Fragments (8 page)

Nothing was
ever about Big Cathy.

But it was
Cathy who had been called in when the door opened again. Cathy, who
emerged ten minutes later, pale and shaking, to be led to a police
car by the female officer. Jill, the manager, has already packed up
her handbag and held her coat out to her. Cathy had nodded her
thanks and then left, silent as ever.

The ride to the
hospital was somewhat surreal. All she could really hear was the
news that Andrew was dead. The officers had said something about
her mother, a lot about her mother, but it didn’t make any sense to
her. All she could feel, all she could know, was that Andrew was
dead.

She stood in
the ICU, at the bottom of her mother’s bed. Wires, lines, leads and
dressings covered her mother’s body. Her legs were in traction, as
was one arm. The doctor pulled her to one side, into an office, to
explain it all again. He was beginning to wonder if this girl was a
little slow, a little ‘special’.

He again took
her through the catalogue of injuries. That the speed with which
the emergency services had got to the crash site was the only thing
that had saved her mother’s life.

That her father
had died instantly and therefore had felt no pain.

‘He’s not my
father.’ It was the only thing she kept saying, really. Did she
have a guardian somewhere, someone legally responsible for her?

Catherine just
looked at him, again, in complete silence. When he ran out of
things to say about her mother’s prognosis, she nodded and left
without speaking.

The law firm
that handled all her step-father’s affairs managed everything very
smoothly. She was very happy with them. No one was surprised that
Andrew had left everything to Catherine: he’d adored her after all.
Alma would have argued, no doubt, had she been able to.

Whilst it had
looked as if intensive physical therapy might improve Alma’s mental
state, a year after the accident Catherine was appointed legal
guardian of her mother’s affairs. There had only been one point of
disagreement between the law firm and Catherine. They had resisted
her impulse to care full time for her mother. Her physical
disabilities were so profound, her mental state so damaged... could
she not see that a high quality care facility would be better for
Alma, if not Catherine? A young woman in her twenties should not
have to care full time for someone unable to speak, or communicate
in anyway. Someone who required a machine to breathe. Someone who
was doubly incontinent and required a tube to feed.

Someone who may
live another five, ten or even twenty years, with enough ongoing
care.

She had won her
argument and had the dining room converted into a room capable of
supporting her mother’s medical needs. She spent many hours in the
hospital, making sure Alma had the support she needed to be well
enough physically to be sent home. The physiotherapist that had
been employed to encourage Alma to try and talk, to try and
communicate somehow, felt that Kate was a saint. Alma must have
been a wonderful mother for Kate to be so devoted to her. She’d
always been there, no matter what. Holding her mother’s hands down
when she spasmed, wiping the tears of frustration from her eyes. No
one could understand Alma the way her daughter did, and it was
obvious that Alma felt the same way. Whenever anyone spoke Kate’s
name out loud, Alma’s face trembled. It was heartening to see such
mutual love: somewhere deep down in the scar tissue the accident
had left in Alma’s brain, she still knew her daughter.

Kate herself
had obviously struggled at times. She’d resigned from her job and
had lost a great deal of weight. The physio had urged her to take
better care of herself: if she got ill, who was going to care for
her mother? In the end, the physio had agreed with everyone else
and signed Alma out to her daughter’s devoted care. Although the
burden of caring for her mother would be great, the girl deserved
to have her mother with her as long as she could, didn’t she?

She said as
much to the ambulance drivers when they drove away from delivering
Alma to Kate’s care. It had taken two hours to transfer her the
three miles from the hospital, and get everything set up. The
driver commented on how nice and supportive the young girl had
been, and how nice it was to see someone take on board caring for
someone. The driver spoke out what everyone always thought after
seeing Kate care for Alma:

‘She must have
been one hell of a mother.’

Kate watched
the ambulance leave the driveway. She pressed a button and the
gates closed and locked automatically. She switched the outside
lights off.

Opening her
mother’s room, the smell hit her first. Alma had voided her bowels.
Kate looked at her, smiled, and pulled on a set of disposable
plastic gloves.

‘My my, what a
terrible stench. Who could have made such a foul smell...? Did you
deliberately
wait until the ambulance crew had left...?’
Kate made a gagging noise as she pulled back the covers. Alma’s
cheeks flamed red.

‘Honestly,
Mother, what have you been eating? You smell like a sewer. Never
mind, we’ll soon fix that.’ Kate cleaned her up quickly, using the
hoist to lift up her legs as she slipped a clean adult nappy under
her bottom. All the time she explained to Alma what she was doing,
what a hard and tiresome task it was, and how shocking Alma’s body
looked with its scars and broken bone ridges.

‘Good job no
one will ever see those useless legs again, Mother, that’s a
blessing at least.’

She washed
Alma’s face with a cold flannel and brushed through her hair,
pulling out the tangles before twisting it into two tight
pigtails.

‘Cold water is
so good for closing the pores, isn’t it mother? I’ll get some of
that moisturiser you like tomorrow, from the chemist. Must try and
keep your skin from aging so badly. You have a shocking amount of
lines and wrinkles. Monica and George are coming to see you
tomorrow. I’ll make sure you’re looking your best, don’t worry. Not
a hair will be out of place.’

She checked the
machines, double checked the tubes and dressings on Alma’s arms,
and smoothed down the linen coverlet.

‘I expect
you’re very tired, after the ride in the ambulance. Best get to
sleep now Mother, conserve your strength. I know it’s early but you
have to get your rest. I had the curtains lined with blackout
material you know, just like my bedroom. So nothing can disturb the
dark, nothing to keep you awake. You’ll be fine Mother, just fine.
Routine, that’s the key: routine and order. That will make
everything all right, you taught me well.’

Kate turned and
left the room, not looking back as she turned off the light and
closed the door.

In the glow of
the beeping machines, tears slid from Alma’s eyes.

The Fool

Maryam Michael
woke as she always did, in the dark. She left her curtains open so
that when she woke, the night was in the room with her. Sometimes
this meant she awoke in perfect darkness with a cloudy sky robbing
all the night of light. At other times she woke in brilliant
moonlight, so bright she could see her reflection in her dressing
table mirror. This morning the shallow dark of a star-studded sky
greeted her, and she rose and stared out her window, beginning her
day with starlight and chanting. Here, in the quiet of her country
retreat, there was no artificial light on the horizon, nothing to
interfere with the sky and her communion with it.

After so many
years enclosed, she had come to love the expanse of an unfettered
sky. When she had left her cell behind, with all its quiet memories
and soul devoted comforts, she had immediately relished the freedom
of the sky. For years her sky had been small, distant, dissected
into squares. A thing that she could glimpse now and then but which
was out there, outwith the walls of her inner life. Now she
embraced it as an equal, although she shied from that as an
analogy; how could any single, insignificant human soul be equal to
the sky?

Like everything
in her new life, her routine, her habit, was a mixture of old and
new. Carefully preserving the aspects that she’d found useful,
adding to them new rituals and experiences that enriched who she
now was. Therefore when she finished her chanting and had rung the
temple bell that hung at her window three times, she bowed to the
sky and went through to her toilette. A warm shower, the body
washed and the hair cleaned through, she returned to her boudoir to
dress. Rather than the ritual of prayer that once accompanied the
taking off of her night attire and its immediate replacement with
her day attire, she relished the freedom to sit naked at her mirror
and dance cosmetics across her skin. The lightest of touches of
moisturisers and foundation, a faint blush to the cheeks, a perfect
contour of shade across her storm grey eyes, the lick of dark
mascara defining her long lashes and a minute sheen of soft colour
across her lip.

Her hair, as
short as it ever had been, fell into perfect layers, a testament to
scissors as sharp as the talent of the hairdresser that had yielded
them. It required but one comb through to settle smoothly,
revealing her cheekbones in a way striking to any women of her age.
A cloistered youth had left her with excellent skin and when she
had taken off her coif her shock of silver hair had been a
surprise. Then it had been unusual for a woman to go gray so
completely by the time she had entered her 40s. Now she was unusual
only in that she choose not to colour it to mimic youth. Her youth
still came from inside. She found that her age gave her a gravitas
that she had sorely needed early in her life and valued
tremendously now it had arrived. It was not something she was
prepared to deny or to hide.

She dressed in
delicate satin and lace underwear, bespoke to her slender body, and
finished with house pyjamas and a long house coat in linen. Today
would be spent in paperwork and she would appreciate the soft
warmth and flow of the casual lines. She had always enjoyed the
feel of cloth as she moved and relished that she could now indulge
her tastes in any fabric and colour.

Although she
rarely chose colour: her pyjamas were black and her housecoat grey.
Monochrome was still a feature of her attire. She slipped soft
leather slippers on and went downstairs to the kitchen. The aroma
from the coffee maker drew her in and she poured herself a bowl.
The timer was set so that she invariably arrived just as the last
few precious drops trickled into the jug. She breathed in the
warmth, holding the bowl in both hands and tip-toed over the
flagstone floor, slipping into her study without waking up the
Irish wolfhound that slept across the back door. Edith, her
housekeeper, would wake the behemoth when she pushed open the door
in a couple of hours. Once, Cullain would have woken the second she
rose and would have been at the kitchen door whining and scratching
when she came down. Now, even the gurgling of the machine barely
caused an eyelid to flutter. He was getting old and knew he would
be ignored until she’d eaten. So he stayed asleep and she got more
work done: it suited them both.

She had two
reports to file for the Vatican and two articles to translate from
Aramaic, both for an American university. The Aramaic texts were
proving to be difficult and she put her just awake mind to them
first. After an hour, when her forehead had begun to pound, she
fetched more coffee and switched to sorting out the references. She
hated referencing her work and always had to make herself do it as
she went, in order to prevent two weeks of agony at the end.
Referencing was always a time for her to consider her faults and
sins; she often felt doing them was some sort of penance.

By the time
Edith arrived two hours after that, bringing fresh croissants and
bread, Maryam was grey with fatigue. It was good fatigue, but her
head hurt and her eyes stung. Edith tutted at her as she called her
through for a warming bowl of sweet oatmeal. Maryam ignored the
tutting, eating her portion whilst scratching the back of Cullain’s
hairy ears. Edith was not backward in coming forward with her ideas
about how hard work, tiny amounts of food and very little sleep
would ruin a person’s health. Maryam, who’d found that slightly
less sleep than you needed, combined with slightly less food than
you needed and a good solid day’s work kept you agile and fit,
ignored her. Edith fed Cullain his breakfast as Maryam finished
hers by dunking a croissant in another bowl of hot coffee: sweet
indulgence was good for the body and the soul.

She changed
into her outside clothes and donned her thick boots and took
Cullain out for his morning tramp through the woods and hills. It
was brisk and none too warm, clouds scudded by and wind pulled at
them both, but it was refreshing. Cullain came alive on his walks
and there was great pleasure in watching him enjoy the scents and
intrigues of other wildlife and the undergrowth. Her legs were
aching when she returned two hours later and the aroma of the quail
Edith was preparing for luncheon was delectable. A shower, and then
an hour or so of more translation before eating... and then she
could spend the afternoon reading for leisure. As she started up
the stairs the phone rang. Edith popped her head around the kitchen
door as she answered and tutted. The switch to Italian and her tone
were unmistakable. Edith returned to the kitchen, clanging pots and
pans. Madame was going on her travels again, and this lunch and the
dinner she was half way through preparing would now be fed to the
beast. How on earth was she going to get her layabout son to walk
Madame’s wolf dog at this time of year?

When Maryam
finished the conversation, she phoned the local taxi company and
requested they pick her up in thirty minutes, to drive her to
Marseille. Edith did some more banging as she packed a decent lunch
for Madame.