The O’Hara Affair (30 page)

‘This is important,’ said Nemia, holding up a blister pack of pills. ‘Daphne must take one of these before bed each evening.’

‘What is it?’ asked Dervla.

‘It’s her ARICEPT. If she doesn’t take it, her dementia symptoms will become worse.’ Nemia set the blister pack down beside a box of disposable latex gloves.

‘Anything else I need to know?’ asked Dervla.

‘You know about the spare bed linen?’ Nemia opened the door of the airing cupboard. ‘It’s there, in that bag, ready to go if there’s an emergency.’

Dervla nodded, then blanched as she caught sight of a pack of disposable adult nappies. ‘Oh, God,’ she said. ‘I hope to high heaven I’m not going to need those.’

‘There’s no need to be nervous, Dervla,’ said Nemia. ‘You’ll do fine. When I told Daphne today that Dervla’s coming to stay, she said, “Oh, good! Dervla is such a well-mannered person”. You can handle her, no problem. Now,’ Nemia’s tone changed, became brisker, ‘I’d better go. There’s no way I’m gonna miss that flight.’

Nemia shimmied down the corridor, with Dervla floundering in her wake, feeling as if she’d been set adrift.

‘Front door keys,’ said Nemia, indicating a bunch of keys on the telephone table. They were attached to a plastic tag that bore the legend:
A woman has the age she deserves
– Coco Chanel.

‘Let me help you with your luggage,’ said Dervla, stooping to pick up a Gladstone bag. ‘Wow! This is heavy.’

‘Books and shoes,’ said Nemia, zapping the locks on her car, and pulling open the boot. ‘Shoes for dancing every night of the week, and books to catch up with all the reading I never seem to have time for.’

What? Dervla’d thought that Nemia should have had all the time in the world for reading; which meant that she, Dervla, should have had all the time in the world for writing. Her heart sinking a little, she dropped the bag into the boot, then gave Nemia a kiss on the cheek. ‘Enjoy your holiday!’ she said, as she watched her slide into the driver’s seat.

‘I will!’ returned Nemia. ‘Any problems, just give me a call.’ And then she gunned the engine and was off down the drive. Dervla heard the receding strains of Madonna’s ‘Holiday’ as the car rounded the bend and disappeared from sight.

‘Well, Kitty,’ she said to the dog who had joined her on the step. ‘It’s just you and me and Daphne now. Let’s go check out what scintillating stuff is on the telly this evening.’

In the sitting room, David Attenborough was coming to an end.

‘Hello, Daphne,’ said Dervla.

‘Who is it?’

‘It’s Dervla, Daphne. I’m here to take care of you while Nemia’s away.’

‘What nonsense. I don’t need taking care of. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.’

Dervla helped herself to the television guide, and sat down.

‘What did you say?’ asked Daphne.

‘Nothing. I’m just looking to see if there’s anything on television. ‘Hmm,’ Dervla murmured into Kitty’s ear, as she scratched the dog’s head. ‘How about
Badly Dubbed Porn
? Or
Sexy Cam
?
Pimp My Ride
? Or
Dirty Sanchez
?’

‘What are you muttering about?’ demanded Daphne.

‘I’m looking at the television page. There’s a programme on the National Geographic Channel about elephants. D’you fancy watching it?’

‘Would that be interesting?’

‘It might be.’

‘All right, then.’

David Attenborough’s theme tune faded away.

‘I’ll just go and check how long dinner’s going to take,’ said Dervla, aiming the remote at the telly and leaving the room. In the kitchen, the timer on the oven told her that the cannelloni would be ready at twenty past seven. She poured herself a generous shot of gin, added some tonic, and went back into the sitting room.

Shit!
She’d got the wrong channel. MTV was blinging on the screen, and some muthafucka was rapping about slapping his bitches and hos, while a gang of nubile girls in thongs and minuscule bikini tops gyrated around him.

Daphne’s stony eyes were fixed on the television. She frowned, then leaned forward. ‘What’s going on there?’ she said. ‘I can’t see. What are they
saying
?’

Dervla lunged for the channel changer.

‘Oh, it’s just a pop video, Daphne,’ she said brightly.

‘Keep it on. I like pop music. ‘Congratulations and celebrations’. That’s Cliff Richard, you know.’

‘Yes.’ Dervla zapped the telly, and a close-up of an elephant’s face came on.

‘I love Cliff Richard.’

‘Yes.’

‘Who’s that?’

‘It’s an elephant.’

‘What’s it doing?’

‘We’ll soon find out.’

The camera pulled back to show them that it was mating with another elephant.

‘Is it having sex?’

‘Looks like it.’

‘It’s very overrated, you know. Sex.’

‘Mmm.’

A man walked onto the screen. ‘G’day,’ he said jovially, and Dervla’s heart sank. He was Australian, and his accent was impenetrable – at least, to Daphne’s ears it would be. ‘The elephants behind me have just finished rutting. This means that – if the rut has been successful we can expect to see—’

‘What’s he saying? I can’t understand a word. Turn it up.’ Dervla obliged, but it was a pointless exercise, because, ‘
What’s he saying?
’ shouted Daphne.

‘He has an Australian accent, Daphne,’ explained Dervla.

‘I don’t have a clue what he’s saying. Turn him off.’

‘OK.’ Dervla’s jaw was clenched as she tossed the channel changer onto a pouffe. Taking a swig of gin, she reached randomly for some reading material – a small volume of famous quotes, called
In Praise of Grandmothers
. It had, presumably, been given to Daphne by Megan, Christian’s
daughter from his first marriage. The first aphorism Dervla lit on was this, from Virginia Woolf: ‘I don’t believe in ageing,’ Dervla read. ‘I believe in forever altering one’s aspect to the sun.’ Well, that was rich, coming from a depressive who famously took her own life before she hit sixty.

‘Isn’t there anything on the TV?’ said Daphne plaintively.

‘Well, I suppose we could watch some news before dinner.’ Dervla reached resignedly for the remote again.

A celebrity with enhanced tennis ball breasts was posing on a red carpet.

‘What is she
wearing
?’ said Daphne.

Dervla hadn’t the energy to talk her way out of this one. She decided to distract Daphne by drawing her attention to a finch that had chosen that moment to alight on the windowsill.

‘Oh, look, Daphne! What kind of a finch is that?’ she said brightly.

Daphne swivelled her head and peered at the window. ‘What colour is it?’

‘It has a reddish face and a blue head.’

‘Then it’s a chaffinch. I must put some nuts out for it. Finches love nuts. I had an art teacher called Miss Finch. Oh – off he goes. Bob bob bob. What are they doing on the television?’ ‘They’re posing.’

‘You call
that
posing? I used to be a model, you know.’

‘Excuse me, for a minute, Daphne. I just want to check on something in the kitchen.’

Dervla got abruptly to her feet, picked up her glass and left the room. In the kitchen, she took another swig of gin, then covered her eyes with her hand. She could feel a headache coming on.

Later that evening, after Dervla had put Daphne to bed, she took the phone out into the courtyard to call Christian.

‘How are things?’ he asked.

‘Oh. Things are fab. Daphne and I had a sparkling conversation over dinner about the weather. Noel Coward might have envied us our repartee.’

‘Is she in bed now?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good girl. How did you manage that?’

‘I told her I’d read her a story.’ Dervla started to pace. ‘And she demanded that a story be read to her there in the sitting room, and I said no – I’d feel ridiculous reading a bedtime story to someone who wasn’t in bed, and I said that if she didn’t want a story I’d make myself useful by getting the dishes out of the way. So I went off and banged about in the kitchen for a while, and next thing I hear her stomping down the corridor into her bedroom. So I go down, and say – all enthusiastic: “Oh, Daphne! You’ve decided it’s bedtime after all! That’s great. I’ll be able to read you a story, now.” And then I gave her her ARICEPT and read her the story—’

‘What did you read her?’

‘That Roald Dahl one about the woman who murders her husband with the frozen leg of lamb.’

‘Nice one!’ Christian laughed over the phone.

‘I realized too late that it wasn’t the best choice. I think it left her feeling a little…nonplussed.’

‘Is she settled now?’

‘I hope so. I rubbed some of that lavender balm on her temples and told her it would help her sleep. And then I kissed her on her forehead and said, “Night night, sleep tight”.’

‘Sweet of you.’

‘Oh – I nearly forgot,’ said Dervla, with a little laugh. ‘After I’d tucked her in and put the balm on her temples and kissed her forehead, she said, “But you said you’d read me a story!”’

‘No shit!’

‘No word of a lie.’

‘She’d forgotten already?’

‘’Fraid so, darling.’

‘How completely, utterly bloody this disease is.’ She heard him sigh down the line. ‘You’re doing great, Dervla. You’re a star. You carry on like this, and you’ll get through. As Nemia says, the important thing is to establish some kind of a routine. And whatever you do, don’t let her get to you.’

‘That’s the thing I’m scared most of happening. That she’ll say something awful, and I’ll let it get under my skin, and then we’ll have a row. Nemia says that rowing is a complete waste of energy.’

‘She’s right. You’ve just got to keep strong and not let her get to you. And what did we decide was the best way of doing that?’

‘By being perfectly pleasant at all times. So far, I’ve been a positive amusement palace of pleasantness. A veritable stately pleasure dome.’

‘So don’t let her undermine your foundations. What’s the weather like there?’

‘It’s nice. The forecast is good. I’ll be able to go for a run in the morning.’ Dervla paused in her pacing to take a sip of her drink.

‘Are those ice cubes I hear?’

‘Yes. I’m having a G&T. A large one.’

‘You’ve earned it. You’ll sleep well tonight.’

‘Damned right.’

There was a pause, then: ‘I’d better go, love,’ Christian said. ‘I’ve some oenophiles to take care of.’

‘OK.’

‘But wait. I’ve got a good one for you before you go.’

‘Bring it on.’ Dervla took another sip of gin.

‘An old man hobbles up to an ice-cream van and orders a cornet. “Crushed nuts, granddad?” asks the ice-cream man. “No,” replies the old man. “Rheumatism.”’

Dervla laughed. ‘Goodnight, darling. Thanks for that. I love you.’

‘I love you too. Goodnight, Dervla.’

There was a click and the line went dead, just as a white peacock rounded the corner of the house.

‘Look, Kitty!’ exclaimed Dervla. ‘A white peacock! Are they supposed to be lucky, or unlucky?’

But Kitty wasn’t listening. She was off after the peacock, ears stiff with excitement.

Dervla went back into the house. ‘Here we go looby-loo,’ she said.

The next morning, Dervla slid out of bed nursing a mild hangover. It had been stupid of her to drink gin last night. She wasn’t used to it.

In the bathroom, it was clear that the loo had been used. Good. That meant that Daphne had done her morning poo. Dervla flushed away the evidence, then padded into the kitchen, and set about making her mother-in-law’s breakfast as per Nemia’s instructions.

Grapefruit juice. Tea with milk and one Hermeseta. Toast with butter and marmalade. Chopped strawberries with Crunchy Nut Cornflakes. Except there weren’t many cornflakes left in the packet. Dervla poured in what remained and set off with her tray.

‘Good morning, Daphne!’ she said, breezing into Daphne’s bedroom, and setting the tray down on the breakfast table, sliding the L-shaped legs under the bed. Then she moved to the window and pulled back the curtains. ‘It’s a beautiful day! The weather forecast was right, for a change!’

‘Who’s that?’

‘It’s Dervla, Daphne. I’m staying here while Nemia is away. She’s gone to Malta on holiday.’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Shall I hoosh you up?’

‘I can hoosh myself up.’ Daphne made an ineffectual hooshing movement, and Dervla took advantage of this to slide another pillow behind her back. Daphne reached for her teeth, slid them in, then picked up her spoon and started to eat the cornflakes. Her expression changed from one of resigned routine to one of thunderous outrage. ‘They taste of dust!’ she fumed. ‘
Dust!
’

Dervla almost expected her to add: ‘Dust – I tell you! Dust!’, and felt a giggle rise. But instead of giggling, she found herself ducking as a spoon came hurtling across the room. Picking it up, she flinched, half-expecting Daphne to hurl the bowl after the spoon, but Daphne sank back against her pillows, and murmured ‘
Dust!
’ again.

‘Oh, dear,’ said Dervla, determined not to be riled. ‘I’d better fetch you a fresh bowl, then, hadn’t I?’ She picked up the bowl and left the room, then marched across the yard to her own kitchen to fetch Christian’s Honey Nut Loops, congratulating herself for behaving with such – what would Fleur call it? Sang froid – that was it, the literal translation of which was ‘cold blood’. Dervla decided she would need intravenous antifreeze if she was going to get through the next two weeks.

‘Well, Kitty,’ she said as she returned to Daphne’s cottage. ‘Let’s hope the Honey Nut Loops do the trick.’

She chopped up more strawberries, added milk and cream to the bowl, and went back down the corridor to the bedroom. In the doorway, she paused.

Daphne was lying back against the pillows, looking as if
she was wearing a death mask. ‘Dust,’ she said again. Oh, God! She was still harping on about the Crunchy Nut Cornflakes. But in fact, she wasn’t, because: ‘This room is dusty,’ she added.

Actually, the room was spic and span. Nemia had obviously done a big cleaning job before she’d absconded.

‘And it’s very messy,’ continued Daphne. ‘Why are your clothes strewn all over the place?’