Nearest Thing to Crazy (24 page)

‘I used to grow all my own veg.’ Jim, the old boy who always wanted you to make time for a little chat, was the first to speak. He had such a quiet voice that I had to lean close to him. He had that fusty old man scent – dry, slightly sour and tinged with essence of whiskers.

‘Did you, Jim? And what did you grow?’

‘Oh you know . . . the usual. Beans, onions o’ course, and my wife, Betty, she loved her beetroot, she did.’

‘That’s right,’ said Edith. ‘Beetroot. Pickled in vinegar. Nothing like it. Mind, you had to be careful not to get it on your clothes. Bugger to get out it was.’

I giggled. ‘Didn’t have Vanish in those days, Edith.’

‘No. Didn’t ’ave no Vanish. ‘Course I remember when we didn’t have no washing machines, neither.’

‘Kept you fit, though, dint’it?’ Jim said. ‘That’s why people are obese. No exercise. They wanna get outside, get some fresh air in their lungs, ’stead of sitting in front of a computer all day.’

‘Shut up! I don’t want to hear any more from you.’ Vera had been sitting slumped sideways in her wheelchair, not saying a word, and for all I knew didn’t have a clue what was going on around her.

‘That’s not very nice, Vera,’ I said.

‘Fuck off!’ she said.

‘You can fuck off, you silly old cow,’ Edith snapped back.

‘Um . . . okay. I thought we’d sow some lettuce and carrots today. And I’ve brought along some tomato plants.’

‘I hate tomatoes,’ Vera said, grumpily. ‘Don’t agree with my stomach. It’s the acid.’

‘That’s a shame,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you might like the carrots.’

‘Humph,’ she grunted, and let a great stream of dribble drop down onto her sleeve.

‘Do you know how old I am?’ another old lady, Babs I think she was called, asked me.

‘No, I don’t,’ I replied, and almost said, ‘Do you?’ but stopped myself. ‘How old are you?’

‘I’m nine.’

‘No she’s not,’ said Jim. ‘She’s ninety. You’re nine-
tee
, Babs, not nine.’

‘Yes, that’s right, nine.’ She shouted. ‘I don’t live here, you know. I’m waiting for my mother. Do you think you could telephone her and ask her to come and get me?’

This was really testing me. ‘I’ll call her in a minute, Babs. Shall we do some gardening first?’

‘She’ll be worried about me. She won’t know where I am. I’ve got to catch a bus.’

‘No you don’t. Your mother’s dead,’ Jim said, unsympathetically.

‘No she’s not, because
she
said . . .’ pointing at me, ‘she’d telephone her, so how can she be dead?’

‘I’m sorry, Babs,’ I thought it best to come clean. ‘I’m afraid she is dead.’

‘Well when did she die?’

‘Quite a long time ago,’ was my educated guess.

‘Oh.’ Babs seemed to take this bad news stoically and propped her chin into her hand with her elbow supported by the arm of the chair. There was a solitary whisker on her chin which I swear was two inches long. ‘Then who’s going to collect me from school?’

‘She’s a bloody fool,’ Vera assured me.

‘I’m sure she isn’t,’ I said. I was way out of my depth. This was about refereeing, not gardening. I was almost pleased to see my mother approaching.

‘Here she comes, the Queen of Sheba,’ Vera said.

‘Hello, Mum,’ I said, trying to sound cheerful.

‘Well, you never know what the day’s going to bring, do you? Hello, darling,’ she said, all smiles and warmth. ‘She’s my daughter, you know. This is Cassandra.’

Jim and Betty, who seemed to be the most lucid of the group, nodded politely and said, in unison, ‘Yes, we know.’

‘Are you my mother?’ Babs said. Everyone ignored her.

‘She’s got a gardening business. She’s very clever.’

‘No, Mum, I’m not . . . really I’m not . . .’

‘I need the toilet,’ Babs said.

‘She’s just attention seeking, take no notice,’ Betty said.

Babs pushed herself out of the wheelchair and started hitching up her skirt.

‘Babs, no. Wait. I’ll get a carer. Hold on.’

‘I can’t wait . . .’

‘Oh God . . .’ I rushed to the French windows and yelled, ‘Help!’

Then I turned back to my little group. A large puddle had
appeared at Babs’s feet. The others were regarding it indifferently. Thank God a carer appeared. ‘Oh dear, Babs. Never mind. Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we?’ She guided Babs gently back into the wheelchair and sped her off. I hoped that she might be back to mop up the puddle which was putting a bit of a dampener on my gardening class.

I decided the best thing was to pretend it wasn’t there. The smell was evil, though.

‘Does anyone have anything they’d like to plant over the coming weeks?’ The ammonia fumes were making my eyes water.

‘Pansies,’ Jim said. ‘Winter-flowering pansies. They’ll cheer us up when it gets cold and miserable.’

‘I never really liked pansies much,’ my mother said. ‘There’s something a bit common about them. I suppose it depends on the colour. You know, I particularly dislike yellow pansies.’

‘Let’s have lots of yellow ones, then,’ Vera said.

‘Ignore her, Cassandra. She’s just a difficult old woman. That’s what you are, Vera, a difficult old woman . . .’

‘I’m sure she isn’t, Mum. I guess she’s just a bit . . .’ What could
I say? A bit demented?

‘Fuck off,’ Vera said.

‘We could have a mixture,’ I said, attempting diplomacy. ‘That would be no problem. And how about some Savoy cabbage and maybe some cauliflower?’

‘Are you sure, Cassandra? I mean they can get them so cheaply at the supermarket. Is it worth the effort, I wonder?’

‘I just thought, as it’s a gardening club, it would be satisfying to grow a few things. Anyway, I’m going to transfer the tomato plants into big pots. Anyone want to help?’

‘Jim, you’ll help Cassandra, won’t you? And Betty, dear, I’m sure you’d like to get your hands dirty.’ My mother had only been with us for under five minutes, but was already acting like royalty, dishing out orders to her subjects. I envied Vera her style of revolt.

‘Now Cassandra, you must remember they’re a bit . . .’ she dropped her voice and mouthed in a loud stage whisper ‘. . . doolally.’

‘Who’s doolally?’ Vera said.

‘You are,’ my mother said.

‘Mum!’ I said.

‘What?’ my mother said.

‘Nothing,’ I said.

When it was time to leave I climbed into my car and, despite having enjoyed the last hour more than I thought I would, I was left with the uncomfortable suspicion that there might be a degree of madness within all of us. Was it something to be afraid of, or was it really a portal of escape from the bleak prison of our minds, like where those poor old souls were waiting for nothing more than a swift and peaceful death? Was life so empty for them that their minds rescued them, placing them into a more bearable reality? And could that really be happening to me? How do we classify madness? What did it mean to be sane? I certainly didn’t feel sane right now, with everything going on in my head
.
And did that mean it was impossible for me to tell whether or not my reality was ‘real’, or distorted?

I needed someone to tell me whether or not I was thinking like a crazy person. I really needed a friend, someone I could confide in, someone I could trust and someone who might understand, so I called
Sally on my way home.

‘Listen, what are you up to? Can I come and steal a cup of coffee?’

‘What, now?’

‘If you’re free.’

‘Sure.’

‘I’ll be with you in five minutes.’

Once the two Labradors had quietened down and we’d said our hellos, Sally filled our cups with fragrant fresh coffee. She shunted the old newspapers and junk mail to one side and then we both sat down at the kitchen table. It was a new kitchen table, along with the rest of the kitchen; smart, hand-built units painted the colour of creamy unsalted butter, and topped with glittery black granite. The new kitchen had been part of Patrick’s penance.

I tried to stifle a yawn, but failed. ‘God, sorry. This coffee’s just what I need.’

‘You look tired.’

‘Thanks,’ I laughed, drily. ‘That’s what you said last time you saw me.’ Most of the time I loved Sally’s directness.

‘Well then you
still
look tired. What’s the point of telling you you look fantastic when you look completely washed out?’

‘To tell you the truth, I haven’t been sleeping that well. And I’ve had quite a testing morning. Can you believe I’ve been roped in to supervise a gardening class at my mother’s care home? It’s pretty bloody depressing. You know, they’re lovely old things, but there’s nothing dignified about old age. They’re either incontinent or doolally, as my mother put it. Which is rich, coming from her. I suppose the only blessing is that once they lose their minds they’re not really aware of what’s going on around them. At least I hope they aren’t, for their sake.’

‘How are things?’

‘With my mother? Same as usual. I made a quick getaway after I’d finished the garden session. I should have spent more time with her, but I just didn’t feel I’d got the emotional energy left.’

All this was just a preamble to the real conversation I wanted to have, but I was nervous about getting to the point. ‘How are the tickets going for the quiz?’

‘We’ve sold fifteen tables of eight. So we’ve already got more people than last year. But I think we’re right to do away with the tea and coffee sales. We only had about three takers.’

‘I remember. Everyone wanted to get more wine when they’d run out of the stuff they brought with them. I mean, who wants a bloody cup of tea with their meal?’

‘Well obviously not many, as we found out last year. Probably a lot better for us than alcohol, though.’

‘Do you think?’ No doubt she was not-so-subtly reminding me of my supposed drunkenness at Ellie’s supper. ‘I think I’ll stick to red wine. It’s full of antioxidants, apparently – just like tea. Or is it just that disgusting green tea I’m thinking of? Talking of which, are you still taking your daily vitamin cocktail?’

‘You bet. It’s the only way I can justify sustaining my incredibly unhealthy lifestyle. Patrick tells me he can hear me approaching long before he hears my footsteps. I rattle, like a percussion instrument.’

‘Don’t be silly, you don’t.’

‘Of course I don’t, sweet pea, I’m teasing you.’

‘Sorry. Need to work on my sense of humour these days. Well, whatever it is you’re on, it’s obviously working.
You
look terrific.’ Patrick’s affair had galvanized Sally into losing a stone, having her hair coloured and restyled and spending a fortune on new clothes.

‘And what about Laura and Dan, are they okay?’

I put the cup to my lips and noticed my hand was trembling. I took a sip and it scalded my tongue, and then set the cup back carefully on the saucer.

‘Fine.’ I gave her a thin smile which contradicted my words.

‘Really?’

‘Okay, then. Not fine. Not fine at all, in fact.’

‘What’s up?’

‘Oh, I don’t know . . . everything . . . It all seems such a mess.’ Sally said nothing, just waited for me to go on. ‘Can I ask you something?’

‘Sure.’

‘You know when you discovered Patrick was . . . you know . . .’

‘Playing around?’

‘How did you find out?’

‘I saw his mobile phone bill. I was emptying the bins, sorting stuff to recycle, and I saw his bill was much more expensive than usual, so I had a look. Before that he’d been behaving a bit strangely, so I suppose I was already suspicious.’

‘How do you mean, strangely?’

‘Finding fault over little things – like I couldn’t do right for doing wrong. It’s hard to explain, but you just kind of sense these things, call it intuition. There was nothing big I could put my finger on, but he was just different. I can’t really say how, but he just was.’

‘Did you snoop on him?’

‘Of course I did,’ she sighed. ‘Especially after I’d seen the phone bill. There were dozens of text messages, a few hour-long conversations – honestly I don’t know how he found the time to get any work done. Oh, and he never let his phone out of his sight, and suddenly he decides to put a password on it. So then I searched for his credit card bills, only surprise, surprise, he’d stopped putting them in the file with the others. It’s the things they do to cover their tracks, not the tracks themselves. You don’t think that Dan’s up to something, do you? Surely not, anyone can see that he loves you, Cass. You’re so good together, you two.’