.’
He laughed and Polly joined in, but said nothing. Was that how David was feeling? Stuck on the tracks in one direction – with her – and starting to think he was never going to be head of department at King’s? Just the black hole of old age to look forward to?
Digger came back from the kitchen, having a good sniff of everything he passed en route, clearly looking for the source of the delectable odour wafting from the shortbread. As his head moved towards the table, Polly snapped her fingers at him.
‘Stop sniffing, Digger,’ she said, ‘it’s rude. Sit down. Actually, all that sniffing has reminded me why I came to see you, Bill – I mean, I would have loved to come anyway, but there was a particular reason.’
She pulled the small, beautifully decorated box out of her handbag and passed it across to him.
‘I want you to have this,’ she said. ‘With all the work I do in the perfume industry, I’m given more of it than I could ever use.’
Bill looked down at the box then back up at Polly.
‘Is it Mitsouko?’ he asked.
Polly nodded, smiling.
‘Are you really sure you can part with it?’ he said. ‘Let me look at this beautiful box.’
He picked up a pair of spectacles that were on the table and put them on, examining the packaging.
‘It’s eau de parfum,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that the very best?’
‘I’m sure that’s what your mother would have worn,’ said Polly.
Bill looked at her steadily for a moment and then down at the box.
‘What a lovely kind girl you are,’ he said.
Before Polly could answer, her phone pinged to announce a message.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, ‘but with what’s going on with my mother, I think I’d better look at that. I wouldn’t normally.’
‘Of course,’ said Bill.
She pulled her phone out and groaned reflexively when she read the message.
‘Is something wrong?’ asked Bill.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, it’s just that I need to stay here with my mum a few days and the friend who looks after the dog when I go away can’t have him, so I’ll have to get my daughter to come from Cambridge to get him. He can’t be in the flat while Mummy has the drip in—’
‘I’ll have him,’ Bill interjected. ‘It would be lovely to have some company. As long you don’t mind, eh, Digger?’
Digger raised his head at the mention of his name and stood up and trotted over to Bill to make a fuss of him.
‘Really?’ asked Polly.
‘Of course,’ said Bill. ‘I’d love to have him. As long as you can take him out now and again. I can take him down for his morning and evening wees, but I’m not up to doing much more walking than that.’
‘Oh, that would be so kind,’ said Polly. ‘And please don’t worry about taking him out, I’ll come and get him at least three times a day. But if you really don’t mind him being here that would make things so much simpler.’
‘I’ll enjoy it,’ said Bill. ‘I miss havin
g a dog. Mine died before I moved here and they have rather tedious rules about residents getting new dogs. Perhaps you could just leave me your phone number, in case something happens and I need to call you.’
Polly fished one of her FragrantCloud business cards out of her handbag and passed it to him.
‘I’ll pop back later with some food for him,’ she said.
‘You don’t need to,’ said Bill. ‘I have dog food. Artemis stays sometimes, so I’ve got everything he’ll need. I take it he’s not a fussy eater?’
Bill’s eyes danced with merriment as he said it, and Polly laughed.
‘No, quite the opposite. In fact you’d better put those shortbreads in a safe place or he won’t be able to stop himself.’
Polly finished her tea and told Bill she’d fetch Digger’s blanket from the car, so he’d have something familiar to sleep on. Bill went to show her out, and just as Polly had walked through the door she turned back and gave him a spontaneous kiss on the cheek. It felt like the right thing to do.
As she did so she caught the smell of old-fashioned shaving foam and cologne, mixed with the cigar smoke that had permeated the cashmere of his cardigan, and a back note of whisky.
Daddy.
The combination was like falling through a gap in the space-time continuum. As she walked off down the corridor, tears sprang into Polly’s eyes, as they seemed to so often these days.
This time she wasn’t sure if they were sad or happy.
FragrantCloud.net
The scent of . . . a dog
I wish I could see all your faces as you read the title of today’s post!
I can see that the smell of a dog might not be a very appealing prospect, but that’s partly why I wanted to write about it, to make the point that smell associations can be really abstract, but still meaningful.
My dog is called Digger – although it still feels odd to describe him as ‘my dog’. Ever since he arrived in our lives a couple of years ago, from the rescue centre, he has very much been my husband’s dog.
The Scent of You Page 14
