Tread Softly (36 page)

Lorna stared at her in surprise. Could Agnes, her intrepid, indomitable aunt, have been a prey to irrational fears or tormented by a Monster as gleefully spiteful as her own? No, impossible.

Or was it? When Margaret died, Agnes's world had crashed around her ears – the shock of losing her only sibling followed by the second shock of having an orphan child dumped on her. Who would
not
be terrified at having to cope alone? Agnes's parents were already dead and Margaret had meant so much to her: not just a beloved sister but her closest friend and confidante.

‘You look a bit concerned, Lorna. I hope I haven't upset you?'

‘No. Far from it. I'm just thinking about what you said.' And remembering Agnes's remark when they were talking in the cottage: ‘One of us had to be strong.' Had Agnes merely fabricated that strength, laid it on top of the fears, as she used to place rugs over worn patches in the carpet? The worn patches were still there, of course, and so might her fears have been – till now.

Megan glanced at her watch. ‘Well, I'd better get back to the ward. The doctor won't be long. I'll let you know what he says, and all being well you should be on your way within the hour.'

‘Yes. Thank you, Megan.' Lorna spoke mechanically, her mind still fixed on Agnes. What she had said to Ralph was true: she had never really known her aunt, only the brave façade.

‘See you soon, then.'

‘Right.' Lorna wandered along to the kitchenette and made herself a cup of coffee, to give Carole time to finish.

‘Just look at me!' Agnes spread her hands on the coverlet, nails uppermost.

‘Fantastic!' Lorna sat on the bed and gently stroked each strawberry-red nail. ‘And
you
‘re fantastic, too, Aunt, for being so … so brave.'

‘Brave? There's nothing to be brave about. These wonderful people have taken away the pain.'

Lorna said no more. If Agnes had gone to so much trouble putting rugs over the worn patches, she wouldn't want anyone, perhaps least of all her niece, lifting them up and peering underneath.

‘Delicious Norfolk turkeys – plump, tender and ready to carve.'

‘Delicious Norfolk turkeys – plump, tender and …'

‘Fuck turkeys!' Lorna muttered, sick of sitting stationary for a couple of hours behind that stupid slogan. And the picture above it was even more absurd: a cartoon red-wattled bird with a knife and fork tucked under its wing and a jaunty grin on its face. The lorry towered claustrophobically over her small car, blocking her view of the road ahead.

Her successive attempts to tune the radio had produced nothing but blasts of static. The fates were clearly against her – the one time she needed the travel news the radio refused to work. Not that she particularly wanted to hear the gory details of whatever accident was responsible for the hold-up. An hour ago she had watched the sun set over the distant trees: a blaze of gold and scarlet, providing a temporary distraction from being stuck in a horrendous jam, nose to tail and three abreast. Now it was dark – and cold.

She switched the engine on again, with an anxious glance at the shopping on the passenger seat. Ralph's birthday strawberries were wilting and the non-alcoholic bubbly would be tepid by the time she served it – if she ever did. The irony was that if she hadn't stopped in Lincoln to buy the ingredients for dinner and a few bits and pieces for Ralph she might be home by now.

She was tempted to ring him, just to hear a voice, except it would spoil the surprise. Yet, as time dragged by, the whole idea of turning up unannounced to give him the present he'd so bashfully requested seemed more and more nonsensical. She had forgotten quite how far it was to drive home and what a toll it took on her foot, and the thought of having to make the same journey tomorrow (especially on this hated stretch of motorway) filled her with dread.

If only she could relax, like other people. The Citroën-driver on her right had been chatting and laughing on his mobile for the last half-hour, so maddeningly cheerful he probably wouldn't turn a hair if the entire motorway network shut down. And to her left the family in the Volvo estate also seemed to be coping. Admittedly the children were getting restive and the boisterous black Labrador was steaming up the windows, but the parents hadn't yet murdered either each other or their brood. At first she had exchanged occasional smiles with them, but now she stared miserably ahead, resenting their forbearance.

‘… plump, tender and ready to …'

Turkeys meant Christmas, and Christmas meant uncertainty. Where might she be by then? Would the business be solvent? Would her foot be better at last?

Judging by how much it hurt at the moment, the answer would seem to be no. And her back was aching hideously after sitting cramped up for so long. Also she was plagued by a vision of the rear end of the lorry expanding before her eyes, looming over her car and about to descend and crush it to a pulp.

Quickly she ran through her anti-panic techniques: breathing, relaxation. Apart from anything else, she owed it to Ralph to keep calm. In her absence he'd been working all hours, and without his usual whisky to sustain him. She tried to drum up Ms Unflappable for moral support, but the character kept guttering like a candle in a draught, and although Ms Courageous proved slightly more substantial her voice was soon lost in another gale of mirth from the Citroën-driver.

Ha ha ha ha ha.

Angrily she reached for her mobile. She
would
ring Ralph. Not for a laugh – little hope of that – but just to feel less alone.

‘… cannot take your call at present. Please leave a message after the tone.'

He couldn't still be at the dentist's, could he? If so, he'd be in no state to enjoy a celebration dinner. Nor, for that matter, was she. And as for sex, she simply wasn't in the mood. She had planned to feed him steak and strawberries to an accompaniment of soft, romantic music, then coax him up to bed. Now all she wanted was to go to bed to sleep.

She leaned across and helped herself to a couple of the strawberries. If only Oshoba were here he could lift her spirits: he would stroke her gently all over, kiss away her tiredness. But she was on her way to Ralph and had no right to be even thinking about Oshoba. She hadn't caught an infection, thank God, nor had he made her pregnant, but she still went hot with shame recalling the night in his flat. Yet the memories persisted – indeed, became increasingly erotic as she imagined the two of them back on that sofa (no guilt, no sullen brother) and Oshoba crushing strawberries against her lips, trickling wine from his mouth to hers. Yes, she
was
in the mood, willingly surrendering as his tongue made …

There was a peremptory hooting behind. She opened her eyes. The traffic had begun to move, as unaccountably as it had ground to a halt a century ago. Hustling Oshoba out, she turned on the engine, determined to concentrate on the road.

Expecting only stop-start progress, she was heartened when all three lanes gradually picked up speed. Soon the traffic was flowing freely and, with a triumphant toot of her horn, she overtook the loathsome turkey. Without further delays she might be home by ten – a bit late for dinner, but perhaps she could persuade Ralph to crush strawberries against her lips, trickle wine from his mouth to hers. Unlikely in the extreme. But then so was his suggestion that they spend all night together. Ralph rarely asked for a present – however exhausted she might be, this was one he must have.

It was ten past ten when she rang the bell. Rather than let herself in, she had decided it would be more of a surprise for him to find her on the doorstep with an armful of presents and food and wine. She took a breath, preparing to sing him ‘Happy Birthday'.

No one came. Surely he wasn't out. He loathed going out in the evenings. Besides, the lights were all on downstairs and Ralph didn't waste electricity.

She rang again. Still no answer. Perhaps he was in bed already. But he never went to bed before midnight, least of all when he had trouble getting to sleep.

She found her key and unlocked the door. ‘Ralph?' she called.

Silence.

She put the shopping down and looked around. The carpet hadn't been hoovered, the hall table was cluttered with newspapers, and there was an unpleasant smell of pipe-smoke. Ralph knew all about the psychology of house-selling. OK, he might not remember the extras, like fluffy towels in the bathroom and gleaming kitchen tiles, but the least he could do was keep the place reasonably tidy.

Snatching up the papers, she went into the sitting-room. Ralph's chair was empty, but on the table beside it was a glass half full of … No, it couldn't be – not after all he'd said. She picked it up and sniffed. Unmistakable.

She stalked out to the kitchen. He wasn't there, but a bottle was poking out of the bin, a full-sized whisky bottle.

‘Ralph?' she called again, as she stumbled up the stairs. The lights were on there too.

His bedroom door was ajar. She found him lying on the bed, fully clothed. His eyes were shut and his mouth gaped open, emitting phlegmy little snorts. A drool of saliva had dribbled from his mouth and there were stains on the front of his jacket. On the bedside table stood another glass, again half full of whisky. An ashtray had been knocked on to the floor, scattering black gunge and broken matches.

‘Ralph,' she said, more sharply.

His eyelids flickered and he muttered something indecipherable, then turned his head away.

She walked over to the bed and stood motionless a minute, looking down at him. His suit was creased, his hair clung limply to his forehead; there were dark rings beneath his eyes, a grey scurf of shadow on his jaw. He smelt of sweat and booze.

This was her husband. Her protector.

‘Ralph,' she said, ‘how
could
you?' Her voice sounded unnaturally loud in the silence. ‘Were you lying to me on the phone?'

As he shifted on the bed, she noticed a tiny brown-edged hole in his shirt, where a speck of hot ash must have dropped from his pipe.

‘How can we go on living together if I can't trust a thing you say?'

The hypocrisy suddenly hit her. She had conveniently forgotten that he couldn't trust her either. And breaking a promise to give up drinking was nothing compared to sexual betrayal. Shouldn't she offset his offence against hers?

She leaned over to loosen his tie. He looked uncomfortable trussed up in his business suit, but when she tried to remove the jacket he was a dead weight in her arms. Instead, she unlaced his shoes, placing them side by side on the carpet: well-polished leather brogues now showing their age. ‘Ralph, what are we going to do? I love you. And I'm terrified of being on my own.'

He grunted and his hand groped out as if reaching for her, before flopping uselessly back.

She was on her own already. More alone than ever. He hadn't heard a word she'd said.

She picked up the scattered matches and put them in the ashtray; took the glass of whisky and poured it down the basin in the bathroom. She refilled the glass with water and left it by the bed. The counterpane lay jumbled on the floor. She shook it out and spread it over him. Then she drew the curtains and turned off the main light – the glare would hurt his eyes when he awoke.

‘I'm sorry', she told him, ‘for what I did. And for what I'm doing now. But it's over, isn't it? I don't want to hurt you, darling, but we can't go on like this. I'm leaving, and I'm not coming back this time. Do you understand?' She smoothed his hair from his forehead, kissed the palms of his hands. ‘Don't forget I love you. I always have. I probably always will. Goodbye, Ralph.'

She closed the door, switched the downstairs lights off and went out to her car.

‘Vicky, may I help this time? I feel I shouldn't leave my aunt – not even for half an hour, in case …'

‘Of course you can help.' Vicky wrung out the flannel from the plastic bowl beside the bed and passed it to Lorna. ‘We usually start with her face and hands.'

Lorna dabbed the flannel tentatively against the sunken cheeks. Agnes could no longer speak and the veins on her forehead were bluer and more pronounced, perhaps from the strain of her laboured breathing.

Lorna cradled each claw-hand in hers and gently sponged it clean. The skin on the hands was also bluer, with similar rope-like veins. As Gwen lifted her from the pillows, Agnes put her thin arms around Gwen's neck and clung to her like a baby. She looked troubled, startled, as if unsure of what was happening. Just being washed must be something of an ordeal for so limp and helpless a body, and even having her nightdress removed was a difficult manoeuvre, requiring Gwen's and Vicky's joint efforts.

Lorna averted her eyes from the flabby breasts, the sparse wisps of pubic hair and the incontinence pad spread above a waterproof sheet. It seemed a terrible intrusion to see her fastidious aunt in this naked, pitiful state. On previous occasions when Agnes was being washed and changed she had tactfully withdrawn and waited outside; now, though, she was desperate to be included in these last intimate rituals.

While Gwen washed Agnes's legs and back, she went into the en-suite bathroom to scrub her aunt's false teeth with the denture brush and paste. She had never known that Agnes wore false teeth, just as she had never known about her money worries or her grief and fear. Throughout her life her aunt had hidden pain. Lorna cleaned the teeth without revulsion – indeed with the utmost care and tenderness. Then, returning to the bedroom, she slipped them back into Agnes's mouth, hoping she would forgive this further encroachment into her privacy.

Gwen and Vicky were unfolding a clean nightdress. To avoid the distress of pulling it over Agnes's head, they slit it up the back with a pair of scissors and slipped her arms into the sleeves from the front. Her eyes were fogged and unfocused, but Lorna could imagine her appalled reaction were she aware of what they were doing: ‘Cutting up good clothes? Whatever next!'