Caring for cathy, p.3
Caring for Cathy, page 3
“The d-dog …”
“Couldn’t catch it again. Too cunning. The dog’s gone, David. Vanished. Vamoosed. Why do you want to know?”
David decided not to mention his part in Poppy’s freedom. “It’s Cathy’s.”
Keith considered this seriously, and then he said, “Naaah. As far as I know, the dog lives at some number I’ve forgotten in Eccleston Street. People by the name of Temple. And that’s not where Cathy used to live. That’s not her husband’s address.”
David was startled, and moved his head negatively.
“I’m right, David. The dog’s collar. There’s an owner’s name and address tag on it.”
David hadn’t looked at Poppy’s collar. In fact he hadn’t considered that Poppy might be somebody else’s property.
“If it’s the same dog, the one Cathy used to have, it’s been sold,” Keith said
“C-can … we keep her in the grounds, if she’s run away and come back to Cathy?” David persisted.
Keith’s eyes flicked in different directions, and he scratched his oily hair. He was no expert on the terms of Denby Hall’s licence.
“Naah, you couldn’t keep her here anyway. Bound to be something in the small print about keeping animals.”
“The r-residents would love her.”
“Not practical, David. Maybe some would love her. But some might be scared.”
“Is there anything we can do?”
Keith’s head lolled, considering. “I don’t see it. If the dog hasn’t already decided for itself that a warm kennel in Eccleston Street is better than a cold hillside, we’ll have to return her. Can’t see any other way.”
The way Keith said it, and David understood it, the new owner won, but only by a narrow margin. But the problem, for David, had become more complicated. Now, it wasn’t merely a matter of persuading Desmond that it would be good for Cathy to see the dog. Now, there was a new owner to be dealt with. The chances of persuading the buyer to let Cathy see the dog occasionally were probably slim, but David was determined to try. That Desmond had sold Poppy, only inflamed his determination.
4
Although Keith had suggested that the dog might not have originally been Cathy’s, David had no doubt. If Poppy’s owner was now Temple, of a strange address, then Cathy’s husband had sold the dog, and it had escaped from its new owner.
To David, it seemed unkind to have sold the dog, or at least to have sold it without telling Cathy. But Desmond, like David’s father and Caroline Higgins, was a universe away. David was sure Desmond would justify his action as reasonable, although it did not seem that way to David. Dealing with the dog would be trivial to Desmond, because he had already made the ultimate decision about Cathy. She had explained it vividly to David not long after they met. She described a meeting with Desmond in the Denby Hall garden.
The garden was an overgrown and wild place, but on a clear, still day in summer, you could see through and beyond the twisted pines, with their thin needles, to a triangle of sea, and a limitless sky. Cathy was in her wheelchair, and Desmond was sitting on a stone wall beside a bedraggled border of geraniums. He looked out of place in a silk tie, and a dark business suit, which clung to his tall body. Desmond usually dressed as though he had called in on the way to another meeting. He was anxious to leave. He had what Cathy had described as his ‘Things are not going fast enough’ manner. His fingers clenched and unclenched with impatience. Desmond had said that Dr Floor, the doctor in charge at Denby Hall, ‘wanted to be clear about something’.
‘You see, Cathy, if you were to have a stroke, or a massive incident…’
‘What’s a massive incident?’ she had asked.
‘I’m not sure. Doctor-speak for a heart attack, I think. A big one. If you had one of those, you could be … damaged.’
‘But I’m already damaged.’
‘I mean you might end up like a daffodil or a starfish.’
‘That would be nice, actually.’
‘You wouldn’t have any quality of life.’
‘What’s wrong with a daffodil’s quality of life?’
‘Don’t be silly, Cathy. You’re a woman of experience.’
‘A daffodil is alive.’
Irritated, Desmond had plugged on. ‘You know that the medical profession are too clever. They can prolong life indefinitely, when life is no more than a heartbeat. You used to be very pragmatic about this before you became ill. There has to be a point where one says to doctors, Do not resuscitate.’
‘That was before I became ill.’
‘It’s a question of what is rational, Cathy. That doesn’t change because a person becomes ill.’
‘But it does, Desmond.’
‘I’m sorry, my dear, but you’re talking… You’re not making any sense.’
‘How do you know whether a sick person is feeling anything?’
‘When the brain is dead…’
‘Suppose the brain is mostly, but not quite dead.’
Desmond snorted, ‘You can quibble about all sorts of cases, but…’
‘So if anything happens, I’m gone.’
‘Basically… that’s right.’
‘And you’ve already given Dr Floor his instructions, Do not resuscitate?’
‘He asked me, and I told him.’
‘Did he ask what I wanted?’
‘Yes, and I told him.’
‘Desmond, whose life is it?’
‘My dear, I’m talking it over with you now, aren’t I?’
‘Thank you for that. I think you’re telling me.’
‘Reminding, really.’
‘Wrong, Desmond. Remind is the wrong word. You see, I do have a different mind now. You’ve seen the brain scan. I can’t be re-minded. I wish I could.’
‘Cathy, you’re playing with words.’
‘Have you talked to my brother?’
‘On the phone. He agrees.’
‘Do you think Simon counts?’
‘How do you mean?’ Desmond asked.
‘My brother, whom I haven’t seen for years, pronouncing on my life or death from a distance.’
‘Simon is a creep, but he’s your brother.’
‘And Denise?’
‘I sent your dear sister an email, and she never replied. Never does.’
‘That would be Denise.’
‘This is the right thing, Cathy.’
‘You’ll be able to take over the property if I have an incident.’
‘Our property has nothing to do with it.’
‘Imagine if I had an incident, and became unconscious, a starfish or a daffodil, for years and years.’
‘I want to spare you that, Dear.’
‘Then you might die before me, Desmond, and my money would go to pay my hospital bills, and Anita would get nothing.’
‘Please. Anita doesn’t come into this.’
“You see, David,” Cathy said, when she had finished the story, “Desmond doesn’t credit me with any preference, even over my own life.”
Anita seemed to be a haunting presence in all of Cathy’s talk about her past, but otherwise, Cathy didn’t seem too agitated about this conversation. She even joked to David about the blue ticket she would have on her bed, and wheelchair. ‘And why blue? Shouldn’t it be black?’ she asked.
“Do you want me to speak to Keith or Rose or Helmut about it?” David had asked.
He ruled out Dr Floor who, although sympathetic, did not seem to have the antenna to receive any information, other than in answer to his own questions.
“I’m not sure they’ll listen to you. I’ll think about it,” Cathy said.
“I’ll speak,” David insisted, feeling the need to help, but knowing, at the same time, that they certainly wouldn’t listen to him.
“I’ll think about it first.”
But Cathy never returned to the subject. If Desmond could tell Dr Floor Do not resuscitate Cathy, it didn’t surprise David, that he could sell Poppy at any moment he liked, without feeling accountable to Cathy. Desmond prided himself on his propriety, and he would be offended if David said he was being unkind. He would take refuge in ‘common sense.’
5
David noticed that as Cathy’s illness advanced, she took less interest in her appearance. When she arrived at the Hall, she brought with her a red, silk-covered box full of costume jewellery, bracelets, and rings. She had some necklaces made by indigenous people in North and South America, Asia and Australia, collected on her travels with Desmond. She delighted, at first, in dressing up, and wearing her trinkets; but after about two years, she hardly seemed to care. David became aware that she scarcely ever looked at herself in the mirror. Desmond had ensured that Cathy had her profuse and wild hair coloured and cut from time to time, but eventually, even when it was showing an inch of grey at the roots, she did not appear to notice. However, Desmond was quite open about wanting his wife’s hair dressed, because any neglect might be attributed to him.
He complained to David about the difficulty of taking Cathy to the hairdresser. On at least one previous occasion, when David had been present, Cathy had been refused service. The hairdresser, had said primly, after a few snips, that such a customer was too difficult for her.
“It’s a trial,” Desmond said to David, “The hairdressers don’t like it. Everything gets very awkward, you know, with Cathy jerking around. I swore that the last time would be the last. There are a number of salons around the town that I wouldn’t like to go back to. But one or two of the girls, here at the Hall, have been saying to me that it would be good for Cathy to have her hair done. They see the grey streaks. They don’t think about the difficulties of doing the job, of course! I don’t know. Perhaps I’ll give it one more go.”
Cathy showed, if not excitement, then at least satisfaction at the prospect of a hairdo, ‘the works’ as she used to call it, which meant a colour, wash, cut and dry. With the help of Kay, Desmond found that there was a salon they had never offended before, at the edge of the housing estate, half a mile away. Desmond and David arrived for the appointment in the Hall’s minibus, with Cathy in her chair. They unloaded her, and wheeled her into Darren’s Hair & Beauty.
The salon was in a short row of shops which had been artificially placed, rather than attracted by commerce, not too many years before, to serve the adjoining council estates. Like the newsagent’s, the wine shop, the Indian grocery and the fish and chip shop, Darren’s Hair & Beauty had a façade of dusty glass, flaking paint, and graffiti-daubed red brick.
“Scruffy place,” Desmond muttered as they entered. “Mostly clientele from the estate.” The two chairs were already occupied by women. Both the hairdressers were men. One, with only a few threads of hair himself, wore a scarlet athletic singlet, which left his shoulders, and much of his chest bare. He was clipping absent-mindedly over his customer. At the same time, he was holding a conversation with a youth of about eighteen, who sat on the waiting bench, with a bulldog pup on his lap. The youth fondled the pup, and at times lifted it up to kiss its wrinkled face, and smooth his cheek along its furry flank.
The other hairdresser made an agreeable movement of his head when Cathy was wheeled in. “Take a pew. With you in a moment,” he said.
He had ‘Darren Moreno’ stitched on the breast pocket of his smock. He was a small man with hunched shoulders, not much taller than his customer, as she sat in the chair. His crinkled black hair was oiled, and stuck out raggedly all over his head.
“Can’t help noticing the hair,” Desmond said, in a low voice to David. “An omen.”
On one side of the salon, a girl with dreadlocks, and tanned legs bursting out of a short leather skirt, was placing fingernail extensions on a woman customer’s hand. The woman’s hand, resting on a curved stand, had five long, blue claws.
When Darren had finished the blow dry, and ceremoniously seen his customer off the premises, he returned to the main floor, bowed at Cathy, and gestured to his chair. David could see the dilemma developing in the hairdresser’s mind. Should Cathy move to the barbering chair? Could she be moved? If not, could she remain in the wheelchair? Darren’s hands caressed the air, as his glance shot from barber’s chair to wheelchair, and back, several times.
“I think, my love, we’ll leave you in the wheelchair, nice and comfortable like,” Darren said with professional confidence, a decision which was eased by his own short stature.
Desmond placed the wheelchair before the mirror, and braked it. “I’m afraid Cathy moves a bit.”
“Cathy won’t be a problem, will you sweetheart?” Darren said, swaying around her, flapping the cover sheet like a bullfighter’s cloak.
He began to mix a black potion with a hint of red, darting to Cathy to examine, and run his hand through her hair, as he changed the colour of the mix slightly to make a match. At last he declared it perfect, and advanced on her, his hands full with the brush for the colour, a comb, and clips. Cathy stared straight ahead, expressionless.
Darren combed a parting in Cathy’s hair where the grey hair from the roots was exposed. He held it open with a clip, and quickly dabbed on the colour. It was an operation which required dexterity, even if the customer sat perfectly still. But Cathy did not sit still. The task facing Darren, was to repeat this process fifty, a hundred or more times. As he progressed gamely, the movements of Cathy’s head splattered the dye over her forehead, and in her ears, as well as on her hair.
Darren ragged Cathy, who now chuckled and sniggered. He challenged her to foil his strokes, dancing in to comb a few locks, retreating, then diving back to pin the parting, and at last rocking his shoulders, and completing the dab of dye with his brush.
The man in the red singlet finished his customer, and went outside with the youth for a smoke, leaving the bulldog pup snuffling on the seat. The animal cocked its eye at Darren’s ballet act, and particularly at the trailing cover sheet, as Darren, who had unbraked the chair, swung Cathy around.
The dog jumped down from the seat, grabbed the sheet in its jaws, and started to run around, turning the chair. Cathy leaned over giggling, enjoying the merry-go-round, and this seemed to encourage the animal. The dog pulled Cathy’s cover sheet off. The dye jar in Darren’s hand was upset over her clothes, as he tried to resist. The man in the red singlet and the youth rushed in to help. They tried to catch the dog, which hung on to the sheet with determination. The three of them, the red-singlet man, the youth, and Darren, ended on the floor in a mess of dye, with Cathy chortling in the chair, looking like an Afro-Caribbean.
The youth took the bulldog in his arms, and kissed it as though it was the injured party. Darren, with resignation, cleaned Cathy up as best he could. Nothing could remove the brown blob, as big as a saucer, from the front of her pea green t-shirt, or the dark stains from her forehead and cheeks.
“Sorry about that, mate,” he said to Desmond, “but what can y’do?”
“Cathy’s having fun,” David said.
Desmond ground his teeth, and whispered to David, “What he could do, is keep bloody bulldogs out of his beauty salon!”
When the colour had set, Cathy was manhandled by Darren and Desmond to the hairwash basins in the next room. Getting Cathy to bend over backwards wasn’t easy, but Darren was persuasive, and after the wash she was returned to the cutting chair.
As Darren began to comb and snip, Cathy began to roll her head. He tried holding her head still with one hand, but she shook herself free. The more Cathy moved, the more determined Darren seemed to be. He darted forward and back, like a swordsman, even at times cheering himself on, as he made a difficult snip. He stepped back at times to survey his work, wriggling his hips, with his legs apart, to determine where he was going to strike next. “Oh – ah! – yes – now! – got you!” he laughed, as he dodged around the wheelchair.
While this performance was going on, the hairdresser in the scarlet singlet disappeared with the youth and the bulldog. Another customer arrived, a thirtyish woman in a tight, pink dress, dotted with silver stars, more suitable for a nightclub than a hot afternoon in a dilapidated suburban street. She stood in front of the mirrors, pleased with her figure, and watched Cathy’s cut. She lit a cigarette, ignoring the no-smoking sign. She glanced pointedly at her wristwatch, and began tapping the toe of her high-heeled foot on the tiled floor.
“What about my appointment, then?” she said, after a minute.
“With you in a moment, dear lady,” Darren smiled.
He snipped a little more, set down his comb and scissors on the bench, and calmly took the woman into the hair-wash room. He came back a moment later.
“I’ve told my assistant to drown her,” he said, and returned to his task with concentration.
When Cathy’s blow-dry was done, Desmond paid the bill with a large tip. Cathy did not seem to see her new self.
“You sir, have the patience of a saint,” Desmond said to Darren.
“No way, mate,” Darren said, “I had my mum in a wheelchair. Like that. Doolally for years.”
David wheeled Cathy outside to wait for the minibus which Desmond had called on his mobile.
“That, I swear, was Cathy’s final hairdo, absolutely, positively the last!” Desmond said.
David didn’t know whether Cathy understood this declaration, but he said, “I’m sure you’d like to see Darren again, wouldn’t you, Cathy?”
Desmond went on, regardless of Cathy, “We were lucky with that man, but the fussing hasn’t made any difference to Cathy. OK, she looks a bit younger. And she appears to have changed her ethnic origin. But she doesn’t know anything about it.”
“But you enjoyed the bulldog bit, didn’t you,” David said, to Cathy.
Desmond wrinkled his nose at something rancid.
6
The morning was cloudy, with a sharpness in the air, but the wind had dropped. Keith judged it was suitable for David to take Cathy, well wrapped up, for an hour in the grounds. David’s objective was to find Poppy if she had not been captured. He decided not to tell Cathy that Poppy had been sold, until he had exhausted every possibility of making an arrangement for Cathy to see her regularly.
