Tread Softly (37 page)

Lorna no longer resented the nurses' youth and vigour; indeed, she had come to admire their strength – not just their physical dexterity in handling and lifting patients, but their emotional strength generally in caring for the dying. Over the past two days she had watched them tending Agnes, invariably calm and loving as they did everything – and nothing. Nothing could save her now. In fact several members of staff who'd gone off duty had said goodbye and given her a kiss in case it was the last chance they had. Already she seemed to have retreated to some distant place, as if desiring to be rid of her burdensome body: the stick legs and skeletal feet, the loose sack of a stomach and shrunken ribs.

Lorna helped make the bed, lifting her arms in tandem with Gwen's as she smoothed blankets and tucked sheets. She had learned so much from the nurses: a slow, calm rhythmic way of working, accompanied by a simple explanation in case the patient could hear and understand.

‘We're making your bed now, Agnes. It's nice and fresh, with clean sheets. That's it, lie back and rest.'

While Vicky cleared away the basin, Lorna took the baby's brush and drew it through Agnes's straw-like hair, careful to avoid the cut on her forehead. ‘That's better, isn't it, Aunt? I know you like to be tidy.'

Gwen and Vicky peeled off their rubber gloves. ‘See you tomorrow, Lorna.'

Lorna nodded. All three knew perfectly well that Agnes might not be here tomorrow.

‘Goodbye, Agnes.'

‘Goodbye, Agnes.'

Lorna bit her lip as each nurse kissed the withered cheek. There could hardly be a greater contrast between the Oakffield House regime and this haven of love and affection.

When the nurses had left, she sat on the bed and held both Agnes's hands. ‘Aunt, I'm still here. I want you to know that I'll be with you … all the time.'

Agnes half opened her eyes. She looked startled again, bewildered.

‘I'm here, Aunt,' Lorna repeated. ‘You're not alone.'

A lie. Agnes had to pass that final barrier totally alone. No one could die with her.

She licked her lips several times, as if thirsty. Lorna reached for one of the tiny sponges on sticks, moistened it in a glass and slipped it between her lips. Agnes was surviving on nothing but a few paltry drops of water. It was two days since she'd eaten, and then only a couple of mouthfuls of soup.

Lorna settled herself in the chair. Yesterday they had brought a put-you-up into the room for her, so she could get some proper sleep rather than dozing intermittently. But it seemed wrong to lie down when she was here to keep vigil. There would be time enough to sleep.

Strange, though, how slowly the hours passed, especially as everyone else was so busy. She was aware of constant activity outside: Pam with the tea-trolley, Carla with the mobile shop, Dr Stevens talking to a relative, Megan on her rounds. Even Agnes was occupied with the business of dying. As Lorna listened to her jagged breathing, she was struck by the thought that dying was in some ways akin to childbirth. In each case you were impervious to anything beyond the confines of your own body and consumed by immense physical changes you were powerless to resist. Eating and excreting shut down as you lay in thrall to nature's whim. And, however many people might be on hand to help, none could really ‘come near' as you struggled to expel the baby or to expel your final breath.

Looking at Agnes, who had never gone through childbirth, she remembered her own first miscarriage: the terror (and outrage) she had felt at the fierceness of the pain. It had lasted eighteen hours – agonizing contractions whose only outcome was a mutilated foetus. Ralph had brought her flowers, a bowl of white gardenias, whose heavy scent was for ever after linked in her mind with bloody, half-formed limbs.

She got up and walked to the window. Whatever happened she mustn't think of Ralph, or she would unleash a tide of anger, pity, worry. She needed all her strength for Agnes.

In the garden squirrels were darting about beneath the trees, an aggressively energetic one chasing its smaller rivals. And a pair of wood-pigeons rustled among the branches of the holly-bush, foraging for the last of winter's berries. All creatures seemed to be busy. She alone had nothing to do.

Except wait.

The click of the door woke her. It was Emily – the softly-spoken night nurse.

‘I'm sorry to disturb you, Lorna, but I need to check the syringe-driver.'

Lorna nodded, watching as the morphine was topped up – a drug she both blessed and loathed. It prevented Agnes feeling pain, but the increased dose made her nauseous and so prevented her from eating: killing her while keeping her alive.

‘Were you dozing?' Emily asked after she had settled Agnes down again.

‘Yes,' she admitted guiltily. Now that Agnes could no longer truly wake, she felt she had no right to truly sleep. They were both existing in a limbo where night and day meant nothing. ‘What time is it?' she asked.

‘Ten to three. Would you like me to sit with you for a while? Things are fairly quiet just now.'

‘It's kind of you, but I'm OK on my own. Honestly.'

‘Well, ring the bell if you change your mind. And please do call me if Agnes's breathing becomes shallower, or there are longer gaps between her breaths. All right?'

‘Yes, of course.'

‘And how about a cup of tea in the meantime?'

‘Lovely. Thanks.'

As she sipped the tea, she noticed Agnes making tiny movements with her lips. Was she thirsty again, or could she be about to speak – the first time since yesterday? She put her cup down and placed her ear close to Agnes's mouth. ‘What is it, Aunt? What are you trying to say?'

‘I … I want to go home.' The words were little more than a whisper.

‘Home, Aunt?'

‘Home to … Margaret.'

‘Yes. Of course. You'll … see her. Soon.'

‘Be sure to wake me when we get there.'

‘You are awake, Aunt.'

‘Am I? I can't tell.'

How disorienting, Lorna thought, to confuse the boundaries of wakefulness and sleep, of life and death. Was Agnes frightened of dying? Should she ask, offer words of comfort? But she had none – the very notion was arrogant. Besides, fear was a subject she dared not broach: the terror of her present homeless, husbandless existence was coiled like a snake, ready to rear up and strike. ‘It's all right, Aunt. You're safe now.'

Another lie. But how could she not lie? Just as Agnes had done – reassuring an orphan child that everything was fine. Had it ever been?

Agnes gave a sudden feeble cough.

‘Aunt, are you OK?'

Agnes coughed again and tried to swallow, then said with obvious difficulty, ‘I've got loud … noises in my throat.'

‘I'd better call Emily.'

‘Emily? Are there other people in the room?'

‘No. Just us.'

‘Us? Who do you mean? I can't remember names.'

‘Do you remember Lorna?'

For a moment Agnes seemed puzzled, then she gave the ghost of a smile, ‘My little Lorna?'

‘Yes. She's here.'

‘Well, she ought to be in bed. It's very late. Has she finished all her homework?'

‘Yes, all done. You don't need to worry about her any more.'

‘I'll always worry about my little Lorna.'

She smeared a dab of Vaseline on Agnes's dry, chapped mouth. As she leaned over, she saw her aunt's lips move again and strained to hear the slurred, drunken-sounding murmur.

‘Is this the day that Margaret died?'

‘Yes. Just dawning. I'll draw the curtains, so you can see. There, look at the sky – it's beginning to lighten and the birds are singing already. It's going to be a lovely day.' She stood listening to the bold notes of a thrush bidding the world awake as the last stars faded and a faint ochre haze on the horizon gradually encroached on the darkness. Soon she could make out the forms of trees – trees still bare but promising spring leaf, magnolia in bud, the gold gleam of daffodils. A flight of rooks wheeled across the roof-tops on their way to the fields to begin their busy round.

The grey gauze slowly lifted, to reveal streaks and flecks of pink. The day was struggling into existence, the sun heaving itself from sleep. Clouds marched across the sky, dispersing, changing shape; starlings circled and chattered; a magpie swooped from the sycamore and strutted across the lawn. Such exertion everywhere, and she passive, only waiting.

But then something made her turn. Agnes's breathing was different: shallower, with longer pauses. She counted the seconds between each breath. Ten. It had been six before.

She didn't ring the bell. She just sat on the bed and took the sagging body in her arms. ‘I love you,' she whispered. ‘Mother.'

And then an extraordinary thing: Agnes's clouded blue eyes seemed to light up for an instant, becoming not just brighter but bluer – luminous points of light against the brown parchment of her skin. There was joy in her face, ecstasy almost, as she fixed Lorna with a piercing stare. Was it Margaret she was seeing?

No, it was Margaret's child –
her
child. And she was gazing at her with an expression of utter intensity, as if rallying her last shred of strength to pass on a profoundly important truth, communicate wordlessly things never said before.

Lorna strove to comprehend. Agnes was speaking of fear, and of love that overcame fear, of courage and devotion.

Then suddenly the eyes went blank, the harsh breaths ceased, and there was silence in the room.

Outside, the birds were singing.

‘Happy birthday, Kathy!'

‘Happy birthday!'

Chris was lighting the candles on two pink-iced cakes in the shape of a 4 and a 0. ‘If you can blow this lot out in one go it's free champagne for a week.'

‘You might live to regret that offer!' Kathy expelled her breath in a dramatic burst, extinguishing all forty candles. Amid the clapping and cheering, Jeremy stepped forward with the cake-knife.

‘Wait a minute,' Kathy said. ‘Let's light them again for Lorna. It's her birthday next week.'

All eyes turned to Lorna, who was sitting on the edge of the jacuzzi, a glass of Bollinger in her hand.

‘Oh, Kathy, no! This is
your
party.'

‘Come on, I insist.'

Lorna approached the table and looked nervously around at faces, faces, faces. The guests had blurred to a patchwork of colours, punctuated by the odd detail: a gleaming bald head, a wide-brimmed velvet hat. She took a deep breath and blew. A dozen candles went out; the rest blazed perversely on. Everybody laughed – she too. ‘Oh, lord!' she said. ‘I can't laugh and blow at once.'

‘'Course you can,' urged Kathy. ‘Have another go. That's it – brilliant. Now we both get a wish.'

Lorna shut her eyes. ‘I wish that the Monster burns in hell!' Mercifully he hadn't turned up this evening, but there was still a long time to go. ‘Marvellous party,' she told Chris, who was handing round the cake.

‘Oh, it's hardly started yet. There's skinny-dipping at midnight, don't forget!'

Lorna glanced at her feet. Would she dare expose the scarred left and bunioned right? And what about the shingles scars on her breast, which had now faded to an unflattering mud-brown?

‘I don't think we've met,' said a voice behind her. ‘I'm Jason Carter, a friend of Jeremy's.'

She recognized the name although not the man: he was small and slight, with fair, floppy hair and blue eyes. Kathy had been talking about Jason Carter only yesterday – a millionaire (multimillionaire?) who had started his first business when he was a schoolboy of fifteen. ‘Hello, I'm Lorna.' She didn't give a surname, preferring to divest herself of both Pearson (Ralph's) and Maguire (her father's).

‘Are you a friend of Chris's?'

‘No, Kathy's. I only met Chris and Jeremy this evening.' They, in fact, were hosting the party as a birthday present to Kathy, and had invited many of their own friends too.

‘And what's your line of work?'

Tricky question. Her work in the last month had consisted of spring-cleaning a cottage and preparing to put it on the market, clearing an overgrown garden and disposing of Agnes's pathetically few possessions. ‘I'm … between jobs at the moment. How about you?' Or was that a silly thing to ask?
Did
millionaires work?

Jason flicked back a lock of hair. ‘I have fingers in a number of pies. But mainly I deal in shares and currencies on the Internet.'

‘That sounds exciting.' Anything but.

‘Well, yesterday it was. I made fifty grand on the euro taking a dive. And I'm praying that the Nasdaq will bomb tomorrow. I've been forward-selling all week, so I might cream off another hundred grand.'

‘Really?' She hadn't a clue what he was talking about but supposed she ought to look impressed.

Jason held out his glass to be refilled by a passing waiter. (Champagne was flowing in torrents, and the lavish amounts of caviar in the buffet must have seriously depleted world stocks.) ‘Do you live around here?'

Another awkward question. She didn't actually live anywhere just now. After three weeks in Agnes's cottage, she (and the Monster) had decamped to Clare's flat, where she was sleeping on a mattress on the floor. ‘I'm staying in Woking with a friend temporarily. I'm looking for a place of my own …'

‘Ah, I can probably help there. I'm joint owner of a property company in town.'

Mansions in Mayfair, penthouses in Canary Wharf – the very thing.

‘Here's my card. Give me a bell.'

‘Thanks. That's kind.' She imagined a tramp being subjected to such questions: ‘Where do you live?' ‘On a sheet of cardboard on the pavement.' ‘What do you do?' ‘Drink meths and beg.' She could identify with tramps at present. The Monster frequently suggested begging and cardboard as a solution to her job and housing problems.