When You Walked Back Into My Life (31 page)

‘Bel’s worried. She thinks Philip’s going to leave … that you’ll get a divorce.’

Prue’s expression was instantly anxious. ‘Did you tell her anything?’

‘No, of course I didn’t, but she has to have some sort of explanation. She’s going mad.’

‘But what can I say? I can’t tell her the truth, she’d be devastated.’

‘What’s Philip’s position?’

‘Much the same as yours.’ She gave Flora a sideways look, which she didn’t respond to, and said, ‘It’s Fin that’s the problem. If it had been anyone else I don’t think he’d have taken it so hard.’

Flora didn’t answer. She felt a cold, hard nut of anger whenever she thought of their treachery. And, like her
brother-in-law, not just for the crime per se, but for the cruel and casual choice of partner in that crime. Why choose her sister? Why choose her lover? Now, though, that nut turned to pity. How agonising would it be to have to tell your daughter that you’d cheated on both your sister and your husband …

Prue suddenly got up. ‘That bloody, bloody bastard.’

‘It was your choice too.’ Flora spoke quietly, but she could feel renewed anger spike through her gut at her sister offloading the blame.

Prue’s eyes flashed as she snatched up her phone. ‘Yeah, yeah. Well, I tell you what. I’m pretty much over apologising. Because it’ll never be enough, will it? You two saints will make me suffer for ever for what I did … I’ll never be allowed to forget it.’

‘That’s unfair.’

‘Is it really?’ Prue’s face was flushed. ‘Well, be sure and let me know when I’m forgiven, OK?’

Ignoring the last remark, Flora asked, ‘What will you tell Bel?’

‘That’s my business. I’ll work it out.’ She turned on her heel and stomped away up the wooden staircase.

Flora sat for a long time on the sofa, contemplating the mess that her family had become. I’ve got to get out of here, she thought again. And again there seemed no way that she could. She kept picking up her phone to call Fin. She wanted
to hear his voice, to know how he was. But she didn’t. Could she get past this, forgive him for what he had done? For the sake of their baby, shouldn’t she at least try?

*

‘You’re
pregnant
?’ Mary’s mouth hung open. ‘You’re kidding me. When’s it due?’

Flora told her.

‘Well, that’s grand. So yer man came through.’

Flora nodded, she couldn’t begin to tell Mary about her situation.

‘You can’t be working when this job ends.’

‘I’ll have to for a while. I haven’t told the agency yet.’

‘You’ve got to be careful. The old lady’s OK, she’s so light. But suppose you got some great galumphing fella who can’t get out of bed on his own?’

Flora sighed. ‘I know.’

‘He’ll have to stump up, keep you in the style you should be accustomed to.’

‘So how is she?’

Mary shook her head. ‘Not so good last night. She’s got a bit of a cough this morning and her temperature’s slightly raised. Don’t like the look of it.’

‘Chest infection?’

‘I’d say.’

*

Simon Kent leaned over Dorothea, poking his stethoscope inside her nightie, first on her chest, then on her back. The old lady looked flushed and feverish, barely acknowledging the doctor’s presence. She’d deteriorated fast during the morning. He tapped her chest in various places then turned to Flora.

‘Her lungs are rattling away.’

Dorothea began to cough, the spasms tearing at her frail body. When she finally stopped, she was breathless, her eyes wide with anxiety as she tried to get air into her lungs.

‘I think it’s pneumonia,’ Simon said in a low voice, his large hand gently covering the old lady’s wisp of a one for a moment.

He walked away from the bed.

‘Will you give her antibiotics?’

‘I think I’ll have to … not to prolong her life … I know she’s asked not to have unnecessary treatment, but it’s going to be hell for her if she can’t breathe.’

‘I’ll call Rene.’

‘I’ll rustle up some oxygen too. She’ll need that.’

They stood and watched the small figure lying there, her eyes closed, nostrils flared in her attempt to breathe.

‘It’s not looking good, Flora,’ he said gently, noticing perhaps that her eyes had filled with tears. She swallowed hard, clearing her throat. She realised that the old lady was the
only reliable thing in her life at present. Always there, always kind, never judgemental or demanding of her what she couldn’t provide. She couldn’t bear the thought that she would no longer be with her every day.

Simon laid his hand on her arm.

‘Listen, I’ll be here as much as I can.’

She smiled at him. ‘Thanks. It’s not … I knew this was coming, of course. But … well …’

‘I’ll be back later.’

*

‘I … I feel very cold.’

Flora got a quilt from the spare-room cupboard and put it over the duvet. The old lady was staring at her as she worked, her eyes bright with fever.

‘I want … to get out.’ She tried to raise herself from the pillow, but she couldn’t and fell back. ‘I need to see Peter … he’s not well.’

‘Best not to go now. Wait a while and see if you feel stronger.’

Dorothea shook her head, her eyes blinking anxiously. ‘But … he needs me … Peter. I must go to him.’

‘Who’s Peter?’ She wondered if he was the man who’d jumped off the bridge.

‘Peter? You know … where is he?’ She closed her eyes, tossing her head to and fro on the pillow, opened them again. ‘Is he here?’

Flora held her hand. ‘No.’

She sighed and her eyelids drooped. When she opened her eyes she seemed surprised. ‘Flora? I thought … for a moment … you were someone else.’ The old lady squeezed her hand. ‘Stay with me will you?’

‘I’m here.’

The room went very quiet. Winter sun poured in through the French windows, creating dusty paths of light. There was no noise except for the soft, rasping breaths, so shallow and quick, coming from the figure on the bed. Occasionally Flora gave Dorothea sips of water, but mostly she just sat with her, holding her hand, which lay on top of the pale pink eiderdown.

Simon came back in a couple of hours. He held out a brown medicine bottle.

‘Start her on this. I got the liquid in case she can’t manage capsules. The oxygen should be delivered in the next hour or so. Have you given her any painkillers yet?’

Flora nodded. ‘I gave her some paracetamol earlier. She’s been quite disorientated, asking for someone called Peter … thinking I was him.’

Dorothea was asleep, so Flora and Simon went into the kitchen. She put the kettle on.

‘I could do with one of your jokes right now.’

‘You must be desperate.’

Flora gave him a rueful smile. ‘I’m going to miss her. It’ll be very strange.’

‘What will you do?’

‘Find another job … I’ll have to, for a few months.’

‘Do you really have to?’

‘Yup.’ She handed him his tea.

‘I suppose it’d get boring, just sitting waiting.’

‘It’s not that …’

He looked at her for a second or two. ‘You know you can always ask me … well, if you need help … of any sort.’

‘Thanks. I won’t, but thank you.’

There was a heavy silence. She didn’t want him to be so kind, without any reason; it made her feel helpless.

‘Everything’s great,’ she added, her tone deliberately bright.

*

By the evening the oxygen cylinder was in place, the plastic moulded mask over Dorothea’s face secured by a thin piece of elastic behind her head. She kept reaching and pulling it away, her cheeks flushed, as she began to cough. Rene had been there for hours, sitting beside her friend, and had only gone because her husband was ill at home.

Flora didn’t want to leave the old lady. She rang the night nurse and told her what was happening.

‘I think I’ll stay. You don’t need to come in.’

‘You’ll be buggered if you’re up all night after a day’s work, especially in your condition. We can both be there,’ Mary said, and Flora didn’t argue.

Mary took the first shift. ‘I’ll wake you at two.’

Flora thought she wouldn’t sleep, but she did, and it was after four when Mary finally roused her.

‘You looked so peaceful, I didn’t like to disturb you.’

‘You should have. How is she?’

‘Quiet. She’s slept off and on. The mask irritates her, and the coughing’s bad. I don’t think she’s got much longer.’

Flora dressed, made herself some tea and went to sit beside her patient. Mary had gone to bed. She had a book, but couldn’t read. Holding Dorothea’s hand, she sat watching the tired old face as she struggled to get sufficient air. It seemed cold in the room, although the heating was turned up high, and Flora shivered in the chill. The feeble light from one small lamp and the stillness of the hour made her feel as if she was in a cocoon, like the time she and Simon had danced. But tonight it was just her and Dorothea.

‘Is that you?’ Dorothea’s eyes were open. She looked confused. ‘I … thought … it was …’

‘It’s me, Flora. How are you feeling?’

Dorothea managed a weak smile. ‘Not so good. I … think I was dreaming … of him.’

‘Peter?’

‘Yes. Did you know him? I can’t remember.’

‘I didn’t, no. Was he the man you loved?’

The old lady’s eyes clouded. ‘The man … I loved.’ She didn’t say any more, just nodded slowly. ‘He was so beautiful … so … very dear.’

Flora felt her own eyes fill with tears.

‘I think … I shall see him … soon now.’ She sighed, but her face suddenly seemed to relax, the breathing easier for a minute, the furrows in the thin skin of her brow smoothing out.

Silence descended again, broken only by the soft hiss of the oxygen and the old lady’s breathing: in, out, in, out … Flora found herself transfixed by the rhythm.

The next time she woke, Flora tried to give her some water. But after one sip she pushed the glass away, as if she were impatient to speak.

‘Love … love is all that matters … in life.’

Flora nodded.

Dorothea stared at her, and Flora watched as her gaze lost its focus.

She felt a small squeeze of Dorothea’s hand, then her breathing began to slow. The periods between each breath became longer and longer as Flora looked on. She almost held her own breath, anticipating the old lady’s next one.
Holding Dorothea’s hand in a gentle grasp, stroking her arm, eyes fixed on her patient’s face, Flora could do nothing but wait. And finally, after what seemed like a long while, there was only silence. The next breath never came.

Flora, hardly realising what was happening, did nothing for a few moments. The point of death was so hard to take in. She could see, however, that whatever had been the essence of Dorothea was very clearly gone, a peculiar absence of self in the frail physical body on the bed.

Rousing herself, she let go of Dorothea’s hand and got up to turn the oxygen off, removing the mask carefully from the old lady’s head. She bent to kiss her forehead, still warm from life.

‘Goodbye,’ she whispered, stroking the white wisps of hair back from her face. ‘I hope you find your Peter.’

Flora felt empty and cold. She placed both the old lady’s arms inside the sheet, and pulled it up to her chin before going to wake Mary.

Mary crossed herself and mumbled a quiet prayer as she stood beside the bed.

‘Dear old thing. I’m glad she didn’t linger.’

*

The bureaucracy of death swiftly took over: Simon Kent to certify it, Rene to set in motion the undertakers, Flora and Mary to lay Dorothea out. Keith popped in, all of them there
without their usual purpose, milling around under the sombre reminder of mortality.

‘It feels so strange, not to have to think about her needs,’ Flora told Simon as they stood together in the kitchen for the last time. ‘And knowing this is my last day here.’

‘It’ll take a bit of getting used to,’ Simon responded, putting his mug down on the draining board and looking at his watch. ‘I’d better go and shower and get to the surgery.’

But he didn’t go, he hovered. Flora had a sudden dread that she would never see him again. Never see any of them again after today. There would be no reason to.

‘Well, goodbye then, Flora,’ Simon said at last. ‘Good luck with the baby.’ He moved towards her as if he was going to embrace her. And she wanted him to, wanted to rest for a moment in his arms. She felt so bereft. But he stopped short and held out his hand, giving her a firm handshake instead.

‘Bye, Simon.’

*

When Flora got home later that day, she didn’t know what to do. The job with Dorothea, in her quiet, womb-like flat, had been part of her rehabilitation after her depression. She’d been able to work in a safe, unchallenging environment, doing a job that felt important – at least to her. Now, the anchors of her life had all come loose. Prue, Fin, Dorothea, the people she’d worked with … even her relationship
with Bel and Philip was threatened by the rift playing out upstairs. The only thing she had to cling to was the new life growing inside her. Every tiny thought of the baby, even in this sea of chaos, brought a sort of cautious anticipation, almost a taste in her mouth of something tempting and just out of reach.

4 February

‘Come in and see me,’ Cheryl from the agency said.

‘Umm … OK.’

‘We can review what you want to do next. Not sure if you’re interested in hospital work?’

‘Not really.’ She knew she should tell Cheryl that she was pregnant. And she knew she should face the potential safety issues herself: heavy lifting, infectious diseases, long hours, potentially violent dementia patients. But she was like a rabbit in the headlights. It was nearly a week now since Dorothea had died. She needed to work, but she had no idea what else she could do to earn money during her pregnancy. Or how she would support her child once it was born. Asking for help from her sister was completely out of the question.

‘I could see you tomorrow morning, around eleven?’ Cheryl said, and Flora told her she would be there. But she wasn’t optimistic about the outcome. She’d be unlikely to get such a relatively easy gig again, not on nurse’s pay at least. Most people like Dorothea – who were old rather than ill – were looked after by carers, who were paid much less, but Rene had insisted on employing nothing but qualified nurses for Dorothea, even if it wasn’t really necessary. Flora doubted she’d be so lucky again.