September Starlings (4 page)

It is not my fault. A chap called Alois Alzheimer messed about with brain tissue in 1907. He left his findings and his name for posterity, so my husband suffers not from senile dementia, but from Alzheimer’s disease. I am twenty years younger than Ben and, until lately, I have been robust. But during my own recent illness, Ben has slipped even further away from reality. My sin is that I did not notice, was too wrapped up in my fear. Now, he is … he is almost gone from me. I shouldn’t have been ill. Even if I’d allowed myself an illness, I should have kept an eye on him. And the dragon’s on her way again. She will look at me and she will think that I am uncaring, self-indulgent, a feeble-minded and ageing bimbo who hides behind face powder and good clothes.

Ben is in his room. He may be sleeping, may be rambling. Worse by far than the confusion are those rare moments of clarity when his eyes blaze triumphantly and he knows me. ‘Laura,’ he says. ‘I do love you.’ Inside, I bleed for the man I adore, for the stranger who had five decades apart from me, before me. I arrived late in the life of Benjamin Charles Starling and we have not discussed our separate pasts. Instead of reminiscing and indulging in unsavoury anecdotes, we made a pact, threw ourselves into what was probably a near-perfect marriage, total trust, abiding love and close friendship. Dear God, help me to bear this sorrow, broaden my shoulders and dry my stupid female eyes. This is a Sunday, but You are here, not just in churches where people bend and scrape and show off a new hat.

The kettle whispers, simmers, bubbles and boils. I brew his tea thick and strong, using loose tea from the tin marked YORKSHIRE. No perforated bag for Ben, just honest-to-goodness leaves, one sugar and a splash of milk. I think he must have lived for a while in Leeds or Halifax
or somewhere over the Pennines, this wonderful man whose English is too perfect. Tea mashed and stewed the Yorkshire way has been his favourite beverage.

Handel eyes me lugubriously, whiskers to attention as he waits for his dollop of catfood. Cats are supposed to be friendly when hungry, but he remains cool, offhand, paralysed by laziness. A psychologist once told me that laziness does not exist, that those who sit and wait for life to happen are suffering from lack of motivation. He never met my cat. I feed the monster, toss a bone outside for his partner in crime, a big soft dog who makes the mistake of loving and trusting all humans. The psychologist never met him, either.

The sea is wind-tossed, angry waves vying for position as the tide forces its urgent way up the Mersey’s throat. The Vikings landed here, settled in Crosby, Thornton, Blundellsands. Had they arrived today, those ridiculous horned helmets might have provided some protection from elements whose anger is far from decorous, certainly unjustified. The holiday season, and the beach is as empty as Anfield when the lads are playing away. The Vikings might cheer things up a bit – even a bit of pillage would break the monotony. It could be reported in the
Crosby Herald
– ‘HORNED MAN BREAKS INTO LIFEBOAT STATION, STEALS PETTY CASH’. That would make a change from the usual shoplifting. The porridge is ready, the tray is set. I place a yellow rose in a narrow glass. On my second wedding day, I carried yellow roses.

For twenty-one years, I have asked no questions. Now, as I ponder and worry my way through lonely nights, I accept that there can be no complete answers. He is a good man. His illness makes him no less a person, though I allowed myself to be considerably diminished by a disorder from which I emerged intact. So I am now less than I was. Dr Ashby echoes again in my head. ‘You have not failed! Whatever you’d done, he would have deteriorated. And you’ve been ill, girl.’ Dr Ashby has no idea. Ben saved me years ago, took my life in his hands and held
it like a piece of porcelain, protected me from all harm. And when he needed me, I was not here for him.

Why didn’t I ask? Now, I find myself wondering constantly, dwelling on the subject of Ben’s beginnings. Where did he come from, this foreigner with an accent that is almost BBC
circa
1950? I remember those commentators, all rounded vowels and clipped consonants, have read the famous stories of dress suits and bow ties for men, elegant dresses and straight seams in fully-fashioned stockings for ‘ladies’ who talked on the wireless. Yet Ben has failed, but only just, to reach Home Service standards. Each syllable of Ben’s is awarded almost equal stress, so he is probably European. I have been touched to the point of tears by his need to belong in this, his chosen country. If any of our friends has noticed Ben’s quaint speech, then he or she has held back query and opinion, just as I have. There was something in my husband’s eyes, a look that seemed to beg, ‘Don’t ask.’

She rings the doorbell, and I dash like a timid schoolgirl who is late for registration. Running makes me breathless, reminds me of my weakness. Slowly, slowly, the doctors said. I press my palms flat against the door, breathe deeply through my nose, exhale through my mouth. I am recovering, convalescing after surgery, emerging from a breakdown that was ghastly. I don’t know which was worse – the physical pain or the emotional collapse. But I won’t panic. And I won’t panic about nearly panicking just a moment ago. I’m in charge, coping.

I open the door. A dark grey raincoat is unbuttoned over a dress of royal blue whose seams have faded beneath the weight of an assiduous iron. A badge proclaims her status, announces to the world that she is a fully-fledged nursing sister. On her rigid bosom, an upside-down watch dithers in time with her asthmatic respiration. ‘Cold,’ she mutters.

The tang of heavy smoking hangs around her. She must take the inhalations without using her hands, because the fags have stained her moustache a darker yellow on the left
side. Yes, I can imagine her labouring over a patient, filter-tip clenched between nicotined incisors. ‘Not exactly summery,’ I reply. ‘Shame about those on holiday in Southport.’

‘Never had time for holidays, myself,’ she announces, her tone harsh. ‘All you get from holidays is sore skin and a pile of rubbishy photos. Waste of effort and money.’

God, what I’d give for a fortnight in the Bahamas among healthy, strong people … Selfish again. She thinks I’ve been having a beano, dashing round and socializing while my husband languishes. ‘I had to go away, Nurse Jenkinson. It was unavoidable – business, you see.’

She grunts, runs her muddy eyes over my thinning body. ‘What you need is a good dose of vitamins and three squares a day.’

‘Yes.’ I am meek again, and the meekness infuriates me.

She passes me, jabs her brolly into the stand as if impaling an opponent on a skewer. ‘Is he awake?’

‘Yes. I’ve just made his breakfast. It’s on the tray in the kitchen.’

She makes a great business of looking at her watch, long-sightedness forcing her to narrow the strange green eyes. ‘He needs his breakfast earlier than this, Mrs Starling. When he goes back to Heaton Lodge tomorrow, he will be out of his routine and that will cause problems.’

I pretend to study my hands, because I know that this woman resents my manicured hands. Almost every week, Adrian does what he calls ‘a French job’, managing somehow to imply naughtiness in the term. But he simply paints the nails a natural pink, then whitens their tips. ‘Ben will be here until Tuesday morning,’ I reply, trying not to gloat over the small mistake. Nurse Jenkinson is always right. Nurse Jenkinson never forgets a schedule. ‘It’s a bank holiday.’ I look straight at her. ‘And you don’t need to come tomorrow. I shall see to him.’

‘But you can’t.’ She is speaking to a fool whose mantle of bravado is clearly slipping. I have not changed a nappy since my youngest child was two years old. But the
stubbornness persists. ‘I am quite capable of looking after my own husband.’

Her tongue clicks quietly as she rejects the lie. ‘I shall come tomorrow, as Mr Starling is on my list of regulars. Later, we shall decide what to do about his weekends.’

Lists. She probably makes lists for everything, probably keeps an input and output chart on her own visits to table and bathroom. ‘As you wish.’ I step aside as she claims more space in the hall, her bulky body seeming to grow as it claims its right of entrance. She removes what she calls her mac, hangs it at the bottom of the stairs. While she fetches Ben’s breakfast tray, I make a point of transferring her outer garment to the hallstand. Sometimes, I am unbearably small-minded.

She clomps her flat-footed way up the stairs and I notice how worn her shoes are, how snagged the black stockings. She is poor, gets monkey wages for taking care of people whose families have failed them, rejected them. In future, I will try to control my thoughts about her, try to appreciate her position. She runs about in an aged Metro, cleans up food and vomit, takes pulses, temperatures and abuse, washes faces and bottoms, sticks needles in sagging flesh, talks nonsense to corpses that refuse to stop breathing. Nurses have always been undervalued, though they probably save more lives than do the so-called specialists. The masters just sit and pontificate, hide behind seventeen-letter qualifications, make no effort to disguise superiority complexes big enough to make Adolf Hitler seem submissive. They wouldn’t know a bedpan from a first-class stamp. Bitterness again. They saved me and I curse them. Mind, they have ruined my hair …

I walk into the kitchen, make coffee, pick up the newspaper from the side porch which doubles as a utility room. His pyjamas are in a bucket of cold water and Napisan, trapped air making the blue striped cloth bubble upward like a beachball. He bought a beachball in Skegness. And a bucket and spade, some paper flags, those awful green flippers. During the daylight hours of
our honeymoon, he entertained the children from the boarding house. ‘My castle’s better than yours,’ he would say to some indignant seven-year-old. Budding architects came to light that day. By the end of the week, the competition was fierce and all the mothers were grateful to their unexpected childminder. ‘I told you to bring Jodie and the boys,’ he said repeatedly.

‘It’s our honeymoon,’ I insisted.

He would then wear an expression that was tailored to infuriate. ‘Is it? Oh, I must have forgotten.’

He forgets almost everything these days. Almost everything … I tip the pail’s contents into a deep porcelain sink, turn the tap until the flow is torrential, watch the stains as they separate and gurgle down the drain. I am glad that I decided to preserve this part of the old kitchen, grateful for the aged sink. When the machine is programmed for a half-load, I peel off the Marigolds and retrieve the newspaper from a wicker washing basket.

I sit at the table in my beautiful newish kitchen, half-price one hot June with a portable telly thrown in. It took six months to persuade the firm to part with the television, a year to encourage its employees to fit the kitchen properly, preferably with the units actually fastened to the walls. The surfaces are pristine, a sort of imitation marble in cream and brown. Cupboards and drawers are white with fancy mouldings and brass handles. Nothing gets used, so nothing gets dirty. I cannot remember when I last cooked a proper meal in here, a real supper for more than two people.

Yes. Yes, I can remember. It started then, when we got the wobbly kitchen. Ruth and Les Edwards came. We had avocado and smoked salmon to start, lemon chicken for the main course, sorbets for pudding. Ruth was on one of her diets, as usual. She’s short and beautiful and rather round at times. Throughout the meal, we drank a cold crisp hock, then Ben drifted out to crush some ice. Whether dieting or bingeing, Ruth always indulges her passion for
crème de menthe frappé
. I followed him, loaded
the percolator, dug deep in an unhinged cupboard for some Kenya medium and a half-empty box of After Eights.

My eyes brim with salt water as I stare at the space Ben occupied that night, the spot in front of the freezer where he stood, forehead creased, hands uncertain and dangling loose by his sides. ‘Where is it?’ he asked in a voice unlike his own.

‘The ice is usually in the top,’ I replied, still blissfully ignorant of anything amiss. Ben was … past tense again! Ben is a mimic, often disguises his voice.

‘My gun,’ he said clearly. ‘What the hell have you done with my gun?’

The ice was forgotten immediately, though I felt as if a glacier had been compressed and pushed down my throat by a giant hand. ‘Ben?’ I ventured. ‘Why do you need a gun?’ My tone became ordinary, I think, very low and steady. I might have been asking why he needed a new shirt or some clean socks.

‘They must be shot,’ he said clearly. ‘And we can use their valuables to carry on the work.’

Flesh does creep. I felt as if my spine had raised itself from my body, as if it crawled like a slow, cold snake into my hair. He was a stranger. More than that, he was almost an enemy. His eyes were dull, frozen in their sockets. The kind face was twisting itself in response to some inner fury that he had suddenly accessed, something that had lain dormant over a long period. He was not Ben. He was a man with a mission, a man anxious to defend, attack, survive.

Les came in and Ben jumped on him, leapt like a panther across the room and seized this good friend by the throat. ‘Pig,’ growled my husband. ‘Did they let you live, then? How many more,
cochon
?
Combien
?’ Ben turned his head and addressed the kitchen door. ‘Come, Ziggy. See what has crawled into the apartment.’

Les is a strong man, but was too shocked to act for at least half a minute. He looked at me, his eyes round and
fear-filled, bulging as the hold on his throat tightened.

‘Stop him!’ I yelled. ‘Do what you have to do, Les.’

The violence was terrible. Ben fought, struggled, cursed in several languages as Les restrained him. After a quick glance round the door, Ruth ran screaming from the house. That was strange, I think now, because Ruth is not a screamer. I phoned for an ambulance, sat still as a gravestone while my husband was handled by blue-clad men. Les and Ruth left, followed the ambulance to Fazakerley. I stayed, listened as the coffee bubbled, inhaled the smell, came to hate the wonderful aroma of coffee. Humans are resilient, but it was some time before a percolator was used again in this kitchen.