A Week in Paris (4 page)

These days she went home to Little Barton as often as she could, but felt guilty that it wasn’t more. She rang her mother once or twice a week from the coin box downstairs, and though Kitty never complained, Fay sensed her growing loneliness and sadness. The truth was that as Fay’s life was opening out with new opportunities to explore, her mother’s had stagnated, for Kitty no longer had her beloved daughter to look after. It was as though everything she did had been for Fay, and now that Fay had left home she’d lost all purpose in life.

If it had been only that, however, Fay would have understood, but there was something else that created a barrier between them. It was silence. Fay sensed that there were things she needed to know, things that her mother perhaps wanted to tell her, but had not quite managed to do so yet. Once, early last summer, during a weekend visit home, she’d found Kitty gathering roses in the garden and saw with alarm that she’d been crying. When she asked her what was wrong, Kitty had wiped her eyes with a weary movement and murmured, ‘It’s just I miss . . . oh Fay, I can’t – I’m only being silly . . .’ before reaching for the trug and starting back to the house. ‘I must put these in water before that boy comes for his lesson,’ she’d called behind her in a strange, hoarse voice.

Later that evening, as they finished supper, Fay asked, ‘What was wrong this afternoon?’

‘I was only thinking of your father,’ Kitty replied, ‘I still miss him, you know.’

When Fay took courage and asked about the air raid that killed him, an expression of pain crossed Kitty’s face, to be succeeded by that familiar blank look. Then her chair grated on the wooden floor as she stood up and carried their plates to the sink where she started washing up noisily.

‘It isn’t fair of you not to tell me anything!’ Fay had cried out, throwing her napkin down.

Kitty turned and glared at her. ‘Nothing’s fair in this life. You’ll learn that soon enough, my girl.’

Fay was shocked. Her mother rarely spoke to her so cruelly. She said no more. They were both too upset and they’d never liked to hurt one another. Each was too aware that the other was all they had. It had always been Fay and Kitty, playing music together, going on spur-of-the-moment picnics on sunny days, making fudge and peppermint creams from carefully hoarded sugar. But now she was grown up Fay was all too aware that her mother kept secrets from her. And so although they loved each other as much as ever, the silence between them spread and deepened. And with it came frustration. And for Fay, a feeling that was much much worse.

It took bravery to admit it and she was ashamed of her feelings, but Fay was
furious
with her mother.

She dabbed at the last crumbs of chocolate on the éclair wrapping and glanced again at the scrap of paper lying on the coffee table. Her mother’s neighbour had only telephoned her once before, and she remembered with a dragging sensation what that had been about. She reached into her handbag for her purse. She’d best do what she was dreading and ring Mrs Ambler.

Norfolk

‘I’ve come to see my mother, Katherine Knox.’ Fay didn’t know the middle-aged nurse with wary eyes who answered the door at St Edda’s Hospital. It was a Friday morning, two weeks after Gloria Ambler’s telephone call. ‘I spoke to Dr Russell’s secretary yesterday to arrange it.’

‘Ah yes, you’re Fay, aren’t you? Doctor said he’d like a word with you first.’ The woman spoke into a telephone and after a minute or two, Dr Russell, a fatherly-looking man with untidy iron-grey hair, appeared, his white coat flapping open to reveal his stocky, suited figure. He shook Fay’s hand with a hearty grip.

‘Your mother’s in the garden today, it being so warm.’ This was her third visit to the hospital and she’d liked Dr Russell from the start. The sympathy in his hazel eyes had drawn her trust. ‘I’ll take Miss Knox out there myself, Nurse,’ he said. ‘We’ll have our chat on the way.’

Fay walked with the doctor down a high-ceilinged corridor painted a drab green and lined with radiators. She knew this to be the old, secure wing of the hospital. The closed doors they passed had viewing hatches set into them, which imparted the feel of a prison. Behind the doors she could only guess what was happening. At least her mother didn’t need to stay in this part of the building.

‘How is Mum?’ Fay asked.

‘Calmer. She’s settled in, I’d say.’ They had to stop to hold open a door for an orderly pushing an elderly man in a wheelchair, then the doctor spoke briefly to a nurse accompanying an unkempt young woman with a shuffling walk. None of the patients Fay had ever seen in here looked mad, exactly, she thought as she waited, just pitiful and helpless. It was sad that they had to live in this austere Victorian building, away from the rest of the world, but perhaps it was a haven of sorts. At least there was every hope that her mother would be sent home sometime.

‘How much longer must she be here?’ she asked when they set off again.

‘It’s hard to say at the moment.’ Dr Russell was hesitant and Fay’s spirits fell.

When Fay had returned Gloria Ambler’s telephone call the woman had had a distressing tale to tell. A ten-year-old pupil had arrived at Kitty’s house for her usual piano lesson the afternoon before, but no one had answered her knock. Finding the door on the latch, the girl had ventured in and discovered Mrs Knox in the kitchen, slumped at the wooden table weeping, a bottle of pills spilled out in front of her. The child had fled in alarm and fetched her mother who, with the help of Mrs Ambler, had taken charge. Kitty hadn’t swallowed many pills this time, thank goodness, but since it was the second time in three years that something like this had happened, the family doctor had arranged for her to be admitted to St Edda’s Hospital on the edge of Norwich, a place which local people still referred to by its old name, the Asylum.

‘Her progress is slower than I’d like,’ the doctor went on.

‘Oh,’ Fay said mournfully. ‘I had hoped . . .’

‘I think this has been building up for many years,’ the doctor went on. ‘We mustn’t expect any overnight miracles.’

‘No, but still . . . Doctor, can I ask your advice? You know I’m supposed to go away on tour on Monday – do you think I still should go?’

‘How long did you say it was for?’

‘A week. We leave first thing Monday morning and come home on the Sunday afternoon.’ She explained to him about the concerts they were giving in Paris and what an opportunity it might be for her workwise.

‘It sounds wonderful, Fay, and to be honest I think you should go. Your mother is unlikely to be aware of a longer gap between visits at the moment.’

‘Poor Mummy.’ Fay sighed. ‘I’ve been thinking, perhaps I should come home to Norfolk altogether. Then I could look after her.’

‘And give up your music?’ The doctor slowed his stride and studied her with an expression of concern. ‘Personally I would regard that as a terrible mistake. In fact, if I had any say in the matter, which of course I don’t, I would forbid it. What good would it do for you to give up the life you have before you? You’re so young still, and we should be able to help your mother through these difficulties without sacrificing your future. I know you have no other family to speak of, but she has friends in your village, I believe?’

‘Oh yes, lots. And many of them have been very kind.’ She thought of Mrs Ambler and the vicar’s wife – Evelyn’s mother – both of whom would do anything for Kitty. She sensed, however, that others steered clear and she worried about the effect of the illness – that was what the doctor called it, an illness – on her mother’s work.

‘Well then, don’t do anything silly for now. As for going away for a week, although your mother enjoys your visits, she is not always aware of the passing of time. It’s an effect of the medication, I’m afraid. Anyway, it doesn’t sound as though you will be leaving her for more than a few days longer than usual, so my advice would certainly be to go to Paris. She will be perfectly well looked after here.’

‘Oh, I have no doubts about that,’ Fay said. She felt relieved, though still guilty. ‘Thank you.’

They came to a heavy metal door which Dr Russell unlocked, relocking it behind them. They were now in a newer, less forbidding part of the building. ‘Perhaps we could stop here for a moment,’ he said.

He drew her to sit on a bench by one of a row of big windows. Despite the bars across it, the window gave a pleasant view of the grounds. Warm sunshine was pouring in and soon a cheerful aroma of oranges rose from the bag she’d brought for her mother.

‘I was glad that you had asked to see me,’ Dr Russell said, regarding her in his fatherly way, ‘because there’s a matter I wanted to consult you about.’ He paused briefly. ‘I believe there’s something important that your mother isn’t telling me and I don’t know what it is. I hoped you might be able to shed some light.’

Fay thought for a moment and then said, ‘No, I’m sorry, Doctor, I don’t think I can. My mother . . . I believe there’s a great deal that she’s never told me. About my father and my early childhood.’

Dr Russell rubbed his jaw and frowned, thinking for a moment. ‘Well, perhaps you could clear up a small point for me. Do you know of a woman named Jean?’

‘A woman? Not a woman, no. She probably means
Gene
with a G, short for Eugene. He was my father.’

‘Ah, that makes perfect sense in the circumstances. Thank you.’

‘What did she say about him?’ Fay asked, full of hope.

‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to tell you.’

‘Oh, of course not.’ It was disappointing.

They set off once more, then the doctor showed Fay out into a high-walled garden. Here, several female patients were walking about in the sunshine or sitting quietly under the eye of two nurses. Fay’s gaze was immediately drawn to a lonely figure sitting in a chair on the other side of the garden, by a magnolia tree that was coming into flower. It was her mother. She hadn’t seen Fay yet. Her arms were folded in her lap and her head was bowed as though in sorrow. Fay’s heart twisted with pity.

‘I’ll say goodbye to you here,’ Dr Russell said quietly. ‘I’m sure one of the nurses will show you out when you’re ready.’ Fay took the hand he offered. ‘I do hope the tour goes well,’ he said. ‘And please
don’t worry.
’

‘It’s hard not to, but thank you, Doctor,’ Fay said. As she set off across the light-filled garden she glanced back and caught him watching her, a thoughtful expression on his face.

‘Mummy?’

‘Fay, darling!’ Kitty raised her head and smiled, a spark of life leaping into her eyes. ‘This is a lovely surprise,’ she said, as Fay bent to kiss her. ‘Did I know you were coming?’

‘Yes, I told you on Sunday.’ So the doctor was right about her mother’s loss of awareness of the passing of time. Fay pulled up another chair and sat beside her, clasping her hand in hers. ‘You look better,’ she lied, studying her. In fact, her mother’s face was drawn, and the skin round her eyes was puffy. ‘How do you feel today?’

‘Brighter for seeing you.’ Then Kitty’s bravado faded and she leaned back in her chair looking weary, older suddenly than her forties.

‘I brought you oranges,’ Fay said, passing her the paper bag. ‘I know how you love them.’

‘What a treat, thank you, darling,’ her mother said, holding the bag on her lap without looking inside. ‘The stodge they give us in this place is awful. I’m sure I’m piling on the pounds.’

Her mother didn’t look any fatter, Fay thought, just sort of blurred round the edges. Still pretty, though. Her normally curly hair was lank, but at least it had been brushed and she even wore a touch of the lipstick that Mrs Ambler had taken in last week. This gave Fay hope. If her mother was able to take care of her appearance, then surely she was improving.

‘Have you come to take me home?’ Her mother sounded confused and Fay’s hopes were dashed again.

‘No,’ she said gently. ‘But soon, I’m sure. You must get properly better first.’ Fay had only the vaguest idea of the treatment that her mother was receiving. Dr Russell, for all his kindness, had betrayed very little and she was too inexperienced to know what to ask. For now it was enough that Kitty was in a safe place and that Fay was able to visit regularly. She rarely glimpsed any visitors for the other patients when she was here, which was odd. Were their relatives not allowed to come, or didn’t they want to?

Fay stayed with her mother for the best part of an hour, trying to engage her attention on a variety of subjects, among them the famous moodiness of her orchestra’s conductor, Colin Maxwell, and her flatmate Lois’s racy stories about life at the advertising agency, all the time avoiding telling her the really big thing, which was about going away. After a while, though, she sensed Kitty wasn’t really listening. Instead her mother stared across the garden, unseeing, brooding on her own thoughts. The doctor was right: something
was
troubling her.

‘What’s wrong, Mummy?’ she tried asking. Her mother’s gaze met hers and Fay saw the anguish there. She waited, hoping her mother would say what was in her heart. Kitty’s lips parted as though about to speak – then instead, she lowered her face and began to fiddle with a loose thread on her skirt.

‘Mum?’ Fay said again, and when her mother looked up her eyes seemed to plead with her. Yet still she said nothing. ‘Mum, I hate seeing you like this. I feel it’s my fault. For moving away.’

‘How can it be your fault?’ her mother whispered. ‘It’s what I always wanted for you, to do well with your music. You love it so.’

‘I do, but it’s meant leaving you alone. We’ve always had good times together, haven’t we? Do you remember the upside-down days we used to have?’

Kitty gave a slow smile. ‘Pudding for breakfast and cornflakes for tea.’

‘Yes. And going skating that winter?’

‘You were eight,’ Kitty sighed. ‘So excited by the snow.’

‘The river was so beautiful with all the frosted trees, I remember. It was like an enchanted world. That was one of the best days of all.’

‘Was it? Was it really?’ Her mother’s eyes were shining now – not with tears, surely?