How You See Me (7 page)

We have to do something with these paintings, Mab. Even if it is to burn them.

Daniel

30th November

The Studio

Dear Mab –

The first thing I noticed was that a handful of grape hyacinths had joined the red tulips in the vase on the mantelpiece. More fresh-cut flowers. I never usually notice flowers, but they’ve been invading our house in various forms over the past few months, everything from stargazer lilies to dead nettles in a jam jar. Maggie has dodged any questions about them, but I suppose I just assumed it was her bringing them in. They never lasted long enough to wither; their water was always clean and fresh. Who wouldn’t think that was Maggie?

Tatty didn’t react any differently, just shook her ragged coat as I unhooked the lead and did her usual stumbling run towards Dad’s chair.

‘Hello, Daniel.’

It was Sarah. I didn’t recognise her. How ridiculous is that? Even after staring at her portraits only a few days before. This was the meeting I’ve been waiting for half my life and all I could find to say was, ‘I thought you were the district nurse.’

‘I just popped in to see how Michael was doing. I was only here for Michael. I should be going.’

She was gathering up bags at her feet and paused to make a small fuss of Tatty’s head. I could see the grey hair threaded through the blonde, like white wires. She looked up. Her skin looked thicker. She’d put on weight. She was still beautiful.

‘I didn’t know you were still in the area.’

My voice worked its way out of my mouth, but I could barely understand the words. I just knew I had to keep her here. Now I’d found her, I couldn’t just let her leave.

‘Oh, I’m not. Not any more. I was just passing, you know.’ She leant over to kiss Dad, smoothing the wisps of hair down on to his scalp with a passing hand. Her bags were on her shoulder and she just stood there gripping their straps, not meeting my eye. ‘I should go.’

‘Those nurses, you know, they’re always changing them. I never know who I’m going to come home to. Tatty hasn’t taken too well to the latest set, so I take her out. We’ve been down by the allotments, sniffing at the hedgerows. Tatty, not me. Though I did pick these sloes; Maggie mentioned she might use them to make some gin. Do you remember that year we made sloe gin?’

This went on for some time; I can’t tell you for how long, but my mouth kept moving and the words kept falling out. I said anything just to keep Sarah in the room. I told her about the different nurses, including the one who hates me, and about my walks with Tatty and about Dad and what the doctors had said. I fished memories from somewhere, not all of them happy, and threw them into the space between us. I willed her to interrupt me; to smile or react; to come a little closer; to look at me.

Then Maggie pushed the door open behind me, startling my heels. She stood in the doorway a moment and surveyed the room.

‘You’re all here, then.’ Nothing surprises Maggie. I don’t think I ever seen her expression change. ‘I’ve brought back your washing.’

‘I was just leaving,’ Sarah said.

‘Hello there, Michael. Had your visitor for the day?’

‘My car is just outside. I stayed a bit longer than I should.’

‘That’s right. You get going and Daniel here can make me and his dad a cup of tea. I’ve been on my feet since six. You got everything, love?’

‘Sarah and I were just… I got in and she was here. You can stay for a cup of tea, can’t you, Sarah?’

‘Now, Danny, don’t bother the girl. She’s had her visit and now she’s on her way. Now get into that kitchen. I’ll make sure she gets off all right.’

I saw her smile at Maggie and give one look back at Dad, but I didn’t see her leave.

Maggie refused to tell me anything about the visits – I had gathered by now that they had been going on for some time along with their accompanying flowers. She refused to talk to me about Sarah at all. She does this thing when I ask a question she doesn’t like, where she turns to either Dad or the dog and begins a conversation.

‘You enjoying that tea there, Michael?’

‘Have a good walk today, did you, girl?’

‘You two have any idea what nonsense this lad is talking?’

Simple, but impenetrable.

I divided the flowers and placed half of them in a clean tooth mug by my bed. With your mask hanging above them, it looks rather like an altar. I wonder what it is I’m worshipping.

Daniel

1st December

The Studio

Dear Aubrey –

I apologise for the call last night. I just found myself walking – there was no chance of sleep – and then I was inside the phone box by the village shop and scrabbling for change. I had to talk to someone and you were the only one I could call. I’m sorry the hour was far from convenient, but there was no need to be quite so dismissive.

I need your help, Aubrey. I dealt with the whole Sarah situation so badly – I was so raw and obvious. After all the work we have done, I just fell apart at the sight of her. I need to make a plan – or should I say
we
need to make a plan – for the next encounter. I wrote a hasty note to Mab last night and found I was unable to recall all that was said. Can you believe that? After all my hours scripting for you. And yet in that meeting with Sarah there are blanks – utter blanks – just the memory of a quivering childish panic, a weakness in the knees and the distinct need to urinate. I was still shaking for an hour after she left.

I know you have a pill for this – I know I’ve refused them a thousand times – but what I’m saying now is, send me some!

I am a failure, Aubrey.

Perhaps it would be worth investing in some kind of recording device, seeing as my brain has deserted me. I could fix something up with Dad’s old stereo in the sitting room, if I could just get my hands on a microphone. But then there would still be the physical signals to record. Maybe a video camera – they make those pretty small these
days? You must know about this stuff; you have to have been using something like it since I left.

I’m relying on you, Aubrey. Just tell me what to do. I expect her every moment; at every turn of the door. It’s terrible. I daren’t leave the house in case she comes again.

Awaiting your reply,

Daniel

3rd December

The Studio

Dear Mab –

A calmer day. Instead of leaving the house, I have finally finished clearing the attic. The portraits, I have put in the studio. I’ve arranged them as best I can, trying to get some idea of sequence. Occasionally I’ve caught myself going up to look at them. And not just the ones of Sarah; there’s some fascination in staring into your own face, viewed through the eyes of another. If
fascination
is the right word. Maybe better to say it’s
mesmerising
. I’m not sure what to make of the expressions depicted. I can’t quite read them. It’s like staring at a text in a language very close to your own, but still impenetrably foreign. Does that make sense?

Your old bed has been set up downstairs for Dad. Clean white sheets and banked up with pillows by Maggie, it’s a little slice of hospital living. Dad hates being moved out of his chair and into bed in the evening – especially after a few glasses of whisky – but I’ve been making him do it.
Saying that, Maggie complained about finding him in his day clothes when she got him up this morning. I’ve been putting him in jogging bottoms and sweatshirts from the supermarket – they can be washed easily and even thrown away if they get too stained or acquire too many cigarette burns – and couldn’t see the point in going through the fuss of changing him before bed. I have enough trouble with the morning wash and change. Anyway, once he’s tucked under the white blankets, you can’t tell. He looks like the perfect patient. Maggie’s just in a bad mood about me passing her the dog-walking duties.

I’ve been finding it tough to sleep, but my files have proved a great consolation. I am able to see now where I went wrong in the meeting with Sarah. I simply let the emotion of the occasion overwhelm me. I typed out the scene as best I could on Dad’s old typewriter. It was like being back at work. I even drew out a small floor plan. Such a small room, it manages to look cluttered as I place people into it. Of course at the time Maggie’s little occasional tables were still in place with their mouldering houseplants. They’ve all, thankfully, found their way into the skip now. But I find I’m rather sad to see them go, the fringe of dried leaves which stood between Sarah and me. We were so close. I must have brushed past her on my way through to the kitchen, but I have no memory of it.

There is a point to all this, the element I completely neglected to take into account: Dad.

After so many weeks here, I think I’ve started to regard him, not as a threat, but as a list of tasks to be completed. It’s only recently that he’s even begun to talk – and most of that doesn’t make sense – but imagine the effect he must
have had on Sarah. Seeing me come through the door with Dad sitting by her side, she must have been terrified for me. Don’t you see, Mab, this explains everything: Sarah’s reticence and the tension in the room, which affected me so disastrously. Now I just have to figure out a way of getting Dad out of the house before her next visit. After what she witnessed on my last day here, after what she saw him do to me, no wonder she was scared. If only Dad were as easy to remove as dying houseplants.

Awaiting your reply,

Daniel

3rd December

The Studio

Dear Freya –

I’m sorry it has taken me so long to reply to your last letter. The truth is, I don’t have much news to share. Life is very slow here. Especially slow when compared to yours: you seem to have so many friends and things to do. It’s quite dizzying. I had to read and reread your letter to get the names straight in my mind. Could I ask you to describe your friends a little, or even send us some pictures? I do like to have an image of the people you are writing about, and it would be lovely to see what you look like now. I know Grandad would like it too.

I did have a very old friend pay a visit. It’s remarkable really, that, just by standing still for a time, someone so important can fall back into your life. Particularly when that
someone has been lost for so long. You should be grateful: you are still young enough not to have experienced a loss like that. Although maybe I could count as a lost person in your life? Do you even remember my visit? I suppose you must. At least you had news of me from your mother? She was always good about keeping in touch.

Do you recall my reading you stories from that fairytale book you carried around with you? The one you kept in a pink backpack full of special treasures. You were never much interested in the words, but traced the illustrations with your small fingertips and insisted that I tell you a version of the story written there in the pictures on the page. The princesses, of course, had to play the central role, but you were never happy with them lying around and waiting for Prince Charming. The women must perform the rescues and save the day. Poor Prince Charming was rather left out of things. You accepted him as a mere part of the bounty, being much more interested in the animals and the dwarves and, of course, the mother Queen.

Maybe I will be saved by my own princess coming to rescue me? I do hope so. I’ve always fancied myself a Prince Charming. Though it would make rather a complicated fairytale.

With much love and looking forward to your next letter,

Uncle Dan

3rd December

The Studio

Dear Alice –

I’m sorry it has been so long since I last wrote. Things continue much the same here.

Dad has developed a habit of crying at the least thing. It really is quite disturbing. As I sit here writing at the desk, he’s weeping. I just brought him a cup of tea and rolled him three cigarettes, which are sitting on the arm of the chair untouched. I’ve emptied his catheter bag and he’s had his morning wash and change.

I’ve even tried just squatting down by the side of his chair and holding his hand. He has beautiful hands, my father. Nothing like my stub-fingered plates. They look as though they’ve been carved out of close-grained wood, each tangled vein polished to a dull sheen. He’s always been proud of his long, fluted nails, keeping them obsessively clean, and I noticed the lines of filth that had built up over his confinement. I busied myself digging out the dirt with the end of a wooden toothpick, until he gently tugged his hand away to press his palms against his face. The tears glittered in the light from the TV and the sobs came in long, shuddering gasps. He’s been refusing to wear his glasses.

I don’t know what I’m meant to do.

Daniel x

5th December

My sickbed

Dear Mab –

I am sitting on my bed, banked up by pillows, nursing a cold. There is no one to nurse me. I am full of self-pity.

Maggie has arrived to look after Dad for the afternoon. I heard her voice through the floorboards and for a moment I thought it was Sarah come again to visit. It was enough to start me out of my bed and towards the door. I must be delusional. Then Maggie gave her shout up the stairs and I scurried back to my sheets.

All for the best really: I couldn’t have Sarah seeing me like this. My head is full and heavy and I ooze. A ghoul met me in the shaving mirror this morning. Not that this is enough for Maggie. She’s convinced I’m faking. She even went so far as to accuse me of a night on the tiles. Some fucking chance.

The tulips by my bed have blown and their petals crystallised into contortions. Their dry stalks rattle and whisper as I shift on my bed. I won’t throw them away; there is still a kind of beauty in them. More than can be said for me.

Why doesn’t she come, Mab? I’ve been ready and waiting for days. I’ve even taken special care of Dad, had him up, clean and waiting with me. I’ve started watering down his whisky. In fact, I must warn Maggie to use the open bottle and leave the undoctored one. It’s been making things easier in the morning, but more difficult at night. It takes so much longer to get him to sleep. I wondered about asking the doctor for some pills to help him sleep through?
I’m up at least once or twice every night herding him back into his cot. Thank God for Tatty, who starts yapping as soon as he starts to wander.