Break Point (8 page)

I shouldn't
have let her pour herself that extra inch. I should have stood up
like Anne and said, You've had quite enough, Gwen. Because she's
puddled. She's puddled and her world's caving in.

"Oh dear. My
heart. I think it's my angina. My husband dropped dead of a heart
attack just like my father. My father often talked about his heart
... "

"Is that why
you worry about your health, Gwen?"

"Worry? I'm
not worried. My father wasn't worried. In our family we wear our
diseases with pride. There's no bravery in keeping quiet. You have
to shout them aloud from the rooftops. You have to say,
I'm-in-pain! I taught Rosemary to speak up and tell the teacher if
her leg was hurting and she couldn't do PE. I taught her to speak
out if she needed to stay at home and look after her mother
sometimes. But little girls grow up and give you more pain to shout
about but you're not like Rosemary. You're getting married to
Gordon."

"Look, I'm not
that ... "

"Take these
exasperating hair grips out of my head, would you? They make my
head sore at the end of the day. At the end of the day, pwuuh.
That's one of those phrases. Makes my blood boil. When
all's-said-and-done-at-the-end-of-the-day! When? When are you
marrying him? Have you set a date?"

"No, and I'm
... "

"Well, you
should. You must have talked about when. Have you looked at any
rings?"

And now
Gwen's moving into the net. She's moving in and they're coming in
at me thick and fast like Sampras balls. When are you getting your
new home? What sort of place do you want?
Thirty love.
How many rooms? Why do
you never phone him from here?
Game to Mrs
McMahon.
Why hasn't he been over to see
you? Why didn't he speak to you today on that mobile thing? Why
don't people work at relationships any more?
Forty love
. And she's smashing them
now with fury and confidence. Do you want children? Hadn't you
better get a move on? Big serves that there's not a cat's chance in
hell of returning. Aces.
Mrs McMahon leads
by five games to love, first set,
but now
her head and mood are sinking. She's starting to lose the lead, the
concentration. She's too hot-headed and desperate, but all I have
to do is keep my cool because I've been playing a natty baseline
game since coming here, not my normal serve-volleying, because it's
the mental stamina which wins or loses you matches
when all's said and done.

SECOND
MONDAY

Gwen starts
knocking with her stick before six in the morning.

"I'm still
feeling tired and giddy," she says, when I bring in her fizzy liver
salts and early morning breakfast. "I'm not sure whether I should
get up."

And I’m
thinking to myself, it would be a lot easier if you didn't,
duck.

Easier for me
now we're into Week Two, with the countdown to the Semi's and
Finals, and with Anne gone, I'm not sure what's ... oh what a cow.
Fancy hoping that she'll stay in bed. Poor Gwen.

"I did warn
you about that brandy last night, Gwen."

"I only had a
drop." She's now heaving herself out of bed, having only toyed with
her breakfast. "Still. The show must go on. Steady me, would you?
That's the way."

Mrs Parrott's
gift, the raffled lamp with a heavy slate base, has its flex all
bound up still. "Should I unwrap this for you, Gwen?"

She screws up
her nose. "I don't really care what you do with it. It's a vulgar
thing. Now run me a sink of water, would you ... and then, after
you've done your duties we could go out somewhere this afternoon.
What do you say?"

"Out? Looks a
bit unsettled, Gwen."

"I like it
fresh," she insists. "Clears away the cobwebs. Anyway it's summer.
It's not going to be that cold."

"But you did
say I'd have the afternoons off. I've got to have a
break."

"A break?
You've got a very cavalier attitude sometimes, my girl. This isn't
the kind of work where you just clock off at 1 pm."

I remind her
what she said about not needing me in the afternoons.

"That was
before Anne left. The situation's changed now. You need to have
flexibility with this sort of work. People work." The white sticky
thing's forming on her bottom lip. "I need someone to chat with,
not someone buried in the television. Maybe I should try phoning
Anne. She's been so loyal and efficient."

Yeah, phone
her! Then I can see her lovely eyes and feel the frisson. I can
feel the frisson and she can drive you out and I can watch
Wimbledon with a clear conscience.

"It's worth a
try, Gwen. Now that she's slept on it she might think she was a bit
rash."

"Anne isn't
rash. Once her mind's made up there's no changing it." She coughs.
"Anne would never have left if it wasn't for you," and each time
she brings her lips together the white gummy stuff is disturbed and
added to. "I promised her my old room when it was decorated and
newly furnished. But you stole that room."

"That's
twaddle. You asked me to live here."

"Only because
you begged me to let you have it. There's no good shaking your head
in that manner. You know you did. It should have been
Anne's."

Well, she can
have it. I'm out of here once Wimbledon's finished.

"Oh, I know.
It's Wimbledon, it's Wimbledon. Taking over the whole house. What's
the attraction with it, anyway? It used to be such a gentle and
demure game, not like the pantomime that passes for sport nowadays.
"

I force a
smile which feels more like a rictus. "I've just watched it for
years, you know."

"Yunno, yunno.
No, I don't know. There's another one of those
expressions."

"I'm sort of
nostalgic about it, I suppose. It's grown up with me, d'you know
what I mean?"

"Know-what-I-mean? No, I don't know what you mean!"

"We need to
get another afternoon carer for you," I say, watching the expanding
creamy blob on her lip.

"That's right.
As long as it's not you. You won't give anything more than you have
to, will you?"

(I've
given you my most precious resource, duck. Time.)

"Well," she
tuts. "I suppose I'll just have to get onto the agency again. See
if they can come up with a carer who cares. Bring the phone over
here."

*

Later, I
remind Gwen about her appointment with the physio tomorrow and I
hurry round the shops. I take one of Gwen's skirts to the dry
cleaners; her watch in to be mended. I buy bread and milk and fresh
haddock from the fishmonger's. I watch the thin ham from the deli
being sawn into slivers onto the tracing paper, weighed, and
scooped off the scales by the thin surgeony gloves. I see a box of
petit fours, wrapped up all beautiful, which I add to my shopping
bag. A gift for Gwen, a peace-offering. Not that I’ve done anything
wrong.

When I get
back, Gwen is beaming and in raptures about the petit
fours.

"Oh, and by
the way," she says. "We've got a new lady coming this afternoon.
Her name's Kathy or Karen or something. Anyway, she'll be here at
two o'clock ."

*

Today is
Second Monday and big crucial games are about to be played and
Henman and Courier are already warming up, and it starts to rain
before play's even got underway. I start to nod off and am woken by
the sound of a handbrake and just enough time to catch a fleeting
glimpse of the latest Carewise hopeful, though not enough to get
any lasting impression. Except there was no frisson to speak of
Frissons don't come that often, but Gwen's going to be as happy as
a sandboy with that little black Fiat parked out there, ready to
take her off somewhere. I hear the new girl being inducted, and the
Henman/Courier match is about to be resumed again when Gwen calls
up. Robina? Robina? Come downstairs a minute, would you? I'd like
you to meet Karen.

"Nice to meet
you," says Karen all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and holding out a
nail-polished hand when I get downstairs. She's got a soap opera
smile and lipstick on her teeth. "I'm just hoping to take
Gwendoline out for a wee spin once this rain has passed
over."

I've never
been much good on accents, but I've narrowed it down to Scottish or
Irish. Karen tosses her rich brown hair this way and that - not the
straight-down plain-speaking hair of Anne but hair all gelled and
corkscrewed - and panders to Gwen's every last request. It's hard
to refuse Gwen, especially on your first day; especially with all
the would-you-be-so-kind prefixes.

But just you
wait, Karen. Give it a few days and she'll drop all that, and then
she'll drop you.

*

They've gone
out for their wee spin, Gwen and Karen, though it's still grey out
there while rain has interrupted live play at Wimbledon for a
second time and it's going to be one of them raggedy old days with
live and recorded tennis plaited throughout the
afternoon.

But it’s like
a mantra, the way some of the umpires say deuce. It's got a lot
going for it that word.

I wonder if
Rosemary enjoyed the sound of deuce.

I wonder if
June's thinking about the sound of deuce.

Or
Babs?

I've not dared
contact Babs much, since it all blew up. Babs has been taken back
and forgiven by Tash but Tash won't ever let Babs forget that she
betrayed her. She'll use it against her for all
eternity.

Should I call
Babs? I want to. It'll upset Tash though. Babs can't ever leave
Tash because of the way Tash gets all mardy. She once found Tash in
the bathroom with all the pill bottles out, all lined up in a row
with their caps off. She's always looked after Tash, knowing Tash
gets unstable. She was a bit of a mess when Babs first met her.
Babs rescued her, helped sort her out. But Tash has always got that
on Babs, she plays on it. Colin says Tash is a Poor Me.

*

The live
tennis is back on; Gwen and Karen back home. I hear Karen dusting
down the stairs with the hard wire brush, she's using big powerful
strokes, you can tell by the way the brush knocks against the wood
at the side of the stairs. Gwen must be leaning on her stick at the
bottom of the stairs as she talks up to Karen because I can hear
her over and above the crowd on Centre Court whose roaring I've
turned down.

"It's good to
see someone working so hard ... things just don't get done properly
in the morning."

Let it go.
Let the deuces flow and soothe

"Robina is
lazy. She sits around drinking tea and she tells lies like
Rosemary."

Brush brush
brush. The enthusiastic Karen works on.

"It's
marvellous that you have a car and that we can go out ... maybe
you'd like to think about moving in here, Kathy."

Let. Second
service.

"Do you have
any other commitments?"

"My little
boy."

(Irish. Defo
Irish.)

"Oh of course.
You did tell me. My memory isn't always so ... anyway there is my
old room upstairs."

Brush knock
knock brush. "I thought you said Robina was living
there."

"She's just
here to watch television. She sits upstairs and even takes her
meals up there. Treats the place like an hotel. I'm all alone down
here. I do like to have some company in the evenings."

"Of course you
do."

"I practically
live downstairs, you see ... the main thing is compatibility and
getting along with my helpers and we seem to get on
splendidly."

(Where have I
heard that before?)

"It's my
arthritis. That's why I have to live down here. It gives me such
pain, you see."

"Oh I can give
you a massage after I've done this if you like. I'm fully
qualified."

"Are you?
Would you? Oh you're so kind."

And now she's
thanking Karen for the petit fours but it's not even worth playing
their game. You can try all you like, with all the shots in your
repertoire, but it's a waste of time. Here comes another attacking
ball. Gwen singing The Skye Boat Song. It sounds all shrill and
roupy against the mellow thunks of Wimbledon, and now Karen's
joining in with a good hearty Celtic voice.

"I haven't
sung that song in ages," roars Gwen. "Let's do it again. One two
three ... "

SECOND
TUESDAY

Karen phoned
this morning. "Hello? Is that Robina? I'm awfully sorry but my
childminder's let me down. Would you ask Gwendoline if she minds me
bringing Finbar, my little boy?

"Of course
not," Gwen said when I passed on the message. "It'll be very jolly
having a small child around the place."

I'm just
clearing up the lunch dishes when Karen tumbles in with more cherry
lipstick on her teeth and the four year old Finbar under a
fireman's helmet - both of them overflowing with toys.