A is for Angelica (22 page)

I reach across the bed and pull the covers over her. She doesn’t flinch or make a sound. I stand up straight, look out at the street and see Benny. He’s standing by his window,
looking in my direction with his hands in the air. He holds them in front of his face with thumbs and index fingers touching each other. They make a shape. An oval, like an egg or an eye. Can he
see me? I’m in darkness, but I haven’t been paying attention. I haven’t been hiding. I stay perfectly still and look back. We’re two shadows, our eyes alert and adjusted. I
could stand here like this until he moves. I could signal to him. Or I could pretend that nothing’s happening. I could reach across and pull the curtain. Calm and casual. I’ve not done
anything wrong. Unless he saw Angelica. Then he’ll be suspicious. I can hear her breathing heavily behind me. I raise my arms and pretend to stretch. I walk to the window, look down at the
puddles on the road and up at the clouds in the sky. They are deep blue and black, like a swirling bruise. But I don’t look back at Benny. I simply close the curtains. Leave him outside with
the night.

Umbrage

It’s ten past five in the morning. I’m sitting on the chair next to Georgina’s bed. If it were spring or summer, it would be light outside. But it
isn’t. It’s dark and starless. Like the night we got trapped by the tide, less than two years ago. We’d gone away for the weekend. For Georgina’s birthday. It was my treat.
We stayed by the coast and walked along the cliff top both days before dinner. The wind made it cold, but the view was worth it. We had a wonderful time. That afternoon was colder than most. We
wore gloves and held hands, our ‘jackets in packets’ zipped tight around our necks. The sea was rough and empty. We reached the end of the bridleway and stopped for tea in a café
by the beach. We were the only ones in there. Georgina ate a scone filled with cream and jam. I burnt my tongue. I remember her laughing.

We decided to walk back along the sand. We’d done it before without problems, though it had been earlier then, when the tide was still way out. This time the tide was much closer. I said I
thought we should hurry, but Georgina insisted we’d be fine. She told me I worried too much. I needed to relax. Enjoy it. But she was wrong, because halfway along the beach, maybe a mile, I
realised we weren’t going to make it. We’d left it too late and the tide was coming in. I began to panic, grabbed Georgina’s hand and started to run. We ran together, breathing
heavily and stopping to walk every fifty yards or so. Then running again. Georgina laughed and screamed between breaths. Like she hadn’t a care in the world. We must’ve looked
ridiculous. We must’ve looked like children. And we nearly made it too. But we didn’t. The sea beat us back to the shore and we had to wade the last stretch in our trousers. Our shoes
soaked to the core. Our feet freezing cold. That evening we shared a bath and watched the day turn to night through the skylight. We laughed together. The sky full of clouds. Dark and starless.

It’s Valentine’s Day tomorrow. I’ve made them a card each. One for Georgina and one for Angelica. I found Georgina’s old school box in the loft last
week. It was full of felt tip pens. Coloured card. Glitter and glue. She used to make all sorts of things. Sparkling certificates. Milk carton robots. Puppets out of my old socks. She’d use
them in her lessons and give them away to the best-behaved children. Any excuse to come home and make something else. She loved being a teacher, even when she became Head. In fact, she loved it
more. She said she felt like she could make a difference. I did my best to support her, even though I found it difficult. She always had to work late. She always went to meetings. She always earned
more money.

I made Angelica’s card from pink paper and stuck a collage of flowers on the front. I cut pictures out of magazines. The message inside says, ‘Best wishes. Gordon.’ If I wrote
it again I’d write it with a marker pen. Just to see her reaction. Georgina’s card is white with a red heart. Two stick people holding hands. I used a compass to draw the outline of
their heads. Inside, it says, ‘Happy Valentine’s Day. Get well soon. With love, G.’ I also made a card for me, from her. It was more of a postcard. A photograph of Kipling with
Georgina. Don Donald took it more than ten years ago. I stuck it to a piece of paper, cut around its edges and wrote on the back, ‘Happy Valentine’s Day. Love from you know who.’
That’s what she would’ve written, if she were able. I made them last week, when she was getting better.

I straighten my back in the chair by the bed and look at Georgina now, confined to this room. Her life taken without warning. My life too. Our life together. If I think about it long enough I
start to get resentful. I start to blame Georgina. She could have done something differently. Spent less time at work. Spent more time with me. Even now, watching her sleeping, her eyes closed, her
face void of colour, it’s hard to understand. I shuffle slowly to the edge of the chair and put my hand on her shoulder. ‘Wake up,’ I whisper gently. ‘Please wake up.’
But she can’t provide a response. There’s nothing she can do. It’s not her fault. I know it’s not her fault. I sit back on the seat and rub my eyes with my fists. I think
about Angelica. Her eyes closed. Her mouth wide open. Asleep in our spare room.

Valentine

I’m lying on the floor at the end of Georgina’s bed. The room is lit by sunlight pouring through the gap in the curtains. I can feel the heat on my cheeks and smell
Georgina’s dressing gown. I used it last night as a pillow. This is the first time we’ve woken up in the same room since she had her first stroke. It feels warm and familiar. If I
listen hard I’ll hear birds in trees and voices outside in the street. Noises downstairs in the kitchen. The sound of cupboards closing. Cutlery rattling in dishes. Angelica. I open my eyes
and get to my feet. Georgina hasn’t moved. She’s in the same position as before, when I kissed her goodnight and set up my bed. She looks dreadful in the sunlight. I can hear the
kitchen door. The stairs are creaking. I stand by Georgina and hold the back of my hand to her forehead. Her temperature is through the roof. I pick up the glass from the dresser, dip my fingers
into the water and touch her cheeks to cool her down. Angelica knocks on the door. She’s brought me breakfast in bed.

‘Gordon?’

‘Hold on. I’ll just be a minute.’

‘Breakfast.’

‘I’ll be out in a second.’

‘Why are you whispering?’

‘I’m not.’

‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You don’t sound fine.’

‘I’m just getting dressed. I’m nearly done.’

‘Are you decent?’

‘Sort of.’

‘Then I’m coming in.’

‘Don’t come in.’

‘I’m coming in. Your tea’s going cold.’

‘Angelica.’

‘I’ve seen it all before.’

‘Please, Jesus, don’t come in.’

I watch the handle turning. There’s no need to panic. The door is locked. She’ll have to wait outside. I’ll ignore her. I’ll wait for her to go back downstairs and then
I’ll go and join her. The handle’s still turning. She can get in. The door’s opening. I didn’t lock it. I came back from the bathroom, made my bed and fell asleep.
She’s coming in. This is what I wanted. She can help us. I grab Georgina’s hand and grip it tight. My fingertips are wet like her cheeks, but her eyes are closed. It looks like
she’s been crying in her sleep. Angelica steps into the room. She is holding a plastic tray with tea and toast on it. Breakfast with Angelica. She looks at me, then at Georgina. Her mouth
falls open in horror. The tray slides out of her hands. It crashes to the floor.

We stand in silence. She says nothing. I say nothing.

We stand and we stare.

At each other. At my wife.

‘She needs to go to hospital, Gordon.’ Fifteen minutes have passed since Angelica found Georgina and we’re standing in the kitchen. I’ve cleaned the
bedroom carpet, soaked up the milk with kitchen towel and made two fresh cups of tea.

‘No, she doesn’t. She’s fine.’

‘She doesn’t look fine.’

‘Everything’s under control.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘I’m looking after her.’

‘How?’

‘With the manual.’

Angelica puts her hands to her head and starts pacing back and forth. Her fingers are shaking. She has nothing to worry about. I know what I’m doing. She can’t be angry because
I’ve done nothing wrong. She looks at the clock on the wall. She hasn’t touched her tea yet.

‘When did it happen?’

‘Six weeks ago. The day before you moved in.’

‘Jesus Christ, Gordon.’

‘And maybe again this week. She’d been getting better.’

‘I could smell it. I knew there was something.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Illness. Something not quite right’

‘I bathe her every day.’

‘It’s not the same.’

‘It’s the best I can do.’

I turn away from her. Now I’m shaking too. I look through the window. The sunlight creeps over the house and into the back garden. It forms a triangle in the corner of the lawn. The rest
is still in shade. Coated in frost.

‘She needs to go to hospital, Gordon.’

‘She doesn’t, she’ll get better.’

‘How do you know that? You can’t do this.’

‘I am doing it and I’ve done it before.’

‘Not like this though. Not on your own.’

‘I want you to help me.’

‘You’re killing her.’

‘Help me.’

‘I can’t, Gordon.’

‘Why not?’

‘I wouldn’t know what to do.’

‘I’ll show you.’

‘I don’t want you to show me.’ She stops pacing, throws her arms in the air and stares straight at me. She looks ready to explode.

‘I thought you’d understand.’

‘You lied to me, Gordon. I took you to your parents’ house.’

‘I thought we were friends.’

‘We hardly know each other.’

‘What about Benny?’

‘What about him?’

‘We watch Benny together.’ I watch Angelica lower her arms. Then I look at the floor. I cover my eyes with my hand and squeeze my brow with my fingers. I’m pretending to cry,
but I don’t know what it feels like. I can’t remember. It seems so long ago. This is me upset. She’ll never believe it.

‘You need to ring the hospital. They’ll send an ambulance.’

‘I can’t.’

‘You have to. Georgina needs help.’

‘She’s getting help.’

‘She needs real help.’

‘You don’t understand. We’ve done this before and we know what we’re doing. You can help us.’

‘Gordon, she seems barely conscious.’

‘It’s just a setback. She’s been getting better.’

‘I can’t help you, Gordon. She needs professional help.’

I bring my fist down on the kitchen worktop. It makes the sink and the plates in the cupboards rattle. It stops us both. I’ve never done it before. Angelica backs away from me. She’s
got no idea what we’ve been through. All she does is drink my tea and stare out of the window. My window. I want to ask her about the marker pen. Where did she get it from? What about the
footballs in the garden? It should be me who’s asking the questions. Demanding explanations. Losing my temper.

‘No, she doesn’t. No-one needs to know.’

‘What’s your fucking problem?’ she says. ‘You’re insane.’

‘Don’t swear.’

‘Do you want her to die?’

‘You’re always swearing.’

‘Can you live with the guilt?’

‘There’s nothing to feel guilty about.’

‘She’s not getting better, Gordon.’

‘She will get better.’

‘Not like this.’

‘It’s what she wanted.’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘Yes I do.’

‘How?’

‘She told me. We have a system.’

I open the cupboard under the sink and take out my manual. It seems thicker than ever. Angelica watches me. We’ve raised our voices. She’s louder than me. Taller than me. Pacing up
and down. Georgina must have heard us. We’ve woken her up. She’s lying in bed, feeling for her water and wondering where I am.

‘Gordon, calm down,’ says Angelica. ‘I’m sorry. I’m still in shock.’

I walk to the table, pull out a chair and sit down. I open my manual and cover my eyes again. I squeeze my brow with my fingers. Drag them over my eyes. Still pretending to cry. This time my
hands are wet. There are tears on my cheeks and my chin and they are falling onto the table. Angelica walks towards me. She puts her hand on my shoulder. On the back of my neck. Pulling me close.
She wraps her arms around my head and holds it to her stomach. I grip the manual with one hand and her leg with the other. I hold it tight below the knee. For dear life and comfort.

‘This is what she wanted.’

‘I have to go, Gordon.’

‘Don’t go.’

‘I have to. I need to take this in. I’ll come back later on.’

‘We haven’t had breakfast.’

‘I’m meeting Michael.’

‘Who’s Michael?’

‘He’s my husband.’

Vicious circle

Georgina likes her card. I gave it to her this morning when Angelica had gone. I sat on the chair by the bed and opened the envelope. She was wide-awake. Her eyes were fully
open. I took out the card and held it up for her to look at. I pointed to Kipling and squeezed her hand. ‘Do you like it?’ I said. One small, fragile stroke = Yes. ‘Did you hear
any noises earlier?’ One pinch, barely noticeable = No. I held the glass of water to her lips. She slowly let some slip into her mouth. She managed three sips. Then she started coughing. I
put my hand on her back and tried to help her straighten, but it didn’t seem to help. The coughing got worse before it eased. After more than thirty seconds, it stopped. I held
Georgina’s head and lowered it back onto the pillow. She was breathing quickly, but the danger had passed. I talked about the weather until her eyes closed and she drifted into sleep. Her
breathing returned to normal. I walked to the opposite side of the room and placed her card on the dressing table. Then I opened mine and stood them together.

Note. Tear Angelica’s card into strips. Cut strips into squares. Note end.

I’m in the kitchen baking carrot cake. I’ve turned on the oven, prepared the tin and grated the carrots. The rest of the ingredients are spread out across the
worktop, on plates and in mugs. One by one, I put them into the mixing bowl, adding eggs, beating well. I fold the mixture until my fingers ache. Then I pour it into the tin, smooth it with the
back of a spoon and open the oven door. The heat rolls out, warms my skin and burns my lips. I slide the cake onto a shelf. I look up at the clock and make a note of the time. Three fifteen. More
than six hours since Angelica found Georgina. She hasn’t been back yet. Everything is normal. Nothing has changed. I expected her to phone the hospital, describe what she saw and tell them to
send out an ambulance. I’ve been waiting by the window, listening for sirens, expecting Doctor Jonathan. But it hasn’t happened. Georgina’s still upstairs and she has no idea that
someone else has seen her. I haven’t said a word. It would break her heart.