Caring for cathy, p.13
Caring for Cathy, page 13
“Too many wars did you say?”
“Batty,” Rose said, “Cathy loves church.”
The leading minibus was already loaded and locked and the engine had been started. A cloud of pungent exhaust smoke drifted back over them, as Ian raised a hand in resignation and looked at his watch.
“OK, take her back inside the Hall again, and get the bus moving.”
23
“And then there were the occasions I tried to get away from the mad-house just for a few days, David. I say tried because you can’t get away, wherever you go.
“Anita and I used to go away for occasional weekends, but I had one task I had to perform each day, a phone call to Cathy. She was at home, surrounded by carers. I dreaded these calls, because I never knew what to expect. Increasingly, they were fraught with tension, and sometimes, abuse. I felt, and Anita agreed, that the contact had to be made. How could I forgive myself if an accident happened, and I was out of touch, with everybody trying to find me? And so, whenever I was away from Franklin Street, I made my daily call faithfully, although there were times when I vowed I had made my last.
“The calls were too intimate to be made from a telephone box on the street – you know, traffic roaring past, brakes squealing, people shouting – and in those times I didn’t have a mobile that worked from abroad. Usually, the calls were made from my hotel room. Inevitably, Anita wasn’t far away, often in the bathroom.
“I can remember once, when Anita and I were skiing in the Dolomites, I put in a call to Franklin Street, and Mildred, who was in charge, picked up the phone.
‘How is she, Mildred?’
‘She’s very upset, Mr Marsden. She’s out of cigarettes.’
‘But that’s impossible. I left several packets.’
‘She says she’s run out.’
Before I could tell Mildred where the spare cigarettes were, Cathy grabbed the phone. I could hear her choking breath before she spoke.
‘You left me without any cigarettes!’ she howled.
‘Don’t be silly, I left at least six packets downstairs in the usual place.’
“Another hysterical yell, ‘And there’s no money here! I can’t buy any!’
‘You don’t need to, Mildred will…’
“She yelled, ‘Why aren’t you here? Why aren’t you looking after me?’
“Afterwards, Anita came out of the bathroom of our hotel, into the bedroom, saying, ‘I could hear her screaming from in there.’
“I finally sorted it out with Mildred’s help. There were cartons of cigarettes in reserve, and Mildred found them. But can you imagine the effect of a telephone call like that, David? Were we being very wicked, dining in the mountains, with the moonlit peaks in view from our snug dining room, the gentle backgound music, the candles on the tables, the shining cutlery and crystal? Wicked or not, I can tell you, Cathy’s screams rang in our ears for the whole evening.
“That wasn’t an isolated case. I was in Oslo with Anita, and Cathy broke her glasses. That was a terribly hysterical session. I should never have called home. I always swore I wouldn’t, but then I always did.
“After years of this, and the chaos at home, both Cathy and I were at the absolute end of our endurance. The scenes of rage and frustration, mine as well as hers, were beginning to degenerate into physical violence. She would think nothing of lashing out at me, and I gave her a shaking at times. It was the edge of the precipice, the edge of madness for me. For a few crazy seconds, at times, I felt like killing her. And I had the ever-present darkness in my heart that I was in a prison from which there was no escape.”
As Desmond, David and Cathy walked the cliffs, Desmond talked in his modulated tones, sometimes waving his arms hopelessly. David couldn’t help seeing, quite graphically, the four-eyed four-armed, four-legged creature that Cathy had described, the Cathy-Desmond couple, now with half its legs and arms failed, or failing, and half its brain rotten, writhing in an internecine war with itself.
Now that David had been able to consider everything that Cathy had told him, he felt sympathy for Anita Temple, but the problem was intractable. Poppy wanted to see Cathy, and at the same time, Poppy could also have a comfortable life at Eccleston Street. Therefore, if nothing was done, Poppy was likely to break bounds, and upset Anita. This would cause trouble at Denby Hall.
The new element that David had thought of in his proposition to Anita, was a promise by Helmut that Poppy would be returned to Anita scrupulously within agreed times. Anita might not believe David, but he was sure she would believe Helmut. David hadn’t spoken to Helmut about the idea yet, but he was sure Helmut would agree. He hadn’t worked out the precise way that Helmut’s promise would be delivered to Anita, but that could wait until Anita accepted the idea in principle.
It was with this solution in mind, that David hobbled to Eccleston Street again, determined to brave Anita’s wrath, and persist until he had made his point. He was not looking forward to the encounter. The prospect of the meeting had hung over him depressingly since he had conceived it a few days previously. David did not pause for further thought when he arrived at number 73, but hauled himself up the steps, and pressed the buzzer.
The door was opened this time, after a long pause, by an elderly man in a canary waistcoat and carpet slippers, with a wide, florid face. He moved slowly, and looked David up and down benevolently.
“I’ve come to see Mrs Temple.”
“She’s out at the moment. Back soon.”
“About the dog.”
“Oh, well. Come in,” the man said, taking this as an assurance of serious business.
David followed the man into the reception room off the hall. It was decorated with voluminous drapes at the tall windows, Persian rugs on the polished floor, and a giant gilt antique mirror over the mantelpiece, with a slightly distorted reflection.
“Can I help in the meantime?” the man asked.
“I’ve come to ask Mrs Temple … to let Cathy see Poppy … you call her Justina … Helmut would promise to return her …” David dried up.
“Please sit down, Mr …”
“David …from Denby Hall,” David said, sitting stiffly in an armchair with cabriole legs.
“David. Yes, Denby Hall. I know it. You live there?”
“Yes… While I recover from a car accident. I expect I’ll be leaving soon…”
“Good for you. Now, what about Justina? I’m sorry, I didn’t catch what you mean.”
“Justina used to be Cathy’s dog.”
“Really? I know my wife bought her, against my suggestion to get a pup. She’s a superb animal, of course.”
“D-Desmond gave her to Mrs Temple.”
“Gave her? I don’t think so. Who’s Desmond?”
“Desmond is Cathy’s husband. Justina was Cathy’s dog.”
“Desmond… Cathy… Desmond and Cathy who?”
“Marsden… Cathy is sick. She’s at Denby Hall. She’d like to see Justina.”
“Marsden, Marsden. Unforgettable name. Important missionary to New Zealand in the early days, Samuel Marsden.”
David could see that while Mr Temple was reflecting about history, at the same time his mind was racing to uncover memories.
“I do remember the name. Would that be the couple we used to know years ago?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You say Mrs Marsden is now very ill, and Mr Marsden gave her dog to Mrs Temple?”
“Yes… and Cathy only needs to see Justina occasionally.”
“Quite, but why should Mr Marsden give the dog away?”
“Because Poppy … Justina was a nuisance.”
“I mean, why give it to Mrs Temple?”
“I suppose, because she wanted it. Poppy’s beautiful.”
“I understand that Mrs Temple might want a beautiful dog, but why particularly give it to Mrs Temple? Why not give it to Mrs Snodgrass down the road?” Mr Temple enquired gently, looking past David, into the distance.
“Mr Marsden and Mrs Temple … Desmond and Anita are friends, aren’t they?” David asked.
“Desmond and Anita? Friends, are they?” Mr Temple asked, looking fiercely at David, but without raising his voice.
David could see Mr Temple’s agitation rising. He couldn’t quite understand what he should do to assuage it. “So I thought … it would be only fair…” he began.
Mr Temple sat down on a Queen Anne chair, in as uncomfortable a posture as David’s. He clasped his big white hands, and pushed them down between his knees, as though he had stomach ache. He stared at the rug.
After a half a minute of silence, the front door clicked. Paper rustled in the hall. Anita Temple came into the room, carrying shopping bags.
“Oh, there you are, Graham. I’ve got …”
She saw David, and felt the grimness in the air.
“What are you doing here?” she said, hoarsely to David.
Mr Temple threw himself back in the chair, arms outstretched. “I’ve been hearing about your twenty year friendship with Desmond Marsden!”
Anita dropped her shopping bags, and pointed at David.
“This is ridiculous! Do you know who this person is? He’s a madman from Denby Hall! He’s the one who has been trying to entice Justina away. He’s a liar, a menace, and a thief, and I’ve already reported him to the police. He should be locked up. You can’t believe a word he says!”
Mr Temple spoke quietly, in an old fashioned, cultured tone, like a detective in a fifties film.
“I remember Desmond Marsden. Him and his wife. We knew them not long after we married. A few dinner parties, and they faded out over months. It’s so long ago, I can’t even remember why I disliked Marsden.”
“You’ve been listening to irresponsible and stupid lies!”
“Anita, tell me. Did Marsden give you the dog you told me you had bought?”
Anita Temple screamed, a piercing noise, which prickled David’s ears.
“Get out of here you lying little bastard! Get out, get out, get out!”
As David rose hesitantly to his feet, Anita grasped a vase on the mantelpiece, and threw it at him. He wasn’t fast enough to dodge, and the vase hit his arm, and bounced off, smashing on a marble statuette which stood on a side-table. David swayed out of the room as fast as he could, and out of the front door, his back and legs red hot with the pain of the movement.
24
In his monologues to David, Desmond had started in an offhand way, frequently self-deprecating. But over the months, as he charted Cathy’s decline, he became more serious. As he approached the end of his personal involvement with her as a carer, he was taut. His fingers trembled. He moved his head spasmodically. His voice was held down to a low, level tone.
Desmond and David were in the garden. David had sat on the wall and Desmond was standing near him, but not precisely addressing him. Cathy, huddled in a blanket, was in her wheelchair a yard or so away, and facing away. On this occasion, Desmond was dressed more casually, in grey slacks and a cashmere sweater. He wasn’t in his usual stiff-backed pose, as though he was about to be photographed. He slumped.
“Cathy’s admission to Denby Hall came after a cataclysmic night, which started in much the same way as hundreds of others. I heard her shout. I raised myself from my bed in the next room, and looked at the illuminated clock. It was three in the morning. I heard her kicking and muttering. I knew that she would get out of bed soon, so I rose, slipped on my dressing gown, and went into her room. Her hands and feet were twitching. She was wide awake, and holding herself in check.
‘Do you want to go to the toilet?’
“She didn’t answer, so I slid my hand into the sheets and they were soaked. I complained loudly, and bitterly. Mildred, who slept in the small room beside Cathy’s, was out of bed by this time.
‘Don’t worry, Mr Marsden, I’ll change the bed.’
“I told Cathy to get up, and began to help her. Mildred found a dry nightdress, and with a struggle, Mildred and I removed the wet one. Cathy did not like Mildred – or any female carer – in the house at night, and this was reflected in bad temper, and lack of cooperation.
‘A shower?’ Mildred suggested.
‘Damn the shower. Put on the dry nightdress and her dressing gown,’ I said.
‘Ciggy!’ Cathy said.
“There was nothing unusual in this demand. It would be the first of the many cigarettes that Cathy would consume that day. And the demand could not be denied, unless we wanted to provoke an interminable, temperamental scene. I say interminable, because neither I, nor any carer I ever employed, had the will to hold out against her. Nobody had ever won this battle of wills, other than Cathy.
“I helped Cathy down the stairs, took her through the kitchen, and out to the rear patio. I lit a cigarette for her from the pack kept in the kitchen, and gave it to her. She sat on the patio seat, drawing lungfuls of smoke as though they were life-giving. It was chilly, and I put a coat around her shoulders.
“I went back upstairs, and helped Mildred finish getting the dry bed ready, and then went down to Cathy. She was standing, empty-handed, at the open kitchen door.
‘Where’s the cigarette butt?’ I asked.
“There was no answer to this question. I had to begin the usual detective work. The patio lights showed that there was no butt out there, or in the ashtray. I spotted a fleck of ash on the kitchen tiles; it was a sign I recognised. A lighted cigarette had been thrown down on the tiles, and skidded under one of the kitchen appliances. I began to crawl along the floor on my hands and knees, looking into the small apertures under the dishwasher and the washing machine. I saw a glowing spot of light under the refrigerator. I had promised myself I’d keep a wire in the kitchen to fish cigarette butts out of difficult places; but I never did. A kebab skewer wasn’t long enough, and I couldn’t find a suitable instrument in the appliance drawer. The smell of burning was growing stronger. I went to the closet under the stairs, got a wire coathanger, wrenched it into a long hook, and eventually hooked out the smoking butt.
Cathy watched this performance impassively, before saying, ‘Ciggy!’
‘No bloody ciggy!’ I replied. ‘Get up to bed!’
“I went to the downstairs bathroom to urinate, with the packet of cigarettes I kept in the kitchen, in my dressing gown pocket. I knew that Cathy would take one if she could get hold of the packet, and try to light it. She liked to have two cigarettes in a row.
Cathy didn’t go to bed. She followed me, and started banging on the toilet door, shouting ‘Ciggy, ciggy, ciggy!’
“I decided, when I came out of the bathroom, that we would never get back to bed unless I gave in, so I lit her another cigarette, and left her outside. Upstairs, Mildred had finished Cathy’s bedroom, and was waiting quietly for her to come up.
When I went down to the kitchen this time, I found the room full of smoke. Cathy had taken a few puffs – she rarely smoked all of a cigarette – and thrown the butt in the waste bin. The contents had caught fire, and perhaps in an attempt to right her mistake, Cathy had grappled with the bin, and upset it on the floor. Flaming pieces of paper, and cardboard from the bin were spread over the tiles. I filled a saucepan with water, and poured it over the floor, and into the bin, to put out the flames.
We went upstairs with the kitchen tiles swimming with water, and burn marks on the white painted walls. Cathy had singed her hands and the house reeked of burnt rubbish.
‘You’ll have to look after her, Mildred,’ I said, ‘and put some cream on her hands.’
“I wanted to scream. I went into my room and slammed and locked the door, while Mildred put Cathy to bed. I put a cushion over my head. I was determined that nothing would make me get up until it was morning.
“Faintly, perhaps ten or twenty minutes later, I heard Cathy get up again, and go downstairs. She would search the kitchen and find no cigarettes, because I still had them in the pocket of my dressing gown. Soon, I heard her clumping up the stairs, breathing stertorously, and grumbling under her breath. She tried to get into my room, and found it was locked. She banged on the door.
“I knew that a sequence had started which could not be ended without my personal intervention, but I was so angry, I clung to my pillow. The banging increased in power. Cathy was hitting the door with an article she had seized. One of the central panels in the door splintered. She was striking it with a paperweight from the upper hall table.
“I could hear Mildred remonstrating with her, trying to get her to go back to bed, but Cathy had a fixed desire for a cigarette, and would yield to nobody, especially not a mild mannered West Indian woman, whose presence she resented. Mildred, with the best intentions, attempted to restrain Cathy physically, and I could hear them struggling. I don’t doubt that Mildred was gentle with her. Perhaps that was a mistake. Cathy was enraged. They were on the landing at the top of the stairs. I knew I had to concede to Cathy, and I sprang out of bed angrily. I unlocked and opened my door, in time to see Cathy, foaming, push Mildred down the stairs.
“Mildred fell ten or so carpeted steps, before being able to save herself. She was sore, but not seriously hurt. This event calmed Cathy. I told her to go to bed, and she did. I sent Mildred to her room, and covered Cathy up. For once, Cathy slept. I lay awake until dawn, my head throbbing, and then fell into a dead sleep for an hour.
“The routines of this particular morning were strange, because they took place in silence. Cathy smoked her usual cigarettes. She didn’t resist Mildred or me, and didn’t start shouting about the lateness of the bus.
“Mildred said to me, after Cathy had caught the bus, ‘Mr Marsden, last night I phoned the emergency line.’
“I was too tired to bother to question her about the implications of this, but the manager of the day centre called me not long after Cathy arrived at the centre.
“‘Mr Marsden, I’ve been talking to my office. We think it’s necessary to take your wife into care before anything serious happens. I’ve seen her this morning. She’s very bruised. Her arms. Her breasts. Her hands have open wounds. I’ve called a doctor to examine her. A social worker will see you this morning.’
