Authors: Kate Thompson
‘Hello, Fleur,’ he said, a smile in his voice.
‘Hello, Jake. About that drink?’
‘Are you free right now?’
Fleur looked down at her chipped toenail polish.
‘No. Tomorrow?’
‘I’ve a night shoot tomorrow. Day after?’
‘Sorry. That doesn’t suit.’ Corban was due to visit her this weekend. ‘How about this day next week?’
‘Cool. In O’Toole’s?’
Fleur didn’t want to go for a drink in O’Toole’s. It was too public.
‘I don’t think I’d be comfortable with that. Why don’t you come to me?’
‘I’d like that. What’ll I bring to drink? Pink fizz?’
Fleur smiled. How very young he was! ‘Pink fizz sounds perfect,’ she said.
Dervla woke with a start. What had woken her? She sat up in bed, and listened hard.
Stump, stump, stump
. Uh-oh. Daphne was on walkabout.
Her heartbeat accelerated. How strange, she thought, for a grown person to be afraid of a little old lady. But Dervla knew she had reason to be afraid. She’d noticed, when she washed Daphne, that her charge sometimes looked so testy
that Dervla was fearful she might aim a right hook at her. Her mother-in-law was surprisingly strong – Dervla could tell by the way she gripped her hands when she was helping her to get up from a chair. And Dervla hadn’t forgotten what Nemia had said to her about Daphne lashing out at her, and pinching her, and giving her Chinese burns in her efforts to wrest the phone from her. She had reason to be on her guard.
Daphne was still stumping, outside in the corridor. The footsteps stopped outside Dervla’s door, and she dropped back against her pillows, feigning sleep. She heard the handle turn, and through her half-closed eyes, saw Daphne’s face peer around the door like a gargoyle. Dervla lay quite still, certain that Daphne could hear the beating of her heart. Then the old lady shut the door and continued her pacing. What was she doing? Checking to see that she was not alone – that was what Nemia had told her. Who did she expect to find in the rooms she peered into? Her parents? Her husband? Her long-dead lovers? The children she felt she’d let down?
Dervla knew that she wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep until the stumping stopped, and Daphne had finished checking on her loved ones. But the stumping didn’t stop. Finally, Dervla sat up again and switched on the bedside lamp. She listened hard, trying to pinpoint exactly where in the house Daphne might be. But all had fallen silent.
She slid out of bed, got into her kimono, and went to the door. Outside, an amber lozenge on the floor of the corridor told her that the light was on in the bathroom and she saw through the open door that Daphne’s bed was empty. She wasn’t in the bathroom, but her nightdress was. It was on the floor, and when Dervla went to pick it up, she realized that it was saturated with wee. She dropped it into the laundry bucket as if it was on fire. Then she steeled herself to go back along the corridor. The light was on in the kitchen, but
Daphne wasn’t in there. The sitting room was in darkness. Dervla flicked the light switch. Daphne wasn’t in her usual armchair, but she was in the one behind the door. Dervla didn’t see her until she turned to leave the room, and she jumped out of her skin, with a shriek.
‘Oh! Daphne! You gave me such a fright! What are you doing there?’
‘I think I have every right to be here, don’t I?’ said Daphne. She was wearing her slippers and her long ribbed cardigan, and that was all. Her cardigan was pulled tightly around her. ‘I need someone to light my fire,’ she added. ‘I’m freezing cold.’
Dervla shook her head as if to clear her mind of the surreal situation she’d found herself in, then leaned down and switched on the gas fire. It
was
cold in the sitting room. Then she straightened up and looked down at Daphne. Daphne was biting a fingernail.
‘Did you have an accident, Daphne?’ asked Dervla.
‘What do you
mean
by “an accident”?’
‘Did you not manage to make it to the loo in time?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘OK. I’d better check this out.’
Before Dervla left the room, she took a backward glance at Daphne. She was sitting very erect, like the Queen at a gala performance, and her eyes were staring into the middle distance. She was still chewing on her fingernail.
In the bedroom, she whipped the duvet off Daphne’s bed. It was drenched. Wee had soaked through the sheet and the so-called ‘protective’ underblanket to the mattress. It had even got onto the carpet. For Dervla, it was a fight or flight moment. She took a deep breath and opted for the former, swinging into action.
She took the soiled bed linen into the utility room along
with the dripping nightdress, loaded the washing machine, and activated it. Then she unlocked the sliding doors in Daphne’s bedroom and hoisted the mattress off the bed and out into the patio, where she dumped it against the wall. A pillow was dumped as well.
She diverted into the kitchen and – wearing rubber gloves – came back with a bottle of Dettol and a roll of kitchen towel, a scrubbing brush and a bin bag. After cleaning the carpet, she dumped the cleaning equipment in the bin bag, then moved on to her own room, and started pulling the bedclothes off her bed. When it was stripped, she lugged the mattress down the hall, and heaved it onto the base of Daphne’s bed. She stood there for a moment or two, looking at the unprotected mattress. Then she went into her own bedroom, emerging with her yoga mat. This she unrolled and laid upon Daphne’s mattress, before setting to and making up the bed with fresh linen.
Finally it was done. Hospital corners and all. Into the bathroom, next, to run a bath. Then back to the sitting room.
Daphne was still sitting up dead straight in the armchair, gnawing at the skin on her index finger. Dervla could tell that she sensed she’d done something wrong, and that she didn’t want to be reminded of it.
Dervla looked at her and said: ‘Daphne. We’re going to have to get you into a bath.’
‘What? Don’t be so stupid! It’s the middle of the night.’
‘I know it’s the middle of the night, but you’ve got to have a bath.’
Daphne turned her Medusa gaze on Dervla and said: ‘I will
not
have a bath.’
‘You don’t have any choice, Daphne.’
‘I do have a choice. I shall do as I please, and I will not get into a bath at this hour of the night.’
‘You will not do as you please. I am trying to help you, and I am simply telling you what has to be done. Once you’ve had a bath you can get back into bed.’
‘I want to go back to bed.’
‘I know you do. But you can’t go back to bed without having a bath first.’
‘Oh, don’t be such a ridiculous little fusspot.’
‘I am not being a fusspot, Daphne. I am telling you that you have to have a bath for reasons of hygiene.’
‘What do you mean? Are you saying that I smell?’
‘Yes, you do, Daphne. You wet your bed.’
Daphne went very still.
‘You wet the bed, Daphne, and I have put clean sheets on it. Now I need to get you into a bath and into a fresh nightgown. Once you’ve done that, you can go back to bed and rest.’ Dervla could see Daphne thinking, hard. Then: ‘I’ll do whatever you say,’ she said.
‘That’s good. We’re doing the right thing, now.’ Dervla held out her hands, and Daphne got to her feet with an effort. In the bathroom, Dervla helped Daphne off with her cardigan and slippers, then guided her towards her electric bathing chair. ‘Now. Sit on there, and I’ll lower you in.’
Dervla pressed the button on the control, and down Daphne went, into the foamy water.
‘I don’t like bubbles,’ she said. ‘I don’t like soap.’
‘It’s not soap,’ said Dervla tiredly. ‘It’s an emollient.’
‘What’s an emollient?’
‘A kind of moisturiser.’
‘Oh.’
Dervla then started to sponge Daphne all over, finally saying: ‘OK. We’re all done.’
Beyond the window a pallid dawn was starting to make its presence felt: the dawn chorus would start soon.
Dervla wrapped a bath sheet around Daphne, and started to pat her dry. Despite the heat from the electric bar on the wall, the old lady was shivering.
‘We’re nearly there now, love.’ Dervla took a nightdress and dropped it over Daphne’s head. Then she negotiated the sleeves. ‘Take my hand and follow through,’ she said. ‘Good. And now the other one. Good. Good girl. Now. You’re all set for bed.’
‘What do you want me to do now?’ asked Daphne.
‘You can go back to bed, now.’
‘Which way do I go?’
‘Out through here, and to your left.’
Daphne shuffled into her bedroom and gave her usual ‘Oof!’ as she sat down on the bed. She looked nearly as exhausted as Dervla felt.
Dervla lifted Daphne’s legs, slid them under the duvet. Then she moved to the door and switched off the light. ‘Goodnight, Daphne.’
‘Goodnight, Dervla,’ said Daphne. ‘Thank you.’
Thank you! She’d said thank you. Dervla knew it had cost her to say it. For Daphne to express any form of gratitude after going through something that must have been profoundly humiliating for her indicated that she sensed a kindness had been done. Maybe, maybe, they could pull through this together.
Dervla went back into Nemia’s room, improvised a bed from cushions and pillows, and lay down. But she could not sleep.
At around six o’clock, there was movement from Daphne’s bedroom. Dervla sat up at once, listening. Then she reached again for her kimono and slipped into it, knotting the sash as she made her way along the corridor.
Daphne was sitting on the edge of the bed, chewing on one of her fingernails.
‘Do you need to spend a penny, Daphne?’ asked Dervla.
‘No. I don’t believe I do.’
‘Are you sure? I’ll help you into the bathroom, if you like.’
‘Why should I want to go to the bathroom?’
‘To spend a penny.’
‘Oh, no. I don’t need to spend a penny, thank you very much. I’ve already spent one.’
Dervla’s eyes travelled downward. There was a puddle on the floor.
Fleur usually adored delivery day. She revelled in pulling frock after frock out of boxes, taking a sensual pleasure in the look, the feel, the smell of the garments. The slipperiness of silk, the crispness of organdie, the svelte, pelt-like nap of velour, even the darling little buttons, all combined to make Fleur long to fling the frocks onto the floor and roll wantonly around on them. She had, of course, far too much respect for them to do that; besides, anyone passing the window would surmise that the eccentric Frenchwoman who dressed in forties film star threads had lost the plot completely.
But today Fleur’s nerves were a little jangled. Her assistant had phoned in sick, and without Angie to help her unpack, Fleur was working overtime. She’d put up a sign on the door that read ‘Closed ’til Midday’, but she’d clearly forgotten to lock the door, because the bell tinkled as someone came through.
Looking up, Fleur saw Elena Sweetman standing on the threshold. She was just about to tell her that she wasn’t open yet, when something made her stop. Miss Sweetman had to be channelling Jayne Mansfield in
Panic Button
. She was sporting a black beret and slim black trousers, into which was tucked a white French-cuffed shirt. Pearls dangled from
her earlobes, and the sexy, summery scent she was wearing was, unmistakably, Balmain’s
Vent Vert.
‘Oh!’ said the film star, clocking Fleur sitting on the floor in a sea of satin and taffeta. ‘I’m sorry. I can see you’re busy. I’ll come back later.’ Her attention was arrested by a charmeuse sheath that Fleur was unfurling from its cocoon of tissue paper. ‘Or maybe…I could help you?’
‘Help me?’
‘Yes. I worked in a boutique once, way back when I lived in Little Rock, Arkansas.’
‘Like Lorelei in
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes
?’
Elena’s eyes widened in delight. ‘That’s right! I even lived on the wrong side of the tracks. But then, waddayaknow –’ Elena’s velvety voice went up a register, became a breathless little purr ‘– I suddenly found myself being wined and dined and ermined.’ Fleur smiled at this meeting of minds. She moved to the DVD player, pressed ‘Play’, and the sugary voice of Marilyn Monroe came floating through the speakers, crooning ‘A Little Girl from Little Rock’.
‘Come on in,’ she told Elena. ‘I’d be glad of your help, if you’re absolutely sure you don’t mind?’
‘I’m sure.’ Elena stepped across the threshold and Fleur locked the door behind her. ‘I’d actually love to help. It means I’ll get a sneak preview of your stock.’
Fleur smiled. ‘And the best pickings. Coffee?’
‘I’d love a cup. Shall I get started?’
‘Sure. There’s a box of hangers by the counter.’ Fleur moved into the back room to put on the kettle. As she fetched from the cupboard a tin of Illy and a box of homemade madeleines (baked to her mother’s recipe), she heard Elena’s voice drift through from the shop.
‘I love the way you have proper padded hangers,’ she was saying. ‘Everything about this shop reeks class.’
‘Thank you!’
‘It’s kinda surprising to find a shop like this in a sleepy joint like Lissamore.’
‘I make hay while the sun shines. And I hibernate in the winter.’
‘What an enviable way to live. Ooh – look ! This is just like the dress Gina Lollobrigida wore on the motor scooter in
Come September
.’
Fleur went back into the shop to see Elena holding up a burned orange cotton dress. ‘Isn’t it pretty?’ she said. ‘I would have earmarked that for myself, once upon a time.’
Elena gave Fleur a look of assessment. ‘Why not bag it?’ she said. ‘It’s very you.’
‘I know. I’d love it. But I’m having to be more cautious with my cash these days. Although, I can’t say I’m sorry to see the decline of the economic boom,’ she added conversationally. ‘I saw a side to human nature that I didn’t much care for then.’
‘Red in tooth and claw about sums it up.’
As Elena hung the dress on a rail and drew another from its tissue paper nest, Fleur began to attach discreet price tags to tiny gold safety pins. ‘How’s the movie going?’ she asked.