The Art of Forgetting (12 page)

Laura represses a terrible urge to laugh. It should not be funny and it would be rude and heartless if she did, but sometimes it just happens. She remembers somebody on a TV programme saying that most comedy is based on the ridiculous, and dementia is often just that. There is a fine line between the deliberately funny and the accidental, and we are not always good at walking that line. She coughs and rummages around in her bag for a tissue, but she need not have worried. Emil is smiling.

“Woof indeed, Mother,” he says. “Couldn’t have put it better myself.”

They are still chuckling when Mum emerges from the conservatory. Laura stands up to meet her, and she is thinking of bringing her over to sit with Emil and his mother when she stops and her heart sinks. She is holding what appears to be a dressing gown cord, and it is trailing behind her.

“Come on, Brandy,” she says. “It’s time for your walk.”

For some reason, although this is just as ridiculous, it is not funny at all. In fact, it is all Laura can do to fight back tears. This is all her fault. If she hadn’t insisted on bringing her mother to see Jip, none of these memories would have surfaced to trouble her. Now she thinks she has a dog to walk and who knows where it will all end?

Back home, she pulls into the drive and sits in the car trying to collect her thoughts. Everything seems to be running away and she doesn’t know what to do about it. The only person she feels able to talk to properly is a man she hardly knows, and what is going on with him? Why does she get this inappropriate feeling of excitement when she sees him? It’s not like she fancies him, he’s way too old and they haven’t been flirting or anything remotely like that, but it’s there all the same.

She decides that she must be using him to fill the emotional gap left by Patrick’s apparent indifference. Yes, that’s it. If Patrick would only offer her more support she’d probably do nothing more than exchange a polite ‘good morning’ with Emil, so there is actually nothing to worry about. When you are in a situation like this you have to take your support where you can find it.

For the next week or so, something like harmony settles upon Laura’s life. She knows it may not stay, but for the moment it has folded its wings in the sunshine and is still.

To begin with, now that Jip has gone and a couple of phone calls to Dot have confirmed that all is well, a degree of peace has broken out between her and Patrick. True, they only speak about mundane things – when he expects to get home that day, the date of parents evening, the need to replace the microwave – but their conversations have lost the brittle edge that defined them before. There is a reduced risk that a chance remark will send her words into the danger zone where they can be fired upon by his battalions. She can afford to take down her protective shield. She can even start to explain what was happening before. Poor Patrick. He clearly felt threatened by all this. His nice, orderly life was under potential attack and he was defending it. That’s what she thinks.

She even runs a suitably reduced version of this explanation past Emil during one of their now daily chats. He has already told her that he is a widower and has no current partner with whom Patrick’s responses can be compared, but he has had relationships, more than one, and he knows enough about how they work to be able to participate in the conversation.

“He may even be jealous, without being aware of it,” he says. “Your relationship with your mother has shifted from that of a child, albeit an adult child, to that of a carer. Men are very self-centred you know, we just can’t help it. First he has to share you with the children, and now along comes another person to take up your time, your attention. Your love, even.”

Laura knows this makes sense and she vows to try to be more understanding when Patrick behaves unreasonably. This is what being a woman is all about, it seems. Taking account of everyone else’s weaknesses and foibles, excusing them, amending your own actions to suit them and soldiering on regardless, however difficult it is. At least Emil seems to understand, to have some insight into his own faults. She wonders what led to the failure of his first marriage and whether all this wisdom has come from that. How sad that his second wife died and he didn’t get the chance to put it into practice.

Her mother also appears to be more settled. The imaginary dog has reappeared, but only a couple of times and a quick turn around the garden seems to be enough to satisfy its needs. Laura managed to hide the dressing gown cord and give it to one of the staff on the second occasion and there has been no talk of house renovation projects either. They often sit as a foursome, Emil and his mother, Laura and hers, and sometimes Emil tells them about his mother’s rich and remarkable life.

“You were a concert cellist, weren’t you Mother?” he says one day, reaching across to tap his mother on the arm. There is no response and he turns to Laura. “It’s hard to believe now, isn’t it, but she was actually quite famous. Not famous in the celebrity sense, not like people are today, but she was very well-known in musical circles. Played in the London Philharmonic for a couple of years, and in other decent orchestras. She used to get bored and then, suddenly, we’d be off to a different part of the country. Just the two of us. Made for an interesting life, anyway.”

Laura is shocked, and her face must show it, as Emil continues, his eyes shining.

“Yes, all that talent. It was one of the last things to go, you know. She was still able to get a tune out of her cello when she had forgotten how to make toast. I came in one day and found her holding a slice of bread in front of a two-bar electric fire. It was a terrible old thing, God knows where she had squirrelled it away, but she had this bread skewered on a fork, less than an inch from the element. A bit closer and she would have been toast herself!”

He laughs, but it is not a laugh that asks to be echoed.

“It’s cruel, isn’t it?” she says. “You must be so angry, seeing her like this when she was such an independent and amazing woman.”

“Oh, I used to be, believe me, but not any more. I had to let go of that, or I’d ruin what was left of my own life. And it didn’t help her at all. Sometimes I would even transfer my anger to her, especially in the early days, and I’d shout at her when she didn’t understand, or when she forgot something we’d agreed on only the day before. I’m ashamed of it now, but luckily she never remembered any of it. If you want to look for the positives of dementia – and there are few enough of them – at least the victims don’t bear grudges!”

He gives her one of his rueful grins and Laura knows he is right. She remembers the first incident with Lydia. It had been hard to establish exactly what had happened. Lydia had been relatively reasonable in those days and claimed to understand Mum’s difficulties, so there was no reason to think she was exaggerating. But then that meant Mum had behaved in an aggressive manner to a neighbour and that was a hard thing to believe, let alone discuss with her. So it had been a very difficult conversation and her mother had become angry. No, more than that, she had been outraged. How could they possibly believe that woman over her? She had practically thrown them out, all three of them, as even Robin had been concerned enough to join them.

The next day, Laura had the unenviable task of trying to build bridges. She was still working at the time, so she had to wait until Patrick came home to make her reluctant journey. There was no way the children were going to be exposed to any of this turmoil. Her heart had been pounding like a steam hammer as she knocked on the front door, not daring to let herself in as she would usually, but Mum had beamed at her as she opened the door. Clearly she had forgotten the whole thing and that was a blessing. At the same time, it told a sad story about the extent of her mother’s memory loss and so it was really not a blessing at all.

Laura looks across at her, sitting in the sun, a serene if somewhat blank expression on her face. She wonders what is going on behind those eyes. Is she still aware of what is happening to her or has all that passed? There has been denial, there has been anxiety, there has even been panic, but now she thinks her mother’s emotions may have transferred themselves to the people who love her and she knows they can be destructive.

“Thanks for that,” she says to Emil. “I hadn’t thought of it like that before.”

Laura has almost completely stopped thinking about the Linda mystery when Kelly calls. Her visits to Cavendish House take up a good chunk of the day and she is still going to her mother’s house once or twice a week for an hour or so. Her life is full of needs and demands that are part of the present, not the past.

“I knew how busy you were, so I just got on with it,” Kelly says. “It wasn’t that difficult, just time-consuming. Electoral registers are in the public domain and I’ve still got friends in politics so I managed to get hold of the one for Tonbridge. So now we know where he lives, will you come with me to see him? Please don’t tell me I wasted all those hours scanning through thousands of names!”

Laura finds it hard to take in Kelly’s words. What is she saying? Has she really gone ahead and tracked down the man even though they hadn’t agreed on it? And now she seems to expect Laura to come back onboard and go to visit him.

“I can’t believe you’re saying this,” she says. She knows her voice is cold and unfriendly but that is how she feels.

“Oh, God. I was worried you’d be like this. Look, I couldn’t just sit and do nothing. We know that Mum knows something – knew something, anyway – about Linda’s disappearance. She talks about her being dead. She talks about evidence. Not in so many words, but that’s what I think she’s saying. I think we have a moral duty to ...”

“For God’s sake Kelly! Don’t start saying this is a moral decision. You’re curious! Why don’t you just admit it? You want to solve the mystery, and I can understand that, but don’t you think we’ve got enough stuff going on at the moment?”

And so it goes on. The conversation lasts for ten minutes or more. The arguments are batted backwards and forwards and it is only when Kelly talks about Hilda that Laura begins to soften. She talks about letting sleeping dogs lie, but she knows that, if it were one of her children who had disappeared, she would want to know what had happened, however many years had passed.

“OK, I’ll come. But only on the condition that we leave the minute it begins to look nasty. He’s hardly going to admit anything to us, is he?”

Kelly agrees. Yes, she knows it almost certainly won’t lead anywhere. She knows he was probably interviewed at the time. She knows he may not even agree to see them, but he is all they have. He may just remember something that will help them to work out what their mother was looking for. It’s a very long shot, and she promises to let it lie once they have explored it.

The man, Gordon Carpenter, is living in a flat near Tonbridge. If the electoral register is to be believed, he is the only tenant, which has also contributed to Laura’s decision. She can easily imagine Kelly deciding to go it alone, and she might put herself in danger. Suppose this man is a murderer? Suppose he thinks Kelly is about to expose him? He could still be fit and strong in his seventies, couldn’t he? It feels rash to be attempting this at all, but not as rash as letting Kelly risk her safety alone.

They decide to make the visit on Friday. Kelly is only teaching in the morning, so Laura will visit Mum just after lunch and Kelly will join her at Cavendish House about an hour later. They will leave Kelly’s car there and return after their visit, so Kelly can spend a little time with Mum before going home. Nothing could be simpler on the face of it, but the thought of it hangs over Laura’s head like a persistent little cloud.

“You’re quiet today,” says Emil the day before the dreaded visit. She is not even tempted to tell him why. It is fine to talk to him about her mother and all the dementia-related issues she has to deal with, even about Patrick, but this is different. It still feels like a secret, and she can hardly tell him when even Patrick has no idea what they are doing.

“Yes, sorry. One of those days when it all feels a bit much,” she replies, and then she feels guilty. She has blamed her mother for her low mood when actually she has been quiet and somewhat improved for a while now. What a lot of lies and half-truths she seems to be telling these days and how complicated her life is becoming. She remembers how simple everything was just a year ago. True, their schedule was manic, fitting in work and getting the children to school, feeding everyone and keeping the house going. But she knew what Patrick was doing and he knew what she was doing. They worked it out together and everything got done. There was no gulf between them then and she wishes it could be like that again, without knowing how to achieve it.

By the time Friday comes, Laura is half-inclined to phone Kelly and call it all off, but she doesn’t. She knows that Kelly will be teaching and that her phone will be switched off. She also acknowledges, with a weary little sigh, that Kelly will almost certainly talk her round again, so there is little point. I’m Laura the Conformer, she thinks. I end up agreeing with everybody. It’s a wonder I have any opinions at all.

She is still in this frame of mind when Emil comes to greet her at the gate, but it is hard not to return his smile. It is one of those smiles that starts with the eyes and works its way down. She can’t think of a more expressive face than Emil’s, although she has tried, in the long minutes before sleep when it seems to pop up much more than it should.

“I was hoping you’d be along soon,” he says, falling into step beside her as they walk across the terrace.

Laura is not sure how to respond to this, but she supposes there must be a reason. “Oh, has something happened?”

“Well, yes and no. Mother had a terrible night. Kept the night shift on their toes until dawn, it seems, but she’s sleeping now. It’s just that I look forward to our little chats and I’ve brought my tablet along to show you an old recording of Mother playing Britten’s Sonata. It’s a real virtuoso piece – do you know it?”

Laura has to confess that she does not know Britten’s Sonata or any other sonata for that matter. However, she hates to seem rude and says she would love to see the recording. She goes to find her mother and brings her outside so they can watch and listen without disturbing the other residents.

“Wow!” is all she can think of to say as the recording ends. It is only a short section, lasting about five minutes. It is grainy and crackly in places, but there is a younger version of Emil’s mother. The cello almost dwarfs her diminutive frame, her long hair flows over one shoulder and her arm flashes back and forth. There is fire in her eyes when the camera pulls in for a close-up and her lips are tight with concentration, her jaw working. The sound she produces from the instrument is quite extraordinary.

Laura is wondering if her musical education has missed something when Mum shows a sudden flash of interest. “I used to play the piano,” she says.

Laura had not even been sure she was watching, but now she turns and takes her hand. “Yes, that’s right, Mum. I remember you telling us when we were kids, and you wanted us to learn but none of us wanted to.”

“I got right up to grade eight. I got a distinction. But then some girls teased me and called me a snob so I gave it up. I’ve always regretted it.”

“Well, never mind, grade eight is pretty good,” says Laura, but her mother pulls away and stands up.

“So many regrets,” she says and walks back into the house.

Laura decides not to follow her for the moment, but stays with Emil whilst he shows her some photographs. Here is his mother with this conductor or that well-known pianist. Here she is playing with this symphony orchestra or making that famous recording. None of it means much to Laura, but Emil is clearly very proud and she tries to take an interest. They are still sitting there, their heads quite close together as he flicks through his collection, when she hears her name being called.