Tread Softly (35 page)

‘We'll see. Now, before I forget, there's something I want to give you, Lorna.'

‘Give me?'

‘Yes. Your mother's wedding-ring. It was returned to me by the … the … Oh dear. I can't think of the word.'

‘Coroner?'

‘No.'

‘Mortuary?'

‘No.' Agnes tutted in frustration. ‘It doesn't matter anyway. They gave me all her jewellery in a small brown-paper packet. I'm afraid I had to sell the necklace and the … the … what d'you call it. But the ring I kept for you. I intended to give it to you on your wedding-day, but I thought Ralph might …' Her voice tailed off.

‘Be hurt?'

‘Yes. He bought you such a lovely ring.'

‘Mm.' Lorna glanced at it. ‘Victorian.' Ralph had chosen it for the inscription: ‘For ever'. How sad that his romantic soft centre got submerged so often beneath a prickly carapace.

‘Now, if you open my top dressing-table drawer …'

Lorna frowned. ‘You mean at home?'

‘Yes. Over there.' Agnes was pointing in the direction of the television. ‘Be careful. It tends to stick.'

‘Aunt, dear, we … we're not in the cottage.'

‘Where are we then? I get muddled.'

‘We're in the hospice. Together. You and me. We're doing well. We're fine. I'll get the ring later and bring it in to show you. All right?'

Agnes nodded.

‘Now you settle down to sleep.'

As Agnes obediently closed her eyes, Lorna recalled the few occasions when she had seen her ill in bed – invariably chafing at the enforced inaction which she deplored as sinful sloth. Yet she now happily accepted that even the simplest procedures such as being fed or washed required a recovery period afterwards.

‘You won't go away?' she murmured, groping for Lorna's hand.

‘Of course not.' Lorna clasped the arthritic fingers. ‘You don't get rid of me that easily. I'd better warn you, Aunt, you'll soon be sick of the sight of me!'

‘Come in,' Lorna called.

Agnes was still dozing, but she opened her eyes as a short, black-suited man in a dog-collar entered the room. ‘Good morning, Agnes. I'm Simon Taylor, the vicar of St John's.' He included Lorna in his friendly smile of greeting.

‘Do sit down.' She indicated the second chair.

‘No, thank you. I won't stay. I just came to ask if you'd like to take Communion, Agnes?'

‘I'm not a Christian, Mr Taylor.'

Lorna wondered if she'd heard right. What about the God of her childhood – Agnes's vengeful, all-seeing God? Every Sunday, she and her aunt went dutifully to church, to confess their sins and sing His praises – the very model of good Christians. Had Agnes only been pretending to believe, to give an orphaned child something to cling to? It had proved effective, certainly: she
had
found comfort in the thought of her parents strolling hand in hand in heaven, among gambolling bunnies and flowers that never faded.

‘Well, if you'd like me to pop in at any time I'd be happy to oblige. It doesn't matter if you're not a formal believer. We welcome all religions and none.'

‘I'm afraid I'm beyond help, Mr Taylor. The doctors say there's nothing more they can do for me.'

‘No one's beyond help, Agnes.'

‘I doubt that, Mr Taylor.'

Lorna looked at her anxiously. Had the euphoria passed, or was she simply resigned to the prospect of death?

‘What's the date?' she asked suddenly.

Lorna tried to remember. Time was so hazy she couldn't even think how long she had been here.

‘It's March the twenty-first,' the vicar put in. ‘The first day of spring! And if you'll forgive me, dear ladies, I'd better be on my way.'

‘He reminds me of your father,' Agnes remarked when the door had closed behind him.

The drunkard and the gambler? Surely not.

‘Too charming by half,' Agnes continued, with a touch of her old acerbity. ‘Dear ladies, indeed!' She counted on her fingers. ‘Now let me see – Margaret died on the twenty-fifth of March. Wouldn't it be strange if I went on that day too?'

Lorna outstared the callous sun. Not strange. Horrific. Spring or no, it would become the darkest day of the year, blighted by three deaths. It had been bad enough in childhood, especially if Easter was late and she was still cooped up at boarding-school. The other girls didn't understand why, on that black-edged day, she couldn't eat or concentrate and often hid in the grounds and howled her eyes out. ‘You're getting
better
, Aunt,' she insisted, to convince herself as much as Agnes.

But Agnes didn't seem to have heard. ‘You're not to worry about my funeral, Lorna. It's all been taken care of. I've been paying for it in instalments, so you wouldn't have the expense.'

‘Oh,
Aunt
…'

‘I don't want anything fancy, mind. I've left strict instructions. I'm not wasting money on coffins that only get burnt. But there's one thing you could do, when you find the time – take my ashes and scatter them near Margaret's grave. I miss her.'

Lorna frowned against the glare of the sun. The two sisters had been apart for thirty-five years. A lifetime of missing.

‘And if it's no trouble, dear, I would like a little funeral tea, for the people in the village. They've all been exceptionally kind. You can have it in the cottage, to save expense.'

‘Yes, of … course.'

‘As you know, I'm very partial to ham sandwiches. Would it be a bother to arrange it?'

Lorna got up and put her arm round Agnes's shoulder. ‘You shall have a
ton
of ham sandwiches. And egg, cheese, tongue, chicken – every sandwich under the sun.'

‘Extravagance! The food's paid for, anyway. It's included in the funeral plan.'

‘Look, if I can't afford a few …'

‘It's not a question of affording – it's a question of what's right. I've always paid my way, and I don't intend things to be different just because I'm dead.'

Lorna smiled, despite herself.

‘And you won't forget to thank people for coming.'

‘No, Aunt, I won't forget.' How could she, when Agnes was the one who'd taught her the common courtesies? ‘Oh, look,' she said, ‘here's Carole, come to do your manicure.'

It was perhaps the greatest miracle of all that plain, no-nonsense Agnes, who all her life had trimmed her nails with a pair of clippers and considered nail varnish a frippery beneath contempt, had agreed to submit herself to Carole's ministrations.

Lorna watched with bemused pleasure as her aunt lay back against the pillows and allowed Carole to apply cuticle-remover while instructing her on the latest fashion colours: Sizzling Scarlet, Think Pink, Strawberry Crush. If things went on like this, she would no longer recognize her. There were other volunteers who visited the hospice: hairdressers, beauticians. She tried to picture Agnes with Barbara Cartland eyelashes and a shimmering blue rinse, but her imagination failed to make the leap. ‘Agnes, I'm going to phone Ralph. I'll leave you in Carole's capable hands.'

‘Yes, you get some rest, child. I'm perfectly all right. I don't need looking after.'

On her way to the phone, at least half a dozen people stopped her to chat. The hospice had become her substitute family as well as Agnes's. And she too felt a certain euphoria (even without the benefit of morphine) such was the sense of community here, embracing not just each patient but all their relatives. She hadn't experienced a single stirring of panic or heard a squeak from the Monster. Ms Unflappable she couldn't be when Agnes was facing death, but Ms Courageous, yes. Courage came more easily in this supportive atmosphere, where she'd already received a wealth of tiny kindnesses. Jane, the housekeeper, had supplied a pile of blankets for the night and managed to wangle her a lavender pillow; Emma, one of the volunteers, had brought her in a home-made chicken pie; Sue, the physiotherapist, had given her a shoulder massage; and Angela, the cleaner, always made sure she had plenty of change for the phone. (‘You mustn't neglect your hubby, dear.')

She slotted two of Angela's coins into the slot. ‘Ralph, it's me. Do you feel neglected?'

‘No, but I miss you. How's Agnes?'

‘So cheerful you wouldn't know her.'

‘Cheerful, on her deathbed?'

‘Yes. It's a bit spooky, actually. This is the first time I've ever seen her so upbeat, and I'm not sure if it's … real.'

‘Well, she wouldn't be pretending, would she?'

‘I'm not sure. I'm beginning to wonder if I know her. Anyway, how are
you
?'

‘OK.'

‘Not drinking?'

‘No. Though it's a hell of a strain. I feel restless and sort of jumpy. And as for sleeping, forget it!'

‘Give it time. You'll soon be over the worst. And, Ralph, I want you to know I really do admire you – having the guts to stick at it. To be honest, I never thought you would.'

The usual embarrassed silence.

‘In fact it helps me cope with what I'm doing here. If I get tired sitting on a chair all night, I think of you awake as well and it stops me feeling sorry for myself.'

He laughed morosely. ‘Well, I have to say I'm feeling sorry for myself just now. I've got several different people coming to view the house this afternoon, and a whole lot more tomorrow. Then the dentist at six – I've lost a filling and it's giving me gyp. And what's left of my birthday I'll probably spend doing the VAT return.'

‘Oh, Ralph, your birthday! I'd completely forgotten!'

‘Doesn't matter. You know my opinion of birthdays.'

‘It
does
matter. What would you like? I can buy you something at the hospice shop, if you don't mind Yardley's lavender water or home-knitted bedsocks.'

‘There's only one thing I want.'

‘What's that?'

‘
You
,' he said sheepishly. ‘All night.'

All night hadn't happened for years. This really was a new model Ralph.

‘Don't worry, I'm only joking. Being off the booze makes me – well, amorous. And the nights seem … lonely without you.'

‘Oh, Ralph …'

‘I'll survive. By the way, are you OK for clothes and stuff? I could drive up first thing tomorrow if there's anything you need.'

‘With all those people coming to see the house?'

‘I'll put them off.'

‘No, Ralph, we've
got
to sell. Time is of the essence, otherwise think of the interest on the bank loan.'

‘OK.'

‘Look, I'll phone again this evening and say happy birthday properly.'

‘Forget the present, though. Bedsocks aren't quite my thing. I'll have what I asked for – on credit.'

She laughed. ‘All right, I promise! Love you, darling. Bye.'

As she rang off, Megan, the day sister, happened to be coming round the corner. ‘Ah, Lorna, could I have a word with you?'

Lorna felt a twinge of fear. Surely Agnes couldn't have suffered a decline in the few minutes she'd been gone.

Megan ushered her into the office. ‘Do sit down. Take that comfy chair. All I want to say is that we're a bit worried about you, Lorna.'

‘Worried? About
me
?'

‘Yes. You're doing too much. You haven't had a breath of fresh air or a wink of sleep since you arrived. You really need a good night's rest. We do have a couple of put-you-ups for relatives, but they're not particularly comfortable and I'm afraid you wouldn't get much peace. Agnes is in no immediate danger at the moment. She appears to have plateaued out, which means there probably won't be any change for the next few days. So I suggest you take the chance to catch up on your sleep. I presume you could stay in her house.'

No
, she thought, aware of Ms Courageous shrivelling to a husk. However well she was coping in the hospice, alone in Agnes's damp, dark cottage she would be beset by instant panic.

‘Or there's a guest-house up the road. It's very reasonable, and of course we'd phone you immediately should the need arise.'

She smoothed her crumpled skirt. The Monster might be silent now, but he'd be back at the first opportunity. And what better place for an ambush than an anonymous guest-house?

‘Perhaps you feel you shouldn't leave Agnes, even for a moment. It's a natural reaction. But you have to think of yourself too, you know. You'll be more help to your aunt if you recharge your batteries.'

‘Well, would it be OK if I went home? Just for tonight, I mean.'

‘Mm, that's a long drive when you're already tired. Are you sure you're up to it?'

Her foot most certainly wasn't – on the journey here it had hurt badly – but pain was always preferable to panic. ‘Oh yes,' she assured Megan. ‘And I know my husband would be pleased. It's his birthday today, you see.'

‘Well, in that case it seems a good idea. I'll get the doctor to take another look at Agnes, and if he feels she's still reasonably stable you could get off straight away.'

‘Fine. And I've got a mobile, so if anything should … happen, phone me, please, and I'll turn straight back.'

‘Of course.'

Lorna got up, then half sat down again. ‘Megan, there's something else. My aunt seems so different – much more positive and sweet-tempered than normal. I'm sorry, that must sound awful. I'm not meaning to be critical, but I can't work out if it's really
her
or if it's just due to the drugs. Can morphine change your personality?'

Megan smiled. ‘No, but what it can do is take away fear. There are certain sorts of people who are unable to be themselves because they're paralysed by worry, or plagued with irrational fears – fears that last a lifetime in some cases. And if those fears are suddenly removed the person may blossom in an unexpected way. Often they find they can say things they were too inhibited to say before. And you could argue that the new person is
more
real than the old one. I suppose another way of putting it is that morphine occasionally frees people to be their true self.'