One good thing, p.4
One Good Thing, page 4
‘It’s for our local dog-rescue shelter.’
And now I feel guilty. I pause to dig in my pockets. Finding nothing, I look in my purse.
‘Do you have a dog?’
‘Um . . . no.’
Damn. I’ve only got a twenty.
‘Have you ever thought of getting one?’
‘No, not really.’ I shake my head, ‘I’m not really a dog person.’
‘I don’t believe that.’ She grins, wrinkling up her nose.
I feel conflicted. I’d like to make a donation – it’s for a good cause and she seems like a good kid, standing out here on a weekend in the cold – but I can’t really afford to give twenty pounds.
‘Well, if you ever change your mind, we’ve got lots of lovely dogs looking for a loving home.’
She offers me a leaflet. On it are printed various photographs of dogs, their sad faces looking at me beseechingly.
‘Here.’ I pull the twenty out of my purse.
‘Oh, wow!’ Her face lights up, before doubt appears and she frowns. ‘Sorry . . . I don’t have any change – it’s all in the collecting box.’
‘I don’t want any.’
‘That’s sick! No way,’ she exclaims, and then claps her frozen fingers to her mouth. ‘I mean, for real? Wow, thanks so much!’
‘Well, it’s for charity,’ I smile.
I begin moving off with my trolley before I can regret my generosity. It’s starting to sleet and I pull up my hood as I head across the car park.
‘Hey!’
A voice calls after me and I turn to see the girl with the pink hair and collection box waving at me.
‘See, I was right. You’re definitely a dog person!’
Valentine
By ’eck, he was jiggered.
Halfway up the hill he had to stop to catch his breath. Whoever said age was just a number must never have been seventy-nine. Putting out his hand, he leaned against a stone wall, feeling his chest rising and falling. It was quite a walk from the bus stop up the hill, and it seemed to get steeper every day. He couldn’t get enough air in his lungs. It’s like they’d shrunk, somehow. His legs weren’t what they used to be, either. In fact he might have to sit down for a minute.
Valentine eased himself onto the wall, lifting each buttock to free his overcoat and pulling at his hem to straighten it. It seemed like only yesterday that he used to cycle up streets as steep as these, doing his paper-round. He used to fly up them, the wind in his coat tails. Now they loomed ahead of him like bloody Mount Everest.
He banged his chest with the end of his fist. Shouldn’t have smoked all those years. Silly bugger, he was. Thinking he was the bee’s knees. Still, everyone did in those days. Even Gisele.
After a few minutes’ rest he resumed his walk up the hill. The wind had dropped a bit and soon the familiar red-brick building came into view. Clifton Court Residential Care Home. He still couldn’t get his head around it. He’d been making this daily pilgrimage for the past six months, yet each time felt like the first time. His sense of loss was still acute and, drawing closer, he felt a familiar wave of grief and disbelief. How had it come to this?
Walking down the paved path towards the entrance, he trailed his hand lightly along the metal handrail. Valentine looked at the thin gold band on his wedding finger. ‘Till Death Do Us Part.’ Isn’t that what the vicar had said? And yet here they were, fifty-nine years later. Death hadn’t parted them. Something else had. Something that was, in many ways, much worse.
Reaching the entrance, he pushed open the doors and walked into the brightly lit reception. There were several plastic potted plants and some bland prints on the walls. Both these things vexed him. At least they could have got real plants and some nice pictures. It was little things like that that were important. Maybe they thought the residents wouldn’t notice.
But Gisele noticed. It was one of the first things she commented upon when she arrived. A memory of her stooping down to stroke the feathery leaves of a fern between her fingers, and her expression when she realized it wasn’t real, still pained him. Gisele always loved plants and flowers. ‘Green fingers’, that’s what he used to call her. She could grow anything on their little front patio. Windowboxes of pillar-box red geraniums and multicoloured swirls of trailing petunias, pots filled with clambering clematis, spectacular dahlias and lacecap hydrangeas.
Now all the windowboxes and pots were empty.
‘Hello, Mr Crowther.’
As usual, he was greeted by the receptionist, who sat perched behind the large desk like a big colourful parrot. She smiled widely. She was wearing that funny frosted lipstick she always wore. Even without his glasses, he could see that she’d got a bit on her front teeth. Valentine found her cheerfulness annoying. What was there to be cheerful about?
‘Morning,’ he replied gruffly, removing his flat cap.
‘How are you today?’ she continued brightly.
Angry. He was so angry at the bloody unfairness of it all. Sometimes he didn’t know what to do with all the anger.
‘All right,’ he shrugged.
Still, it wasn’t the receptionist’s fault. It was nobody’s fault. The staff at the nursing home weren’t to blame. They were always so nice to him. So kind to Gisele. Some of these places were awful, you read about them in the newspapers – all sorts going on, terrible things – but he couldn’t ask for a more wonderful home. They’d been lucky, if you could call it that.
‘And it’s “Valentine” – how many times have I told you?’
And now he felt remorseful. Silly old bugger, taking it out on other people; he needed to watch his temper. What would Gisele say?
‘I know, sorry, but those upstairs told us we’ve got to greet the guests by their proper names.’
‘Well, tell them upstairs that is my proper name.’
The receptionist made a face and nodded. She reminded him of his daughter, Helen, when she was younger. She used to pull that face too.
‘I’ve come to see our lass. How is she?’
‘She’s just had her breakfast. You’ll be pleased to know she managed two boiled eggs and a slice of toast. She made soldiers with it apparently.’
Valentine felt a lump in his throat as he remembered his wife making soldiers for their daughter when she was little. She would call them mouillettes – Gisele often spoke to their daughter in her native French – as she dipped them in the runny yolk and marched them into their daughter’s mouth, to the sounds of childish laughter and demands of ‘More mouillette, Mummy!’
‘Aye, she always made the best soldiers.’ He nodded, clearing his throat. He mustn’t be sad. He mustn’t ever let Gisele see him looking sad.
The receptionist beamed. ‘She’s in the recreational room watching TV. Go on through.’
The recreational room was accessed through the double fire doors and was at the end of the corridor. Part conservatory, it was a pleasant enough room, with large windows, which let in a lot of daylight and gave a view of the gardens. Even on a dull February day like today you were able to see both the sky and the grass; heaven and earth – what more could you ask for?
Valentine removed his overcoat and scarf. It was always so hot and stuffy in here. When Gisele had first moved in, he’d asked if they could open a window, let in some fresh air, but he’d been told they kept the windows closed and turned the thermostat up high to keep the residents warm. More like keep them half asleep, he’d grumbled.
He never wanted this for Gisele. They used to talk about it, before she got poorly. ‘Never put me in one of those,’ she’d say with a shudder, whenever a report about care homes came on the news. They’d watch footage of rooms full of old people nodding off in their armchairs, heads flopped backwards, mouths wide open, and both look at each other with horror.
‘Just give me a cyanide pill and finish me off,’ he’d say. To which she’d laugh, that tinkly, high-pitched laugh of hers, and say with her thick accent that had never lessened over the years, ‘Oh, Valentine, you’ve watched too many of your war films. Now where am I going to buy cyanide, eh? At the Co-op?’
He spotted her immediately. She was sitting in an armchair by the window, staring out into the garden, her hands clasped in her lap. From a distance she looked the same as always. He could almost kid himself he’d come to pick her up and take her back home. That the doctors had got it wrong, and she was well again. When she caught sight of him, she’d tut sharply and click her tongue and tell him off for leaving her.
‘Hello, love.’
Walking over to Gisele, he smiled and went to sit beside her. It was still the hardest thing not to lean over instinctively and give her a kiss on the cheek. He’d done it his whole life, ever since their first date all those years ago, but then several months ago he’d gone to kiss her as usual and she’d recoiled and become distressed. The doctor at the care home said not to get upset, or take it as a personal rejection. That it was common for patients to become unsettled or agitated when relatives tried to kiss them.
‘It would be like a stranger coming up to you and giving you a kiss,’ Dr Khan had explained.
‘But I’m not a stranger, I’m her husband,’ Valentine had protested.
‘But she doesn’t always remember,’ she’d replied gently.
Gisele turned to him now, her bright-blue eyes running over his face. The carers had dressed her in one of her favourite cerise sweaters and applied her make-up, just as she liked it, but up close, it was as if the light had gone out of her face.
‘It’s Valentine. Your Valentine,’ he prompted.
She smiled, but he wasn’t sure if it was out politeness rather than recognition.
‘Is it Valentine’s Day?’
‘Not yet, love,’ he shook his head, ‘but every day is Valentine’s Day when you’re married to me – isn’t that what you used to say?’ he joked feebly, searching her face for a flicker of memory.
It had started innocently enough; he thought she was being forgetful, getting confused. ‘Well, aren’t we all? It’s called old age,’ he’d soothe, when she couldn’t recall where she’d put her glasses or got lost on the way back from town. Except it wasn’t. When they got the official diagnosis of Alzheimer’s, he put his arm around his weeping wife in the doctor’s surgery and told her not to worry. She’d looked after him for years, so now it was his turn.
At first they’d managed just fine. They even went on holiday to the South of France, driving in their camper van like they’d done every year. But as the disease continued its grim march through his beloved wife’s brain, it was like having to stand aside and watch helplessly as thieves broke into your home and stole the things that are most precious to you. It robbed Gisele of her quick-witted sense of humour, her uncanny ability to recall any date or recipe, and her joy of gardening. Instead her behaviour became more erratic: getting out of bed in the middle of the night and putting on her coat to go to the supermarket, becoming angry and impatient, when all her life she’d been so calm and kind.
Worst of all was watching her sobbing uncontrollably in the fleeting moments of lucidity when she realized what was happening to her. Trying to comfort her and failing. He managed for as a long as he could, but even with the help of carers, in the end it got too much.
‘Acqua di Parma.’
‘Sorry, love?’
‘Your cologne,’ she said, leaning forward to smell him. ‘I bought you that cologne one Christmas.’
‘Yes . . . yes, you did, love.’
It was like getting his wife back again for a few brief, wonderful moments and Valentine felt his heart soar as he reached for her hand. Just like he did all those years ago when he first asked her to dance at the Palais. Her teenage skin was firm and smooth then; now it was tracing-paper thin, but it was still the same hand that had held his as they jived around the dance floor.
‘Is Helen coming?’
Gisele was looking over his shoulder, her expression hopeful, as if at any minute she might see her daughter walking through the door.
‘No, she’s gone to stay with your sister Agnès, in Paris.’
Disappointment flashed across her face and she said something in French that Valentine couldn’t understand. She spoke French more and more these days. One time he visited, she refused to speak any English and he had to try get by with what little French he knew.
‘Are we in Paris?’ she said finally in English.
‘No, Helen is.’
Gisele seemed agitated now, as if trying to process this information, and then said, ‘Can we go home now?’
‘Maybe tomorrow,’ he soothed, stroking her hand with his thumb. He hated lying to her, but he’d learned it was the kindest thing. She asked this every time he came to visit her, and at first he tried to be truthful and explain that she was living here now, but she would grow too upset.
So now he lied. He lied to his own wife.
‘I’ve got you a gift.’ Hoping to distract her, he reached into his shopping bag and pulled out a potted hyacinth that he’d bought on his way here. The DIY shop at the local retail park had a large gardening section and it was right where the bus dropped him off, at the bottom of the hill. ‘They’re your favourite.’
‘Jacinthe.’ Gisele’s eyes lit up.
‘Aye,’ he nodded now, smiling. ‘I know how much you love the smell.’
He held it for her as she dipped her nose into the purple flowers and took a deep inhale. Its effect was magical. Closing her eyes, she appeared instantly calmed as she drew in its fragrance.
‘I had them as my wedding posy.’ She spoke in hushed tones, as if the memory was being coaxed from her mind and to speak any louder might scare it away. ‘Jacinthes pourpres . . . deep-purple ones, tied with an ivory ribbon. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.’
‘You certainly were.’ Valentine smiled and nodded, enraptured by his wife. These few precious moments when she remembered were becoming more and more rare. ‘Most beautiful bride I’d ever seen.’
She frowned then and, opening her eyes, turned to face him.
‘Do I know you?’
He fought back tears.
‘Yes, it’s Valentine, love, your husband.’
He should be used to it by now. She didn’t know what she was saying. She didn’t mean it. And yet, every time, it broke his heart a little bit more.
Gisele looked at him, her expression blank. Nothing. A whole lifetime together and there was nothing there.
He sniffed sharply. ‘Well, let’s see if we can put it in your room, eh?’ He eased himself up from the armchair. No point sitting here feeling sorry for himself. That wasn’t going to help anyone. ‘I’ll go and ask the nurse if we can put it on your bedside table. Then, when you go to bed, it’ll remind you of your wedding day.’
He smiled cheerfully, but she’d already turned away from him and was gazing out of the window, her hands twisting agitatedly in her lap. She had retreated into a world that he couldn’t reach. Holding the hyacinth in his hands, Valentine watched her helplessly.
‘Right, well, bye then, love. I’ll come see you tomorrow, as usual.’
It was only when he walked away that Valentine finally allowed the tears to fall. Sixty years married this summer, and he couldn’t even kiss his wife goodbye.
Online Dating
Turning on the tap, I hold the paintbrush underneath it to clean the bristles, separating them with my fingers as the water sends swirling silvery ribbons of emulsion down the plughole of the old metal sink.
It’s Sunday night. I’ve spent the whole weekend painting the front bedroom. In London we always got the decorators in. Tomasz and Basek, a local two-man team who drank gallons of sugary tea and listened to really loud, thumping house music.
Thing is, Tomasz and Basek made it look really easy, but it’s not easy at all. Before I could even start painting, I had to do all the prepping and sanding and filling in of cracks. Of which, in a three-hundred-year-old cottage, there seems to be an alarming amount. I had a survey done when I bought it, but I chose the basic one to try and save a bit of money.
‘If it’s been standing all these years, it’s not going to fall down now,’ reasoned the estate agent cheerfully.
Which will teach me to listen to estate agents.
Dumping the paintbrushes in the sink, I turn off the tap, then notice the open bottle of red wine on the side. Pouring myself a large glass, I go to put the bottle back, then change my mind and take it with me into the living room, along with a bar of my favourite dark chocolate. People talk about the Divorce Diet, but after the initial shock of discovering David’s affair had worn off, I gained weight. It’s all the comfort-eating I’ve been doing. Though, frankly, I don’t know why they call it comfort-eating; all my clothes are now so uncomfortable.
Unbuttoning my jeans, I flop on the sofa. I’ve bought several of those oil-heaters you can plug in, but it’s still chilly. The cottage has a centuries-old inglenook fireplace, but it takes forever to make a fire in the grate, twisting strips of newspaper and carefully stacking kindling and logs. It seems silly to go to all that effort when it’s just me. Grabbing a blanket, I pull it over my legs to keep warm and take a large sip of wine.
It feels strange to be lying on the sofa drinking Malbec on a Sunday night. Usually I’d be getting ready for Monday morning and the week ahead. The TV screen flickers animatedly in the corner, like a chatty friend who never draws breath. I’m not watching it; I have it on in the background for company. When I was married I would often find myself wishing for a bit of peace and quiet – some time alone that didn’t involve marking homework or doing laundry, or being asked ‘What’s for dinner?’ the moment I walked through the door.
Now no one greets me. When I close the front door there’s no one to talk to or share things with – be it a pizza or the sofa, or discussing the crap day you’ve had at work. It’s true what they say: be careful what you wish for. Feeling my thoughts darken, I reach for my bag, pulling out its contents to find my phone. The engineers finally showed up to install my Internet, so now at last I have Wi-Fi; it will be good to hear a friendly voice. I scroll through my WhatsApp contacts and pause at Josie’s number. I hesitate, then dial Naomi instead.
