Let's Dance (23 page)

‘We've got to decide what to do,' Robert stated portentously.

‘There isn't much to decide, is there? Apart from
the fact that you'll go home tomorrow. You must. All your responsibilities.' The irony was lost on him.

‘Yes, but we'll have to get someone in to help. Stay overnight. The police think these men might come back. That's quite common, I gather.'

‘Robert, exactly who do you think would be prepared to stay overnight in a deserted old barn like this? Nurses from a nursing agency? Then we would have two and a half women guarding the place as opposed to one and a half.'

‘I take it you're prepared to go on? With a better security system, of course. Good girl!' He could scarcely keep the relief from spreading into his voice like sugar dissolving in tea.

That was not quite what she had said, but she could not think coherently. She could only think of sleep; not having to move or make any decisions whatever. The lethargy would have made her agreeable to suicide; she was aware of it and powerless. Words happened of their own accord.

‘Oh, yes,' she said. ‘The worst has happened already. It can only get better. Besides,' she added, without looking at her mother, ‘we probably deserve one another.'

Robert had been good at practicalities. Such as getting the lights turned back on by dint of a combination of telephonic persuasion and cash. He had also sorted out the post. Got Serena to sign her cheques like a lamb. So useful to have a man round the place.

Robert had a dim memory of bedrooms in boarding
schools, a memory he resented. The one allocated to him here was scarcely different. Cold sheets, so chilly he remained curled for half an hour, gradually easing his toes further and further down until he lay almost straight. Thinking of his daughter. George in his mother's room, no, not thinking about that. Fretting his head with thoughts of money and rage at burglars, not quite as keen on the desperation of the underprivileged as he might have been. Wondering if Isabel was having an affair with that Andrew Cornell bloke and that was why she was so biddable. Could be the answer to a lot of problems if they got together. And then, a man who dealt in antiques, now was that coincidence or not? Surely it was; his sister was not clever enough to conspire.

Somewhere way beyond the middle of the night he decided it was perfectly proper for a real man such as himself to have a real hot-water bottle. Fuzzy from the half sleep which is all that was possible with icy-cold feet, he fumbled downstairs. Poor Isabel, he thought for the first time, she must have done this. Halfway down he paused, wondering what it must have been like to hear ghostly music in the distance.

He saw her at the bottom of the stairs. His mother, standing by the front door, wearing all her night apparel and a pair of white gloves. Her pose was ambiguous; she could have been beckoning someone in or waving them away.

She drooped in disappointment, like a sad flower. Such a nice party. He regarded her with longing, then
with despair. Thought of all the times when he had been favourite, and she loved him with such intensity and then left him to those playground boys. He could not bear to watch. He backed away, lay in bed listening for her until he slept and, with the advent of morning, told himself that he, too, had been dreaming.

4.30 in the morning

T
his time Serena sat on the black-and-white tiles by the front door and looked out through the glass, in case they came back. Such a disgrace to have let people in through the kitchen. The kitchen was for the sort of painful person who volunteered to do the washing-up at the end of a party, like Mab. Everyone else pissed as a parrot, and her at the sink, smiling up from the suds like a sainted martyr. For all Serena knew, she was still there. Last night's lot seemed to leave a hell of a mess and have taken half the food with them when they went. In a coach.

The truth was, she was not at all sure of what had happened, although she did remember being put to bed with half her clothes on, tsk, tsk, drunk again, she supposed The people from the party had stayed on, including her own son, which was surprising, because she could not recall him being much of a party animal. Poor little boy, the one she had missed most of all. Other boys hurt him at school, and she had not looked after him. Mab said playgrounds should be fun. Her son, big boy now, had told her they were hell.

It was sad for him to be afraid of playing.

It all made her contemplate the strange and charming magic exerted by a convivial crowd of people. She drew a smiling face in the air, too lazy and tired to leave her miserable
daughter a message to that effect. She wanted to say that they should do this kind of thing more often and, if the child really wanted to persist in the lunacy of wanting to preserve her mother's miserable life, all she had to do was arrange for similar injections of spirit at regular intervals. Rooms should be cleared to make room for lots of men, without their boring wives. They could have parties for the fire brigade.

Of course once she got hold of that fucking recording thingy darling George had brought it would make life so much easier. It would save her from writing down her daily list of words, in the same way she had done in a small vocabulary notebook in school in order to learn at least twenty new words a week. But the words she remembered best were the ones that were forbidden, also the shortest: fuck, cunt, bugger, shit and damn. Words that sounded like exclamations, easy to expel in a series of gasps.

She had worked out on paper various permutations that did not sound as good. Tunc, rebugg, tish and nadm, to say nothing of raft for fart and palc for clap, not as satisfying at all. They lacked a certain resonance. There were no replacement words.

Serena sighed impatiently. So many tasks, so little time. Her room sailed over the house and she doubted if it was still attached after all this junketing. She had to go and unlock the door in case it snowed. Duty was a terrible thing.

She followed her usual route, hands outstretched, ready to touch the pictures and the chairs, the sofa, the clock, the table, the candlesticks. The dark was not really dark when
it was occupied. There was a kind of light dancing around things.

Once she got away from the glass it was blacker than the inside of an oven. She felt, all of a sudden, as if someone had cut off the last joint of every finger, leaving little stubby knuckles waving at air, nothing to touch at all.

Nothing to direct her feet.

She clung to the door and waved at her own reflection. Beckoning for someone to come and show her the way back to bed. Footsteps came and went and she could not move for terror.

A
n old lady with a worn-out mind was a mixture of animal, vegetable and mineral. She had to be made to ingest all those things. That was all there was to it.

She's significantly worse than when I last saw her, the psychiatric nurse told Isabel.

‘Quite some time ago, wasn't it?'

‘Three months. You could have called us before,' she said defensively. ‘There are far more critical cases than this.'

‘I'm sure. What do you mean by worse?'

‘Memory loss, worse. Lack of social awareness, worse. She bothers less with the façade. No greeting today.'

‘You aren't a man, you see.'

The woman ignored her. ‘Lessened ability to perform ordinary domestic tasks, rather more eccentric about appearance, less physical coordination. Suffers slightly from persecution mania, which I don't
remember noting before. Claims to have been bludgeoned by the cat.'

Isabel was silent.

‘But still compos mentis in flashes. Busies herself, fairly careful in her movements. Conspicuously clean.'

‘Early toilet training never forgotten,' Isabel quipped. ‘And yes, she loves a bath. Absolutely independent about that. It's the only time I'm grateful for the fact she can't bear a locked door. She plays with toys in there, floods the place. Great fun.' Stop burbling.

‘The burglary must have upset her,' the woman suggested with grave professional concern.

Isabel tried to prevent herself snapping. In another situation, she told herself, I might like your cheerful countenance and pity you for your impossible job, but at the moment I loathe the sight of you. Mother is not upset about the burglary. I am. It is me in pain, not her.

‘The local authority can provide various aids. Rails, handles for the bath. Day Centre, twice a week?'

They can also piss in the wind. Isabel accepted the Day Centre suggestion and the offer of home help as occasional babysitter, both designed to give her a respite. All problems can be cured by tinkering. She lied to Robert on the phone, said there was more. New locks, a security system loaned by the police. There was. Mother had watched the installation of it, carefully. Hidden in the hall cupboard, once turned on it would detect movement beyond the kitchen. But as
long as Serena wandered at night it was impossible to leave it on. The police had been called out and cancelled in time twice already.

‘She's sort of on the cusp,' the nurse said, not without admiration. ‘Extraordinary case. She seems to keep the worst at bay by sheer effort of will. Tells me she writes everything down.'

‘On the cusp of what?'

‘I don't quite know. Complete change, or breakdown? She swore at me, you know.'

‘That's nothing different. She has a penchant for rude words.'

‘Funny, isn't it, what we retain? Admirable, really.'

‘Fucking disgusting, really.'

Isabel had the feeling that while Mother had passed a test, she herself had not. She no longer exuded that air of compassion; nor was she gentle; not actively unkind, but not particularly patient either. She was like someone who, resigned to a sentence of imprisonment, has decided to play by the rules, albeit resentfully. The home help appeared the next day, equally resentful, easily intimidated by both of them. Isabel used her presence as an escape route. Looked over the promised Day Centre, where there was not a single male person in sight among the crocks lined up against the wall, and left in a hurry, despair, failure and revulsion dogging her heels. Stocked up with animal, vegetable and mineral, came home and locked them both in. She bought a tapestry to keep her hands busy and stop them itching to slap. She bought soap,
shampoo, gel and facial scrubs, scoured herself nightly, trying to eradicate the lingering odour of shame.

T
he Day Centre would not work. Without quite defining why, Isabel was sure of it and took no steps to warn or prevent disaster. Allowed them to take Mother, resplendent in hat, skirt, with three cardigans adding to her breadth, plus ghetto blaster under one arm and handbag carried like a cudgel under the other. Watched, without much sympathy, when the car came back three hours later, the woman driver resembling a person who had endured three rounds inside a boxing ring with unfair opposition. Ghost-coloured, she was. Mrs Burley had caused mayhem. Loud music, blaring. Telling them all they were a load of old farts, or was it tarts, and why didn't they get up and dance. Tried to haul them out of wheelchairs. Fought all the way home, wanting to drive the car back. Had them all over the road.

‘Perhaps she got a bit overheated,' Isabel suggested, smiling sweetly.

‘It was nice,' Serena announced, refusing to get out of the passenger seat. ‘Very nice.'

‘Nice for you,' Isabel said, pulling her out without any attempt at persuasion. ‘Not so nice for them.' She scowled at the driver, challenging. ‘Same time on Thursday, then?'

‘I'll have to check …'

‘Of course you will.'

Perhaps, Isabel reflected, four days after the emptying of her mother's house, it is me who has made her worse. Why on earth did I ever think I could make her better? I offered comprehensive care to someone I loved, thus taking away what little responsibility there was left in her; maybe the downhill path would not have been as swift without me. I am silly. Silly and sullied. There were times when a jumbling of words seemed a useful saving of any kind of analysis. She did not speak to her mother; she hissed at her.

And then there was George. Sitting on her conscience like a heavy toad, his absence filling the house, even though it was a relief. In the early afternoons Serena set out a tray for tea. It took a full half hour, all her movements indecisive, looking at cups and saucers, moving in and out of awareness of what they were for. Then sitting beside them with her gaze fixed on the back door, waiting with the dog. Waiting.

Isabel could scarcely bear to touch Serena. She did not want to touch anyone, or to be touched. Not on the hand. Not anywhere on the skin. Especially when the van came up to the back door. Andrew and another greeted by Serena like honoured guests, while Isabel quailed, heart in mouth. Impossible to imagine the dancing men would come back, not in daylight, not so soon. How easy it was to terrify with an act of kindness. By the time she had stopped shaking, Andrew had explained himself. A spare sofa and a couple of armchairs, he said. My father thought you could do without a dining-room table for a while, didn't use it
much anyhow, did you? But the living room, that nice room with the fire, well, pity to waste it.

They were not the family of sofa, chairs and rugs that anyone present would have chosen, but they were clean and they were adequate. They sat in the vastness of the drawing room like forlorn creatures seeking warmth, comic caricatures of the real thing, refugees from an alien culture, speaking to no one. Isabel was aware that gratitude was in order, spoke it, but could not feel it.

‘What's happened about George, Andrew? Do you know?'

Of course he would know, sooner than she. Via the all-male network that was morally obliged to tell her last, in case she got upset.

‘They had to let him go. On bail to return in a couple of days. Pending further inquiries. Condition of bail not to come here.'