The One I Was (4 page)

‘What was all that?’ His face was furrowed with concern. Impatience at his still worrying about me swept through me.

‘Just a job.’

‘One you don’t want?’

I said nothing.

‘Why not?’

I shrugged. He looked surprised. ‘Jo knows you quite well, doesn’t she? You always say she has an instinct for matching you to people you can best help.’

It was true. I’d been to homes both prosperous and humble. Nursed men and women, old and young, dying of all kinds of illness. And Jo had always found a connection between these people and me that went beyond simply that of nurse and patient. She had a talent for recreating families. Sometimes I found I was nursing someone who’d had a daughter my age, who’d died or emigrated or become estranged. Or an elderly woman who reminded me of my grandmother. In so far as anyone could ever resemble her.

‘It’s at Fairfleet,’ I muttered.

‘Fairfleet?’

‘My grandmother’s house.’

‘Your grandmother who flew the Spitfires?’

I smiled and the tension lifted briefly. Granny and her beloved planes.

‘Rather nice to go back to a place with happy memories.’

I felt my body freeze. I was silent, but it must have been painted there on my face for him to see. ‘Rosamond?’

I fiddled with the corner of one of the exercise books.

‘Hang on, Fairfleet …’ The name was resonating with him. ‘That was where your … ?’

‘Yes.’ I didn’t want him to say aloud what had happened at Fairfleet, couldn’t face hearing it all mentioned here in the futuristically modern kitchen of my safe London apartment. My fingers were still fiddling with the cover of the exercise book. He took it gently from me.

‘Don’t despoil school property. But, my God, no wonder you don’t want to back to Fairfleet. Call Jo back, tell her on no account are you taking the job.’

Unlike James to dictate to me. But that wasn’t why I remained silent, fingers drumming the sleek kitchen counter.

‘She’ll understand that Fairfleet is one place you really can’t go to. Especially now.’

I walked over to the window and stared out at the Thames below. Lights twinkled along the side of the river. A police launch shot past. From this height you couldn’t hear much, but down there, people were going about their lives heedless of me and what had happened to me. Many people dealt with worse. I could ring Jo back. Explain in a rational adult way that matched my rational professional persona what had happened at Fairfleet thirty years ago. She’d understand, of course she would. Nobody could blame me for turning down this job. Especially now.

Or I could do it. Return to Fairfleet under my married name of Rosamond Hunter. I’d ditched the husband but retained the surname. My hair had darkened as I’d grown older instead of staying the blond that my mother and grandmother had retained. I encouraged this
change, having it regularly tinted so that it was now chestnut. I hadn’t inherited the striking facial features of my grandmother and mother. And who in the area would even remember Rose Madison? We hadn’t played with children in the village, or attended local schools.

Rosamond Hunter. Rose Madison. The same person, only different.

‘Rosamond?’ James had been watching me, face full of concern.

‘I could go back,’ I said. ‘I know the house. I know a bit about Benny Gault. He lived in the house during the war, you know. My grandmother took him in.’

‘And all those things would be wonderful if that’s as far as it went, if you just paid a visit,’ James said. ‘You could reminisce about your grandmother. Did she ever talk about Benny?’

I tried to remember. ‘I don’t think she did,’ I said. ‘No more than the other boys from Germany they took in. He wouldn’t know who I was.’ My mind went back to my change of name. ‘It was all such a long time ago.’

‘You’re seriously thinking of taking this job?’ James put down his wine glass. ‘Rosamond?’ The way he pronounced my name made it clear just how much he disapproved.

‘I don’t know.’ I turned my back on him and returned to the view over the Thames, watching the wide, dark expanse of water pulling everything down towards the sea, where all memories and events finally met and mingled. ‘I just don’t know.’

But later that same evening, when James was taking a shower, I rang Jo on her mobile and told her I’d like to accept the job at Fairfleet. I didn’t tell her any of the reasons why doing so might not be a good idea.

*

‘Don’t go back. There’s nothing for you at Fairfleet now.’

Half of me was touched by the obvious concern in my brother’s voice. Half was annoyed by Andrew’s insistence that he knew what was good for me. And if it were possible to have a third half, that half would have been exasperated that James, the man I lived with, was watching me while I had this telephone conversation, with a similar kind of anxiety on his face. These two males were trying to force me to do what they wanted and I wasn’t going to have it. I reminded myself that it was only concern that motivated them.

‘We all die,’ I explained to James, when I finished the call to my brother. ‘It’s one of the most important things, perhaps the most important thing, that happens to us. It matters that it’s done well. And I think I can help Benny, I really do.’

James took my hand. ‘I understand that. But I just wonder whether going back to Fairfleet is not really about Benny but more to do with what happened when you were a child.’

‘Everyone always wants to psychoanalyze me.’ I pulled back my hand. ‘You. My brother. My ex, Charles. I’m fine.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with using a traumatic experience to do something good for other people. I understand that.’ His voice was gentle. ‘But is now the best time for you to go to Fairfleet?’

‘I’m feeling much better.’ I felt myself hunch instinctively in the chair, though. I hadn’t been able to think of any better way of reconciling myself to what had happened.

Benny and I certainly seemed to hit it off at our preliminary meeting, at a coffee shop in a nearby town, probably one of Benny’s last outings. He was in early old age and had probably looked young and fit for his years until a few months ago. Face starting to fold in on itself, slightly yellow-skinned. Eyes still bright and sharp, inquisitive as they took me in. Still a handsome man. Benny Gault, journalist and writer.

We talked mainly about books and my travels abroad. Nothing was mentioned about his illness and I didn’t ask for details. There’d be time enough for all that. What mattered now was seeing whether he liked me, would trust me to care for him.

‘We’ll ring the agency,’ Sarah, the housekeeper, said. ‘Thank you for coming to meet us, Rosamond.’ She passed Benny his stick.

‘Yes, it was interesting.’ Benny gave me a probing look. Perhaps he could see into the very heart of me. Or perhaps that was how he was with all newcomers.

He seemed weak, halting at the door on his way out and leaning on his stick and staring out towards a statue of King Alfred in the marketplace. Probably noting the scene in his memory because he wouldn’t see it again. He looked at it all for a full minute, then turned to me.

‘No need to keep you waiting to find out from the agency, Rosamond. If you can put up with a cranky old invalid, I’d like you to come and stay at Fairfleet.’ There was a softness to his voice as he said the name of the house. ‘Do you know the area?’

‘Not as much as I’d like.’

‘The house is beautiful,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t say so as it’s mine, but it’s true. I think you’ll like living there. Even if you do have to put up with me.’

Sarah tutted and tapped him on the arm. ‘You’re not that bad, Benny.’

*

So I made preparations for starting the job, leaving James reminders of how all the kitchen gadgets operated (although I barely ever cooked anything for myself).

‘I wish you were spending Christmas with Catherine and me,’ he said as I packed.

So did I, really. It was true that seeing James’s undergraduate daughter would be a reminder of what had been lost. But I liked Catherine and she seemed to like me.

‘What do you think you’ll find at Fairfleet? How can it possibly help you to go back now?’

‘It’s not just me.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It would show Andrew.’

‘Show him what?’

‘I think he felt, deep down, that Mum had somehow stopped loving us as much, had switched allegiance. If I could just show him something tangible, he might feel differently.’

‘What do you mean by tangible?’

‘There was a letter Mum wrote to her solicitor. Telling him what had happened. I think that letter shows how much she cared about us, how she wanted to put things right.’

‘Does Andrew know about the letter?’

‘Yes. He gave it to me to hide. But neither of us read it.’ There hadn’t been time; that last afternoon had been a blur of panic and trying to outwit the enemy.

‘Be very clear about your motives, Rosamond.’ James might have been commenting on a badly written school essay.

‘I’m not one of your sixth-formers,’ I’d retorted.

‘No, you’re a professional nurse with a patient who needs you to have your mind completely on the job.’

‘Yes, I’m a professional.’ I shut my small case and snapped the catch shut. ‘And of course I’ll have my mind on the job. Frankly I’ll be so busy looking after Benny there won’t be time for much else.’

*

I still felt a little like a refugee myself as Sarah led me through to the kitchen a week later, uncertain what I would find at Fairfleet, how I would feel about things. I told myself that I was a woman in my early forties, rather than a girl not yet thirteen years old. I blinked hard to clear my vision of figures who weren’t there, not now, not any more.

The patter of small feet raised me from my trance. A small terrier observed me, ears pricked. He sniffed my shoes, wagging his tail.

‘Come on, Max,’ Sarah said. He ran happily across this hallway. If a dog wasn’t worried, it must be fine, I told myself.

As we reached the kitchen door I ducked instinctively.

‘Well done, you spotted that low beam before I could warn you.’ Sarah had turned just as I had entered the kitchen. ‘I don’t know why they didn’t take it out when they moved the kitchen up from the basement after the war.’

The Little Miss Know-it-all inside me wanted to tell her it was because the lintel held up most of the supporting wall. I pushed Little Miss down and looked around the kitchen. A long oak table, dark and well waxed, covered in baking trays, a set of scales and ingredients, occupied the middle. Underneath the worktop lay the dog’s bed: small and cosy. Max jumped into it and curled up. Outside on the lawn I caught a glimpse of the topiary walk: hedges cut into perfect cones and spirals, each sprinkled with frost, like giant Christmas decorations. I felt my heart beat more slowly.

Sarah cleared a space for my coffee mug. ‘Cooking’s a bit of a passion of mine. Benny doesn’t eat much. He has friends down fairly regularly for short visits, but it’ll be a treat to have someone else to cook for.’ She looked wistful.

She must be lonely living here. At our first meeting she’d told me how the gardener only came in once a fortnight during the winter, and that the cleaner had been reduced to three mornings a week. Sarah herself was a slim woman, with only a few lines around her eyes. I wondered how long she’d been working as Benny’s housekeeper.

She looked at my empty cup. ‘Shall we go upstairs? Benny’s been looking forward to seeing you.’

I followed Sarah across the stone-floored entrance hall, the dog pattering behind us. Once again I braced myself, but there was nothing. Stop, I told myself. Stop remembering.

‘Benny still sleeps fairly well at night, he claims,’ Sarah said, walking up the stairs ahead of me. ‘He says he doesn’t need you to sit up with him at the moment.’ I murmured a response. My toes were like feelers, testing every inch, expecting to feel a shock at each step, relaxing a little as we approached the top and still nothing had happened. I was just walking up a staircase, that’s all. I forced myself to think of my patient. At the coffee shop meeting Benny and Sarah had told me how the cancer had paced around like a tiger contained in a cage for the last five years, breaking out with renewed ferocity six months ago. Chemotherapy had not won this round. Further surgery or radiography was impossible, Jo had told me, filling me in on the medical information I’d need to nurse Benny.

‘You’ve seen his notes, anyway,’ Sarah said as we reached the landing. ‘He’s been growing sleepier over the last few days.’

That would be the effect of the opioid patch he now wore. ‘Possibly he’ll get used to the patch,’ I said. ‘Sometimes the drowsiness does wear off a bit.’

Though the doctor would probably need to increase the dosage soon.

‘And sometimes he likes to talk. There’s no family, you see. His wife died some years ago. Friends come down and help when they can. Benny’s not demanding, far from it, but …’

‘It’s hard work.’

She gave me a grateful nod as we reached a bedroom door. ‘But don’t worry. We’re not expecting you to do it all. We’ll call in more help as we need it.’

I relaxed when I saw which room she was entering.

She opened the door. ‘I’ll just tell him you’re here.’ Max squeezed past her and ran ahead, obviously knowing he would be welcome. My stomach flipped. There’s often this moment of nervousness at the very beginning of a job, I reminded myself.

Murmurs came from within the room.

‘Come on in, Rosamond,’ Sarah called. I was glad she was speaking in a normal tone. The dying usually prefer people to behave normally around them.

I let out the breath I’d been holding and walked in. A double-aspected room, windows overlooking both the gardens to the front of the house and the Downs to the south. My patient was lying in a four-poster bed, a smart aluminium laptop beside him. He smiled in a quizzical, amused way, as though he found this a strange way to be meeting me again. His proffered hand was paper-thin, the white skin stretched like a tent on its poles.

‘I feel rude not getting up. What must you think?’ The eyes rolled with the irony of it.

‘I’ve seen worse. You haven’t thrown a bedpan at me to welcome me.’