Walled Garden Page 2

  James was nodding, looking at her over the tops of his glasses.

  ‘Yes. I want to be here. They don’t think she’ll hang on too long.’

  Beth felt herself gaze stupidly at her brother. There was nothing to say. She knew she should feel shocked, sad, anything. But there was nothing there. The earlier feeling she had had in the car, of being suspended, beyond reality, had not gone away. It was as though all her emotions had been hung up somewhere and were waiting quietly, like clothes hanging limply in a wardrobe, until Beth came back to fit them around her again.

  ‘I almost had an accident on the way from the airport, you know,’ she confided suddenly.

  She hadn’t meant to blurt this out to James, but she felt a need to make up to him for her lack of connectedness, her inability to feel grateful to him for the awful few days he had just been through.

  He was immediately concerned, as she had known he would be.

  ‘I knew something was wrong with you. What happened?’

  Beth told him, feeling her chin begin to throb.

  ‘It was a really stupid thing to do . . . I was lucky he didn’t come ploughing right into me.’

  ‘You’re upset, that’s why you got so distracted. Do you need anything for your chin? I think there’s some painkillers down in the kitchen.’

  Beth shook her head.

  ‘No, I’ll be okay. What really worries me is that he threatened to report me. I saw him take down my number and . . . God, that’s the last thing I need.’

  James took her glass.

  ‘Here, let me get you another one. Don’t worry about that, Sis – there’s no way he’ll do that. He won’t want to get tied up in paperwork over something that didn’t happen. Trust me.’

  Beth was about to respond when there was a soft tap on the sitting-room door. They both looked around. A young woman entered almost at once.

  ‘She’s comfortable now, Mr Keating. I think she’ll sleep through the night.’

  James stood up straighter as the woman was speaking. He gestured towards Beth.

  ‘This is my sister, Beth. Beth, this is June, our ministering angel.’

  The nurse smiled at him. Then she turned to Beth and shook hands.

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  Still holding on to Beth’s hand, she looked pointedly at James.

  ‘I hope this means you’ll be getting some sleep, Mr Keating.’

  Beth felt instantly guilty. She drew her hand back at once. The nurse looked right at her.

  ‘He needs a bit of looking after. I don’t think he’s slept since last Sunday.’

  Her tone was cool, her handshake had been unemphatic. James had always had the ability to inspire fierce loyalty. Beth now had the long-familiar sensation of falling short of everyone’s expectations. She felt suddenly, thoroughly, depressed.

  He was leading June towards the door now, his hand under her elbow.

  ‘Thanks again, June. We’ll see you tomorrow. We’ll call Dr Crowley if there’s any change.’

  ‘Good night,’ called Beth.

  ‘ ’Night.’

  Beth heard the scrunch of her feet on gravel, saw her fling a scarf around her neck as she went, head bent low against the wind and rain. She watched at the window until the young woman was out of sight, battling her way towards the bus stop.

  When she turned around, James was watching her. She hadn’t heard him come back into the room.

  ‘I chose to sit with her in the hospital, Beth. I’d have done it every night, even if you’d been here, right from the very start.’

  Beth nodded; it was suddenly necessary to bite down hard on her lower lip. She smiled at her brother.

  ‘I know you would. Now that I’m here, at least we can keep each other company.’

  He held out his hand to her.

  ‘Do you want to go up and see her now?’

  She hesitated. James immediately gestured towards her chair instead, as though he had just had a much better idea.

  ‘Tell you what, let’s finish our drinks first. Then we’ll go up together, okay?’

  They sat quietly in the firelight. Beth knew she was on the edge of something momentous. It existed separately from her sense of gratitude and her brother’s kindness; it was something else, something that hung heavily in the air between them. She waited, sipping, hoping for courage to fill her.

  *

  The bedroom was in darkness, filled by an intense, dry heat. There was a peculiar smell in the air that Beth instantly recognized but could not name, and a depth of stillness which she had never known before. James lit a new night-light on his mother’s dressing table. Together, they turned to face the bed.

  Beth’s first reaction was a start of surprise. This was not her mother! Had there been some grotesque mistake? Where was the cloud of robust energy, the unmistakable air of authority and capability? Although Beth had thought she’d understood the implications of her mother’s sudden, massive stroke, she had not expected to find her so thoroughly absent from herself.

  James was caressing the soft hair back from her forehead, murmuring to her. Beth was horrified. She saw that one corner of the half-open mouth was curving sharply downward, that the whole left-hand side of her face seemed to have collapsed, defeated by years and gravity. Abruptly, she moved away from the bedside and left the room. At the top of the stairs, she paused, holding on to the banisters.

  Steady yourself.

  James followed her out onto the landing almost at once. Anxiety was everywhere, clouding all around him.

  ‘Sis? Are you all right? She’s not in any pain, you know.’

  Beth nodded, trying to swallow. Her throat and chest felt obstructed somehow, she had difficulty breathing deeply. How did he do it, night after night? How come he was able to face it, and she wasn’t?

  ‘Sorry. It’s just the shock – seeing her so unlike her old self. It’s okay. I’ll be fine.’

  From a point somewhere beyond feeling, Beth forced herself to make the return journey back towards her side of the bed. She understood that James, from a position of long standing, occupied his mother’s right side, the side towards which her head turned automatically. That had always been his privilege. Had she opened her eyes, his gaze would have illuminated everything for her. Light of my life.

  Beth had always understood her place.

  She sat now on the little armchair by the window which James had thoughtfully provided for her. It had been hers since early childhood, a permanent resident in her old room. The bo-bo-dee. Her childish efforts to name this chair had christened it for ever. No one in the family ever knew it as anything else but the bo-bo-dee. The bedside seat; the seat her mother had occupied during so many bedside vigils in the past. Nights of steaming basins of water, warm towels and Friar’s Balsam. Times when she, Beth, had been sick with croup, bronchitis, asthma. Now its newly upholstered seat spoke to Beth of those times. She would rather have not remembered. They carried a debt which she didn’t know if she was able to repay.

  ‘She’s very peaceful, Sis, isn’t she?’

  There was a note of pleading in James’s voice which Beth hadn’t ever heard before. It shocked her. Surely he wasn’t looking to her for reassurance? He was way older – a full five years, just recently past his half-century. He had to have all of this under wraps; he was in charge. If he weren’t, then where did that leave her?

  Beth reached out tentatively and took her mother’s left hand in hers. It was surprisingly warm in her grasp. The skin was papery, almost translucent, with blue veins prominent. The thin gold wedding band sat loosely on her ring finger, held in place only by the protruding, shiny knuckle. Beth felt her breath begin to ease somewhere at the back of her throat as she stroked the old, freckled skin. The warm hand resting in hers felt real and solid, a weight that would be reckoned with. Beth was glad; there was no slipping away here. This was still a woman of substance.

  Her own fears began to dissolve as she held on to her mother’s hand, cov
ering it with her own, protectively. Some of that old, familiar strength seemed to seep through the fingertips into Beth’s, so that she felt suddenly hopeful, more grounded, as she relaxed into her chair. It was as though a long period of waiting had finally come to an end. This was not going to be as bad as she’d feared. She answered James quietly.

  ‘Yes, she looks as though she’s just . . . resting.’

  Beth would have continued, but the doorbell startled them both. Its shrill unexpectedness made each of them look questioningly at the other.

  ‘That’ll be Olive,’ James offered, finally.

  Ah, Olive.

  ‘You go down, James. I’ll stay with her.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Beth’s heart was no longer racing. It was peaceful here, nothing else was expected of her but her presence.

  ‘Absolutely. Take your time.’

  James noticed the way his mother’s hand lay quietly in Beth’s. He left the room quickly, satisfied.

  Beth leaned towards her mother.

  ‘Tell you what, Mam,’ she whispered, ‘I’d much prefer to sit here with you all night than have ten minutes of the lovely Olive.’

  It pleased Beth to see her mother’s fixed grimace as a sardonic smile. No love lost there.

  She could hear voices downstairs. She hoped Olive had come on her own, that she wouldn’t have to face any nieces and nephews just yet. Somewhere, a door closed, too loudly. Beth could feel her mouth going dry. Please, God, not a scene. Not now, not tonight.

  Quick, urgent, footsteps up the stairs. She braced herself.

  Olive’s head and shoulders appeared abruptly around the bedroom door. Beth was shocked at the sudden, discordant notes which seemed to swell from her in waves, disturbing the air all around the room. For an instant, the absurd blackness of Olive’s hair and her heavily painted face made Beth think of Hallowe’en. Olive held on to the edge of the door with both hands, her red fingernails standing out sharply against the white paint. Finally, she motioned towards Beth with her head, barely meeting her eyes.

  ‘Can I talk to you for a minute?’

  Her whisper was urgent, almost aggressive.

  Beth sighed inwardly. She laid her mother’s hand gently on the bedspread. She was surprised at how offended she felt by Olive’s intrusion; she had to make a promise to herself not to lose her temper.

  Olive was standing on the landing, her arms folded. Beth noticed how dressed-up she was, her skirt and jacket much more in keeping with the cut and thrust of the boardroom than the sick room. She tried to manage a smile, conscious of James beginning his slow, heavy ascent up the stairs. Olive began speaking, almost at once.

  ‘You can manage Alice on your own for one evening, can’t you? After all, James has been cooped up in the hospital non-stop for almost a week.’

  Her voice was full of sharp edges. Her movements, too, were uneasy. She was smoothing her hair, straightening her skirt, her hands restless; she did not look directly at Beth.

  ‘Hello, Olive,’ said Beth quietly. ‘You’re looking well.’

  Her own response startled her. It was as though she were suddenly floating in a bubble of lightness and brightness. It took no effort to glide over the solid wall of Olive’s resentment. Up, up and over; down the other side.

  James was almost at her shoulder.

  ‘Of course I’ll stay on my own tonight,’ she said. ‘I’m very conscious that James has had to do everything all week; on his own.’

  She was still able to keep her voice soft. She allowed no trace of the earlier shock of fear she’d felt at the thought of having to do this alone, so soon. Olive looked right at her, reacting to the sting in the tail. On his own.

  He’s been on his own for twenty-five years, ever since he married you.

  Beth turned to James, now beside her on the landing.

  ‘Why don’t you and Olive go out for the rest of the evening? I’m quite happy to stay here. Just show me where Dr Crowley’s number is and you head off. I’ll be fine,’ said Beth, emphatically, watching her brother’s frown deepen. He knew, of course he did. Now he would try to protect her.

  ‘But you’ve only just arrived,’ objected James. ‘You haven’t even had anything to eat yet.’

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ she said, keeping her voice steady. The palms of her hands felt all warm and prickly. ‘I can always get something later on. Go.’

  And she gave him a gentle shove.

  Olive’s arms were folded again. Beth noticed, irrelevantly, that her sister-in-law’s earrings actually matched the intricate gold buttons of her cuffs. She thought, suddenly, how nice it would be to slap her face.

  ‘How are Keith and Gemma?’ she asked instead.

  ‘Fine, thank you,’ replied Olive, keeping her eyes on her husband, hurrying him.

  ‘Good,’ said Beth politely. ‘I hope I’ll see them soon. The twins still taking New York by storm?’

  There was no answer. Olive wanted to be gone. She was already making her way downstairs. James turned back to his sister, his eyes troubled.

  Beth shook her head at him.

  ‘Go on; I’ll still be here when you get back.’

  She kissed the top of his head. He followed his wife, without a word.

  Beth waited until the front door closed behind them. Then she went back into the bedroom, back to her side of the bed, back to her little seat.

  ‘You’d have been proud of me just there, Mam,’ she said. ‘The lovely Olive didn’t win that one, and I didn’t lose the rag.’

  There was no reply; of course there wouldn’t be. Nevertheless, Beth had the strange feeling that she was on the brink of something that approached conversation. Her mother had rarely stayed silent before. Their words had, more often than not, collided in mid-air, becoming missiles hurled at one another. Beth had never felt that she had been really listened to. Her mother had always insisted it was because she spoke no sense.

  The silence in this room was almost like being heard for the first time. Each of them now had to play a different role from the usual. Her mother was unspeaking, but it was not the angry silence that was the prelude, or the sequel, to a row. Beth was neither defensive nor belligerent; she knew that this time her words would have the shape and sense that she intended. They would not become warped and loaded as they negotiated the gap between her intention and her mother’s understanding.

  Listening to the uneven breathing of the frail, elderly woman beside her, Beth hoped it wasn’t already too late for her to feel beyond the years of sharp exchanges, the slow foxtrot of anger and disappointment that had kept each of them at arm’s length from the other, dancing to the same old tunes.

  ‘I think you and I are going to get on just fine,’ she said softly, straightening the already immaculate sheet.

  ‘It’s nice to be home.’

  *

  It was a new feeling for Beth to be sitting still, to be doing nothing. For two hours, she had sat almost unmoving, watching every breath taken, every rise and fall of the thin, flat chest. She had not noticed the time passing; she was intent on her vigil. The woman in the bed did not yet look like her mother, although from time to time, Beth thought she saw in the ravaged face something which inspired recognition. The pink bed-jacket with its delicate ribbons and lacy edging drew her gaze back, again and again. She thought how absurd it was to be so moved by something as ordinary, as prosaic as a knitted pink bed-jacket.

  The collapse of feeling that had followed James’s phone call, the creeping sense of life being hung up somewhere, far out of her reach, now began to recede. Something akin to pain began to seep into all the cold spaces inside her chest. Being watchful, being attentive to this someone else, Beth could feel the lifting of the heavy curtain between her and the reality around her. In the absolute stillness of the sick room, yellow light guttering, sensation flooded back so suddenly, so ferociously that her heart began to speed up. She was afraid to move, to stand, didn’t want to disturb it. It was a tremendou
s relief to hear the front door close, and James’s heavy step on the landing.

  ‘Everything okay?’ he asked.

  She nodded, suddenly choked by the unbearable tenderness with which he stroked his mother’s face. For the first time, the long overdue tears began to well and fall, and Beth made no attempt to wipe them away. Their warmth was comforting. It was almost like melting. James looked at her anxiously. She had never been a weeper.

  ‘I knew I shouldn’t have left you alone. It was much too soon.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘No. No, it was just right. I haven’t been able to cry since I heard the news. This is a relief.’

  She half-laughed at him, resorting to wiping her eyes on her sleeve. There was no effort to this grieving, no sobbing. The tears were simply releasing themselves; they demanded nothing from her.

  James handed her some tissues from the box on the bedside locker.

  ‘Here,’ and he grinned at her. ‘Bet you haven’t used your sleeve since you were a kid. You used to be a snotty little urchin.’

  ‘I know. Some things never change.’

  She blew her nose, loudly. He was looking at her kindly.

  ‘Why don’t you go downstairs and make us both a cup of tea. There’s plenty of food in the fridge; get yourself something to eat. Go on,’ he urged.

  Beth’s stomach felt empty, but it was not the cave-like hollowness of hunger. It was something else, something she didn’t yet recognize, couldn’t put a name to.

  She patted her mother’s hand before she stood up. It was a reassuring touch; it said, don’t worry, I’ll be back in a minute. It would be wrong to withdraw her comfort abruptly, just to stand up and go. How much, she wondered, did anybody really know about what dying people felt? Maybe, like a blind person whose other senses become more acute to compensate for the loss of sight, the dying develop a kind of third eye, alert and watchful in the middle of their forehead, seeing and understanding things hidden from the rest of us. It gave Beth comfort to think like that; it went a little way towards explaining the growing sense of closeness between her and the small figure in the pink bed-jacket. Perhaps, if she believed in this other way of seeing, this frail old woman beside her might just become her mother again, in time.