Tread Softly (34 page)

‘Let's make love,' he whispered suddenly.

‘What, now?' Was he about to break the rules of a lifetime, strip naked on a busy afternoon?

‘Why not? It's been so long.' He gave a nervous laugh. ‘I was beginning to think you'd gone off me.'

‘No, of course not.' Could he somehow tell she'd been unfaithful; see the imprint of Oshoba's kisses branding her body? Yet she
wanted
to make love. It would be a way of renewing her marriage vows, negating that exquisite, dangerous, amazing night on the sofa.

Ralph unfastened the top button of her blouse and gently kissed her throat. Normally he wouldn't make a move to undress her, and if he kissed her at all it was never in such a devoted, lingering way. This was not the Ralph she knew.

Which meant anything was possible.

As she slipped off her blouse the phone rang. Her first instinct was to ignore it, then she realized it might be George. ‘Yes, hello?' she said, mouthing ‘Don't go away!' to Ralph.

‘…
Who?
' she said, confused. ‘Oh, my God! Yes, of course I'll come. I'll leave at once.'

‘Your aunt's in here. We moved her from the ward to give her more privacy.'

Privacy to
die
, Lorna thought, gazing at the motionless body in the bed. Or was Agnes dead already? The eyes were closed, the mouth gaped open, the skin of the face was dry and brown, like the petals of a shrivelled flower. Almost more shocking was the ugly gash on the forehead. Around its blackened edges the hair had been cut away; purplish bruising had spread beneath the left eye.

Lorna started at a sudden rasp of breath. No, Agnes wasn't dead; yet nor was she alive. She was caught between the two, in an unknown void.

‘Sit down,' the nurse said kindly. ‘You can stay with her all night if you wish. I'm afraid we can't provide proper beds for visitors, but you'll find that chair quite comfortable.'

Visitors? She was Agnes's
child
, and she hadn't said goodbye. ‘Do you think she'll last the …?' Pointless question. Hadn't they told her already that the cancer was worse, and that the fall had shaken her up considerably.

‘Can I get you a cup of tea, Lorna?'

‘No thanks.' Lorna bristled at the use of her Christian name by a person she'd only just met. Unfairly, she resented everything about the hospice – the cloying friendliness in a place of death, the calm matter-of-factness with which they reported terrible news. ‘A neighbour found her on the floor, unable to get up. No one knows how long she'd been there …' ‘… and I'm afraid the cancer's spread to her bones. But we're doing all we can to keep her comfortable.'

Comfortable? What did this chit of a nurse know? Her peachy skin and lustrous hair seemed insultingly healthy, given Agnes's pitiful condition.

‘Well, if you'd like a drink later there's a kitchenette along the passage, with a kettle and a fridge and so on. Just help yourself. And if you see any change in your aunt, press this bell and someone will come at once.'

‘What sort of change?'

‘Well, if she has trouble breathing, for instance.'

How could her breathing be any worse? Every few seconds a fierce, wheezing spasm contorted her face. The difference between life and death was reduced to that grotesque yet reassuring sound. Without it Agnes would simply fade to nothingness.

‘I'll see you later, Lorna. I'm on duty all night, so I'll be popping in every now and then.'

Once the nurse had gone, Lorna pulled the chair closer to the bed. It was hard to recognize this almost-corpse as Agnes. For one thing, she had never seen her aunt without her teeth. It seemed disrespectful, an invasion of her privacy – indeed, wrong to be looking at her at all when Agnes didn't know that anyone was there.

‘Come back,' she begged. ‘Open your eyes.'

No response. Just more racking breaths.

She reached out to take her aunt's hand. It wasn't cold, surprisingly, but hot and clammy, as if she were running a fever. Yet she was wearing only a flimsy nightie, puff-sleeved and sprigged with turquoise flowers. Agnes's nightgowns were sterner in style – high-necked and virginal white. This must be hospice property.

‘It's Lorna,' she whispered. ‘I'm here. I'm with you. I came the minute I heard.'

Too late, though. If she had only stayed with Agnes in the cottage she could have prevented the fall. Stupidly, she had assumed they would have months more. She had been trying to arrange home nursing, planning little treats, for someone who was beyond all help, by the looks of it. She longed to hear Agnes's irascible voice saying, ‘Take me home at once, Lorna. You know I hate these places.'

Yet the hospice was pleasant enough: nicely furnished, homely, surrounded by attractive shrubs and trees. And the room had all mod cons: en-suite bathroom, telephone and television, adjustable bed with enough control buttons for a jet plane. But what was the use of any of it when Agnes was incapable of opening her eyes?

Lorna squeezed the scrawny hand. It was curled in her palm as trustingly as a baby's, yet the veins were those of an old woman, standing out like gnarled blue cords. And the arms were pathetically thin, as if all the flesh had fallen away, leaving only skin and bone. Lorna caressed the ringless wedding-finger. How hard it must have been for a lifelong spinster to bring up a child. The balance was so unequal – what she had done for Agnes, what Agnes had done for her. ‘Please don't die,‘ she murmured. ‘Not yet. There are things I need to say.' With her free hand she touched Agnes's face, traced the hollows in her cheeks, carefully avoiding the bruise. ‘Can you hear me? Do you know who I am?'

Another shuddering gasp.

She let go of the hand and sank back in her chair. The curtains were only half drawn and through the window, behind the silhouette of a leafless tree, hung a cheese-paring of moon. Agnes had taught her about the moon and stars – told her the names of the constellations, explained the rise and fall of the tides. Nearly everything she knew had come from Agnes: kings, queens, fairy-tales, poetry, hymns, nature lore.

‘Aunt,' she said, ‘remember the stories you used to tell me? Once upon a time …'

She glanced at her watch. Ten to midnight. How long might Agnes last? And would she simply slip away, or suffer horrendous death throes?

‘Hello, Lorna. I'm back!'

It was the young nurse again, maddeningly pink and plump. ‘I wonder if you'd mind just popping outside for a moment. I need to give Agnes an injection.'

‘Yes, of course.' Lorna got up reluctantly, though at least it would give her a chance to phone Ralph – if he was still awake.

Walking along the corridor, she caught glimpses through open doors of ghostly inert figures, heard sounds of coughing or retching, or people crying out in their sleep. The lights had been dimmed for the night, which gave her an eerie sense of being in an underworld, an antechamber of death. Yet all along the passageway there were vases of spring flowers: pert daffodils, new-fledged narcissi, brazenly red tulips. Were these the flowers of the dead? Ephemeral blooms outlasting ephemeral patients?

‘Are you all right, my dear?' asked the nurse at the desk – a solid, grey-haired woman with a soft Lincolnshire accent.

‘Yes,' she lied. ‘I'm looking for a quiet corner where I can phone my husband. I've got my mobile with me, but I don't want to disturb anyone.'

‘I'm sorry, mobile phones aren't allowed inside the building. They interfere with our electrical equipment. But there's a public call-box you can use. It's a little further down, on the right.'

She had to reverse the charges as she hadn't any change. It was a relief to hear Ralph's voice when he came on the line at last – an anchor in this unfamiliar world.

‘How is she, Lorna? Did you get there in time?'

‘Yes. Well … I hope so. I just wish they'd phoned me earlier. She had a nasty fall two days ago and was taken to Casualty. They did X-rays and God knows what. There was no serious damage, fortunately, but they kept her in because of the cancer. She was in a big noisy ward, which she absolutely loathed. In fact she was so desperate to go home she tried to get out of bed and nearly killed herself in the process. So they rang her GP and told him she was far too ill to be living on her own. Apparently he's been saying the same himself for quite some time, so he took the chance to get her into a hospice.'

‘And is she any happier?'

‘Impossible to say. She's drugged up to the eyeballs with morphine. It's controlling the pain, which is something, I suppose. Oh, darling, I'm so glad I got you. I thought you might be asleep.'

‘I can't sleep. I was worrying about you. And actually without the old nightcap I don't expect I'll ever sleep again!' He laughed mirthlessly. ‘I can't say I'm enamoured of Ovaltine.'

‘Ralph, you
are
good. I'm impressed.'

‘There's no need to be sarcastic.'

‘I'm not. I can't tell you how much it means to me that you've decided to give up.'

With an embarrassed cough he changed the subject. ‘Is there anything I can do? I could join you, if you like: come up there in the morning and –'

‘Let's wait and see, OK? I'm not sure how she'll … be.'

‘Well, ring me again tonight if you want. I'll be up.'

‘Thanks, darling. Love you.'

‘Love you, too.'

She did love him tonight – her newly sober, insomniac Ralph. Now he was off the drink, perhaps it would be more like the old days: instead of communing with his whisky in the evenings, he might converse with her.

On the way back to Agnes's room she heard the sound of anguished sobbing. A patient? A bereaved relative? She stopped to listen. Shouldn't
she
be crying? She felt drained, unreal, out of touch with every emotion, even fear. Fear had been ousted by anger – anger with herself for neglecting Agnes; anger with old age, illness, death. Agnes had always been so strong. How could she be reduced to this?

She stood looking at the emaciated body, then suddenly leaned over the bed until her face was almost touching Agnes's. ‘Now listen to me' – she used her aunt's own brusque tone – ‘you've got to hang on a bit longer, do you hear? I want to say I'm sorry. And thank you. And … and goodbye. You can't just disappear without a word. That's what my parents did. Don't you see how cruel it is to leave me high and dry? Agnes, I'm your
child
!'

At that moment Agnes opened her eyes. They stared at each other in shock. Then Agnes licked her lips and made an attempt to speak. ‘M … Margaret?'

‘No, not Margaret. Margaret's daughter.'

‘Margaret's daughter?'
‘
Your
daughter. Your little Lorna.'
‘My little Lorna?' Agnes repeated wonderingly. ‘Come … back?'
‘Yes,' she whispered, ‘come back.'

‘Can you manage another spoonful, Aunt?'

‘Yes please.'

A miracle, Lorna thought – Agnes sitting up and eating. Admittedly it was a struggle. Each mouthful took time to go down and was followed by a deep, shuddering sigh, as if the effort had exhausted her. And her breathing was just as laboured as before. Lunch had been punctuated by the convulsive spasms that seemed to shake her frame.

Again Lorna held the spoon to her lips and again felt a glow of triumph as a thimbleful was swallowed. She had never fed a baby, but now she was feeding Agnes, and with a baby's food: semi-liquid scrambled egg, semi-melted ice-cream.

‘It's pretty, isn't it?' Agnes said in her new hoarse, drunken-sounding voice. ‘The pink and white.'

‘Yes, raspberry ripple.'

‘I remember it was one of your favourites when you were little.'

‘It still is!'

‘Well, you have some, dear. There's far too much for me.'

‘Certainly not. We've got to build you up. Come on – try a little more.'

‘Careful,' Agnes said. ‘Don't spill it on the carpet.'

‘It's all right, Aunt, there isn't a carpet.'

‘Yes there is. It's blue. I used that left-over bit for the spare room.'

Lorna said nothing. Evidently Agnes was muddling her room here with the cottage. A result of the drugs no doubt. Most of the time she was perfectly coherent, then her mind would wander.

‘Do you want a sip of juice to help it down?' Lorna held the plastie beaker to Agnes's mouth. It had two handles, like a child's cup, but Agnes was too weak to hold it herself. Eating and drinking were major undertakings, demanding patience and fortitude on both their parts, but together they had succeeded. At least a quarter of the scrambled egg had gone, half the ice-cream and a good part of the drink.

‘That's enough, Lorna dear. I'm tired.'

‘OK. I'll get Pam to take your tray. I can hear her outside.'

‘You've done well, Agnes,' Pam observed as she stacked the dishes.

‘That's because my niece is here. She's an angel. You're all angels. I must have died and gone to heaven.'

It was a still greater miracle, Lorna reflected, that Agnes should be so grateful and contented – indeed, positively benign. Far from complaining or wanting to go home, she seemed to be relishing life in the hospice. She didn't even mind being addressed as Agnes by everyone from cleaners to doctors. Instead of the anticipated rejoinder – ‘Miss Hoxton, if you
don't
mind. My Christian name's not public property' – Agnes simply smiled. Was it an effect of the morphine? Drug-induced euphoria? Lorna didn't care. Whatever the cause, it was welcome, if extraordinary.

‘Shall I draw your curtains? The sun's quite bright today.'

‘No, I like to see it. And the garden's very pretty.'

‘When you're strong enough I'll wheel you out there for a nice breath of spring.'