Whatever it takes, p.26
Whatever It Takes, page 26
Eloise had spent the next three hours regularly pressing redial but Mark had switched off his phone – or perhaps he’d left it in the car as he’d got on the train to London or, perhaps, he’d thrown it away so that she couldn’t reach him. Eloise believed that was the sort of thing Mark might do if he was angry enough. He’d enjoy imagining some other commuter picking up the phone and then listening to her apologetic messages. Eloise began to think that the situation was beyond embarrassing. It was actually a bit terrifying. She repeatedly told herself that Mark would believe her, once they’d had a chance to talk. Wouldn’t he? He knew her. She was his wife, for goodness’ sake.
His face. The sorrow.
Her breath caught in her chest. Eloise realised now that she should’ve told him about the first kiss. She shouldn’t have allowed this situation to gather momentum. It was all her fault. After all, she’d been the one who’d invited Charlie into their home. She hadn’t consulted Mark before she made the offer; she’d relied on his easy-going nature and assumed he wouldn’t mind Charlie crashing at theirs. But who could have guessed that this would happen? After all those years of friendship. She hadn’t seen it coming, she really hadn’t. Eloise had felt ridiculously tired, having spent most of the night staring at the ceiling and the next part grappling with Charlie and chasing Mark (at least emotionally) so inevitably, sleep eventually overwhelmed her. At 9 a.m. she’d been woken up by the girls banging on her bedroom door, demanding to know why it was locked and what she’d planned to entertain them that day.
After breakfast Eloise had taken the girls to Ray and Margaret’s, reasoning that at least there she’d be some practical help to someone. She’d figured she could hide from her own problems by swapping responsibilities with Ray and so she’d suggested that Ray entertain the girls while she took Margaret to the doctor’s. A change was as good as a rest and both she and Ray needed a rest.
The doctor had no good news for them. An official diagnosis of Alzheimer’s doesn’t come with any good news. There were treatments that could slow down the deterioration and help people to cope with it, even understand it, but there was nothing to cure it. Eloise sensed that Margaret’s GP felt out of his depth, especially as Margaret was often uncharacteristically rude to him. He was a sympathetic, well-meaning man who had been subjected to some of Margaret’s most ferocious attacks because she sometimes thought he was an impostor who had (for reasons unspecified but insidious) ‘done away’ with her old doctor. Last week she’d spat on his floor. On other occasions, she’d believed he was his father, the beloved doctor she’d known for years, and on those visits she flirted with Dr Fielding Junior in a most unsubtle manner. She flashed her legs and constantly touched his arm. She’d once suggested that they could go and drink cocktails together. Eloise was unsure which mood the doctor found most tricky to deal with but she hated both because she knew Margaret had never been either a sulk or a flirt and both of these impostor personas were villainous symptoms.
The care available for Alzheimer’s largely depended on where in the country a person happened to be. The Hamiltons had discovered that, depending on where you lived, you might be diagnosed and treated by a consultant geriatrician (a doctor who specialised in conditions that affected older people), or a consultant psychogeriatrician (a doctor specialising in older people’s mental health problems), or a neurologist (a doctor who specialised in conditions that affected the nervous system), or a general psychiatrist. Over the months, Mark and Ray had taken Margaret to all of the above; the result was always the same. Some worn-out, good-hearted professional told them that Margaret had a disease that was degenerative and that there wasn’t a cure.
Today Dr Fielding had some test results back from the consultant psychogeriatrician. The results confirmed that Margaret was a stage-five Alzheimer’s, a ‘moderate or mid-stage’, where there was ‘moderately severe cognitive decline’. The word moderate was thrown around the doctor’s small, neat office; it bounced off the walls like a ball. Eloise looked at the box of tissues on the desk, the posters on the wall that urged people to follow healthy diets and the piles of rubber gloves stacked near the sink; she was searching for an understanding of the word ‘moderate’, especially when it was combined with the word ‘severe’. What did that mean? Experience had shown it meant noticeable gaps in memory and a lessened ability to reason, besides which Margaret was beginning to need help with day-to-day activities. The doctor confirmed that was exactly what ‘moderately severe cognitive decline’ meant.
‘At this stage, those with Alzheimer’s may be unable to recall their own address or telephone number or which school they once went to,’ he said. He held his hands in front of him, fingertips meeting; he put Eloise in mind of a pastor or a politician delivering a sermon or a lecture which, frankly, she didn’t find very reassuring at all.
‘I went to St David’s Primary School,’ chipped in Margaret with a defiance Eloise couldn’t help but admire. Eloise felt a surge of hope that perhaps Margaret wasn’t stage five yet, maybe she was stage four, but hope was shredded when she added, ‘And then I went to The Royal Ballet School, on a scholarship.’
‘She didn’t.’ Eloise flashed an apologetic grimace at the doctor. He shrugged. He understood; it was to be expected. Margaret’s dashed hope to enter The Royal Ballet School was a well-known family story. Eloise reminded her mother-in-law of the facts. ‘You applied there, Margaret, but, sadly, you didn’t get a place so you went to secretarial school instead. Then you met Ray, so it all worked out for the best in the end.’
Eloise squeezed her hand, a gesture which was meant to comfort Eloise as much as Margaret. Eloise wanted to believe it had all worked out for the best. They’d adopted Mark, given him a loving home, they were a happy family. It was all great. Well, at least up until the part where Margaret had got Alzheimer’s. Wasn’t this all anyone ever wanted to believe about loved ones? Everyone clung to the hope that wherever they’d ended up, whatever they’d endured, there was nothing to regret and there was only a sense of fate and it all being OK. Eloise wondered if this was the ultimate hope we all harboured for ourselves? Looking at Margaret now, dazed and disconcerted, believing that it was all for the best was a tough sell.
‘Don’t be so rude,’ Margaret snapped at her daughter-in-law. ‘I did get a place at the ballet school. I was a very good dancer. Very good.’ Eloise sighed, gave up and allowed the doctor to return to his list.
‘A sufferer of Alzheimer’s may become confused about where they are or what day it is or they may have trouble with less challenging mental arithmetic, such as counting backwards from forty by subtracting fours, or even backwards from twenty by twos.’
‘Well, I might struggle with that,’ Eloise joked lamely. Her joke was inappropriate and the doctor’s face clearly told her as much. She began to hate him. She didn’t know why she was beginning to see the doctor as an enemy, he’d never been anything other than polite and professional, but someone had to be hated when such bad news was being delivered.
‘Quite,’ he said civilly, humouring Eloise but simultaneously writing her off as some hairbrained, ditsy, artsy type.
Margaret had always been good with numbers, mental arithmetic was one of her fortes; dancing, playing the piano and baking were the others. Eloise couldn’t bear the idea of testing her maths right now, just in case she’d lost that skill, but she made a mental note not to ask Margaret to help with Emily’s homework any more as Emily’s grades were bad enough as it was. ‘They may need help choosing proper clothing for the season or the occasion.’ The doctor looked up from the list he was reading. ‘Are any of these familiar?’
‘Yes.’ Eloise sighed. ‘Pretty much all of them.’
‘The good news is she is still likely to remember significant details about herself and her family.’ Like Mark being adopted. ‘And at this stage most Alzheimer’s patients still do not require assistance with eating or using the toilet.’
That was the good news.
Margaret and Eloise left the doctor’s feeling bleak and shattered. The moment they were outside the overly centrally heated doctor’s practice, they were whipped by a bitterly cold January wind. Eloise buttoned up Margaret’s coat; it was unnecessary to do so, as Margaret could still manage buttons perfectly well, but Eloise wanted to do something to protect her. Eloise felt her eyes prick. She told herself that the wind must be the cause, or maybe it was the fact that she hadn’t had enough sleep last night, or maybe it was because her husband was under the impression that she was having a fling with his best friend; whatever the reason, fat tears began to slip down her cheeks. She tried to rub them away with the back of her hand before Margaret noticed them but they were relentless.
Margaret rooted in her black leather handbag and produced a grubby handkerchief. She dabbed at Eloise’s face and then fastened her daughter-in-law’s coat. The gesture caused Eloise to weep more.
‘There, there, no need for tears, Eloise. No need.’
And now Eloise knew for certain why she was crying, she was crying for Margaret.
‘You called me Eloise,’ she said, through a sob.
‘Yes, dear. Well, that’s your name. Pretty name, too, I’ve always thought. Shall we go home and have a cup of tea?’
32
Things hadn’t turned out exactly as Sara had planned but ultimately she got the end result she wanted, so she didn’t concern herself too much with the variation on the details. More alcohol was involved than she’d anticipated – he really had needed to get quite drunk before he could do the deed – and there was way more talking than she’d imagined. She hadn’t factored in any talking. He’d insisted on telling her about his own wife’s infidelity. She hadn’t seen that coming. She’d had no idea. He’d never mentioned it before. Not a hint. It was clear that this was his main motivation for being there with her; he wanted to even up the score. Sara didn’t care.
It wasn’t an angry fuck. It wasn’t a passionate union. It was actually quite mechanical. Maybe even a little bit sad. He kept most of his clothes on. She’d gently pushed him back on the bed and started to unfasten his trousers. He hadn’t stopped her. She’d been wearing a flimsy red nightdress. It was short and silky. Not much effort was required before it fell off her shoulders and revealed her breasts but he didn’t seem to notice. Sara was just beginning to wonder whether she’d even get what she needed when something raw took over. Darwin’s theories all dropped into place and the fittest, most ruthless animal was rewarded.
Sara had hoped the spirit might have been a little more playful. She cast her mind back to the years when she and Eloise had shared excited stories about how Eloise’s children had been conceived and Sara had held such great hopes as to how her own might be. She did wonder whether this was a grim start but then she rallied. There wasn’t room for sentiment. How could this be a bad start? It was just perfunctory, like mixing it all up in a glass in a laboratory. Technically, it felt good. It was good sex. Sara thought it was a bit like drinking a long, cold drink on a very hot day, exactly what she needed. She wasn’t looking for a grand love affair. She didn’t need more than this. Despite how it might look on the outside, Sara wanted Charlie. He’d be the daddy. Once she was pregnant they’d get back to the place they used to be. They’d become the people they used to enjoy being.
They would be happy again.
33
Eloise and Margaret returned to the Hamilton Seniors’ warm and cosy home and, despite the fact that the girls had each received about a million new toys over Christmas, they opted to spend the rest of the afternoon playing the old faithful, Monopoly. Eloise had loved Monopoly as a child, providing she’d won, and that was the universal truth of Monopoly; everyone loved it, providing they won, but no one liked it much if they didn’t. Losing at Monopoly seemed so much more personal than losing at, say, Cluedo or Top Trumps or even chess, which was ridiculous because those games required an element of skill and Monopoly was largely luck. Maybe that was the issue; no one liked to think they were unlucky.
The girls played ruthlessly and greedily. They bought up anything they landed on. Ray played fairly and with decorum; he wouldn’t strike deals or create alliances that would sink another player but, then again, nor would he allow people to forgo debts if they owed him, not even Poppy. Margaret had a good afternoon, she followed the game pretty well and rolled a higher proportion of double sixes than would be expected so she seemed to be forever passing Go and collecting two hundred pounds. She had no trouble counting out her moves or remembering which pile was Chance and which was Community Chest. This was enough to sustain Eloise through an afternoon where her husband refused to take her calls. She left four more messages on his voicemail but finally admitted to herself that there were a limited number of ways of saying ‘It wasn’t what you think. Call me, I can explain.’
The light began to fade, so Ray drew the curtains on Dartmouth’s depth and darkness and switched on electric lights to keep everyone cheerful. By four o’clock Margaret owned hotels on Mayfair and Park Lane so no one else had any money left.
‘I guess I’m just very lucky,’ she said as she clapped her hands. Eloise didn’t know if Margaret was aware she sounded stoical or whether she’d temporarily forgotten that she was dying, but Eloise wanted to hug her, hold her so tightly that they were both safe. She resisted, because doing so might have unsettled Margaret and the girls. Instead, she simply beamed back. ‘Now, does anyone fancy tea and crumpets? Perhaps a slice of Victoria sponge?’ added Margaret.
‘I’ll do it, Margaret,’ Ray and Eloise chorused in unison.
‘No, I’ll be fine. The girls can help.’
With only the minimum amount of resistance the girls stood up and followed their grandmother into the kitchen to provide whatever assistance they could manage.
‘Blind leading the blind,’ mumbled Ray, as he sat back in the high-backed chair that was known as his, but despite his grumbling Eloise could tell he was delighted. A peaceful afternoon such as this, without any mishaps or disasters, was to be treasured.
At eight-thirty Eloise and the girls walked home. The house was in darkness, which was a mixed blessing. On the one hand it meant that at least Charlie had cleared off but, on the other, Mark wasn’t home. Eloise hadn’t expected him to be there but she’d hoped he might be. This was so silly. The kiss was nothing. She wanted to explain, apologise and move on.
Spending the afternoon with her family and just her family had been a delight, despite reeling from the consequences of the traumatic row and despite Margaret’s failing health. Eloise began to see what she’d been shutting out since she’d arrived in Dartmouth and maybe for a long time before that. Not intentionally, of course, but quite certainly. She was always dashing around. Looking after Sara and feeding Charlie or trying to make new friends or stay in touch with old ones. Eloise had a reputation for generosity and hospitality in terms of her physical and emotional resources. She was the woman people called if they needed someone to look after their kids, if they’d had a row with their husband and craved a chat or if they were getting married and wanted an opinion on the seating plan. Eloise was always available. But how generous was she with her time in her own home? With her own family? What about their needs? What about hers? For the first time Eloise gave some serious consideration as to why she was often too tired to make love with her husband when she had the energy to clear rubbish from the beach and sew fifteen pairs of angel wings on to costumes for the school nativity play. When did her priorities become so warped? Of course those things were important, certainly, but not as important as simply being with her family. How had she forgotten that? As soon as Mark came home she’d tell him that she was going to re-prioritise. She was going to calm down. She’d settle into Dartmouth by simply settling, rather than rushing.
Eloise bathed Poppy and then Erin and Emily bathed themselves while she read to Poppy. The half finished bathroom haunted her. How could Charlie have been so stupid? The suite was plumbed in but the tiling wasn’t done. Eloise thought she might just tackle that herself, for her family. The girls finally fell to sleep, each resisting because tomorrow would bring school and, however much school was enjoyed, it was never going to be favourably compared to being at home.
Eloise couldn’t sleep. She sat in the kitchen, waiting for her husband to return.
34
‘Well, wasn’t that a lovely day, Margaret?’ Ray called through from the kitchen. ‘It is so nice to spend a bit of time with Eloise and the girls without those ghastly hanger-on friends of theirs. Missed Mark, of course, but a chap has to work.’
Margaret didn’t reply but Ray was becoming used to that. Sometimes they held completely normal conversations that were sequential and even informative. At other times she got the place or person skewed in her head, and sometimes she just remained totally silent. Ray could never work out if in those cases her silence was a result of the fact that she was processing the day or because she simply didn’t have a clue what was going on and had decided that the best way to disguise this fact was just remaining mute.
Occasionally, she was silent simply because she’d fallen asleep in the chair.
Ray popped his head back around the sitting-room door. Margaret was awake. She was sitting side-on to him but he could see she had her eyes wide open and was staring at the TV. She was watching some awful soap opera. She’d never had any interest in soaps until about two years ago, when she’d suddenly developed an obsessive interest in all of them: Coronation Street, EastEnders, Hollyoaks, Emmerdale. Ray didn’t know whether to sigh or chuckle when later he identified the fact that soap watching was one of Margaret’s first symptoms of dementia. What did that say about modern TV? It seemed to him that she took some sort of comfort in the characters’ lives, perhaps because they were even more traumatic and haphazard than her own or perhaps, simply, because they were consistently beamed into her sitting room on a regular basis and she was able to keep track in a way that had started to elude her in reality.
