Authors: Kate Thompson
‘Where’s the patient?’
‘I’ll take you to her now.’
Dervla led the way to the sitting room, tapped on the door, and opened it. ‘Daphne!’ she said. ‘The doctor’s here to see you.’
‘Who?’
‘The doctor. She’s here because we think you may have a urinary tract infection.’
‘Oh. Yes.’
Dervla stood aside to allow Dr Doorley into the room.
‘Hello, Mrs. Vaughan. I’m Dr Doorley,’ she said, hunkering down beside Daphne’s armchair.
‘Oh, hello,’ said Daphne, proffering a regal hand. ‘How do you do? It’s a pleasure to meet you.’
‘Thank you,’ said Dr Doorley. ‘How are you feeling, Mrs Vaughan?’
‘I’m feeling perfectly fine, thank you. It’s very kind of you to enquire after my health.’
‘No pain anywhere? No discomfort?’
‘None at all.’ Daphne smiled benignly. It was a beautiful performance, thought Dervla. She was the picture of the gracious dowager.
‘May we have a little chat?’ asked Dr Doorley, taking a pen and a notepad from her bag. ‘I’d like to ask you some questions. I have a form here that I’m going to fill in – a kind of questionnaire.’
‘Certainly. I love doing questionnaires.’
‘Now. First question. Your name is?’
‘Daphne Beaufoy,’ said Daphne, giving her maiden name without hesitation.
‘Mmm-hmm. And your address?’
The address in Coolnamara that Daphne gave was completely unfamiliar to Dervla. It must have been her childhood home.
‘And can you tell me, Daphne – I may call you Daphne, may I?’
Daphne considered, then nodded her head once, as if bestowing a favour.
‘What season of the year is it?’
‘It…it’s winter.’ Daphne knew immediately that she’d made a mistake. Her eyes went to the window. ‘But to judge by the weather,’ she amended gamely, ‘you’d almost think it was summer!’
Wow. Dervla was impressed. Daphne was like a swan paddling like hell beneath the surface to maintain that illusion of serenity, so afraid of being perceived to be non
compos mentis
that she was working her ass off to appear clued-in.
‘And can you tell me who our current Taoiseach is, Daphne?’ asked Dr Doorley.
‘Cosgrave!’ she announced triumphantly, citing the name of a man who had been Taoiseach decades ago, and who was now dead. ‘I’m very interested in politics, you know.’
‘And who is this person?’ Dr Doorley indicated Dervla, who was still standing by the door.
‘That person,’ said Daphne, ‘is…not as stupid as she looks.’
Dervla felt like applauding her mother-in-law. What an inspired answer!
‘Very good!’ said Dr Doorley, putting away her pen and notepad. ‘Now. Dervla here tells me that you had a little accident.’
‘An accident?’
‘Last night, Daphne.’ Dervla was careful not to say ‘Remember?’ If she did, that would imply that Daphne had forgotten the ‘accident’, and if Daphne was confronted with proof of her completely non-existent memory it would upset her. ‘Actually, it was very early this morning,’ Dervla continued. ‘When you didn’t make it to the loo in time.’
‘Oh, yes.’ It was impossible to tell from Daphne’s expression whether or not she really remembered, or if she was bluffing. ‘That was dreadful, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, it was. And we don’t want it to happen again. So Dr Doorley’s going to do some tests.’
‘What are you going to do to me?’
‘I won’t need to do anything to you,’ said Dr Doorley,
‘because Dervla tells me that you’ve been very forwardthinking and have a urine sample all ready for me.’
‘Oh, yes!’ Daphne beamed. ‘We thought that would be a good idea, didn’t we? Dervla and I are a great team.’
‘Yes,’ said Dervla. ‘So Dr Doorley and I are going to go to the bathroom now.’
‘Why do you need to go to the bathroom?’
‘Because that’s where the urine sample is.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘But I’ll bring you a Cornetto first, Daphne, because I stupidly forgot to bring you your tea and little pancake this afternoon.’
‘I’d love something to eat. I’m very hungry, you know.’
Dervla zapped the TV on. ‘
Inspector Wexford
! Yay!’ she enthused, before ducking into the kitchen for a Cornetto. She peeled the wrapper halfway down for Daphne and then she and Dr Doorley departed on their assignation to the bathroom.
‘It’s in here,’ said Dervla, holding up the chocolate tin.
Dr Doorley smiled. ‘Interesting choice of receptacle,’ she remarked.
‘I searched the place high and low for a jam jar with a lid before I came across this.’
Dr Doorley poured a small amount of the sample into a phial, and then did deft things with a little stick. ‘Yep. Urinary tract infection,’ she pronounced finally, squinting at the stick.
Dervla looked stricken. ‘But I try to be so careful with her personal hygiene!’
‘Don’t blame yourself. It happens a lot at this age. The skin is so thin.’
‘She – um. Most mornings there’s a little excrement on her nightdress. I suppose it migrates south.’
‘That’d do it every time.’ The doctor tucked the phial with Daphne’s urine sample into a plastic bag. ‘I’ll send this off for tests, and write a prescription for antibiotics when I get the results next week. In the meantime I have some broad-spectrum antibiotics that I can let you have. These should help.’ She rooted in her bag, and produced a blister pack. ‘Twice a day, after meals.’
‘How long before they start to kick in?’
‘Two, maybe three days.’
‘Oh, God. So there could be more accidents in store?’
‘It’s a possibility. Have you nappies, or padded pants?’
Dervla slumped. ‘Yeah. But the usual carer says she kicks up a stink if she’s made to wear them. Oops. Sorry. The pun was unintentional.’
Dr Doorley laughed. ‘Try telling her that the doctor insists that she wear them until the infection clears up. Those two words –
The Doctor
– have a lot of authority.’ She snapped her bag shut, and left the room. Dervla followed her along the corridor, not wanting her to leave.
‘Will you have something before you go?’ she said. ‘A cup of tea or coffee?’
‘No, thanks,’ said Dr Doorley. ‘I’ve a baby to get home to.’
‘Oh! Lucky you!’ What would Dervla have given to have a baby’s nappies to change, rather than the nappies of an eighty-five-year-old!
‘Any problems, give us a call,’ said Dr Doorley, when they reached the front door. ‘And remember to look after
yourself
, too.’
‘Thank you. I will,’ said Dervla, gratefully. ‘You’re very good.’
She let the doctor out, then went back into the sitting room.
‘Did you enjoy
Inspector Wexford
, Daphne?’ she asked.
‘Yes. Who was that you were talking to?’
‘The doctor who was here to check out your urine sample.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘You have a urinary tract infection, Daphne. That’s why you had the accident last night.’
‘Oh.’ There was a flicker that told Dervla she remembered something. ‘Oh, yes. That was dreadful, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, it was. Truly dreadful. And we don’t want it to happen again. So
The Doctor
has suggested that you wear pants with pads in them, until the infection clears up. I think it’s a good idea, and I think you should get into them now.’
There was a silence, and then Daphne said: ‘All right. Whatever you say.’
‘We’ll go to the bedroom, and put them on there.’
In the bedroom Dervla took a pair of padded pants from a drawer, knelt at Daphne’s feet, and took off her slippers. ‘Here we go,’ she said, manoeuvring Daphne’s feet into the elasticated pants, then drawing the garment up as far as her knees. ‘Now – if you stand up, I’ll lift your nightdress, and you can pull them up yourself.’ Daphne did so. ‘By the way,
The Doctor
says it’s a good idea to keep them on at night, until the urinary infection clears up.’
‘All right. I’ll get into bed now, shall I?’
‘No, no. It’s not bedtime yet. I’ll go into the sitting room and put a new David Attenborough DVD on for you. I’ll call you when it’s ready to go.’
And off Dervla went, feeling like a zombie in
Groundhog Day
.
Once Daphne was settled in front of David Attenborough, Dervla shambled back into the bedroom to air it a little. She was distracted by her own haggard reflection in the mirror on Daphne’s dressing table, surprised to see that she had definitely lost weight. Maybe she should open a weight-loss clinic here, she thought: “Spend time looking after Mrs Daphne Vaughan and we guarantee the weight will drop off as if by magic.” Ha ha. Gillian McKeith eat your heart out.
Her gaze dropped to the objects littering the surface of the dressing table. Christian had told her that it was important for Daphne to have familiar objects around her as reassurance – her handbag, her glasses, old house keys,
her wallet, with a little cash in it. Here on the dressing table was a dusty address book, full – Dervla conjectured – of the addresses and phone numbers of dead people. There was a silver-backed hand mirror that she didn’t suppose Daphne looked into any more, along with a powder compact, and a lipstick. Christian had told her Daphne had once been such an expert at putting on lipstick that she could do it without the aid of a mirror. There was a photo in a worn velvet frame. Behind the flyblown glass two young people regarded the camera solemnly. The man was wearing a top hat, the woman a wedding veil. Daphne’s parents on their wedding day, Dervla surmised. Their daughter hadn’t been born when this photo was taken. She wondered if Daphne’s parents had ever dreamed they would have a baby who would be back wearing nappies at the age of eighty-five. She wondered how Daphne’s mother had ended up. Daphne thought her mother was still alive, of course. While watching the news the other night, a feature about bereavement support had come on, and Daphne had said: ‘I don’t know how I’d cope with the death of my parents. They’re all I’ve got, you know.’
It had made Dervla feel oddly glad to know that her own parents were really and truly dead, and would never be inveigled into the twilight zone that Daphne inhabited. She picked up the phone to her rock, Christian, and told him all about her day.
‘You star! How did you manage to get hold of a sample?’
‘I don’t know. Whatever fighting spirit got me through last night, when she wet the bed. Maybe it’s my beloved mama, watching over me still.’
‘I don’t know what to say to you. I’m speechless with admiration. You know what you have, girl?’
‘What do I have?’
‘You have pluck.’
Tears sprang to Dervla’s eyes. ‘No, I don’t, Christian,’ she told him. ‘It’s all bravado. I’m on the ropes now, completely wrung out. I’m sorry – so, so sorry, I know I sound like a wimp but you’re going to have to organize a home for her – it’s time the health-care professionals were called in. It’s not fair on Daphne and it’s not fair on me. All the money in the world isn’t worth what this job is doing to me. And it won’t be fair on Nemia either, once Daphne’s fully incontinent. And you know that that day can’t be too far away.’
There was a pause, then: ‘OK. I’ll make some phone calls when I get back,’ said Christian.
The awful resignation in his voice made Dervla start crying in earnest. ‘I’m sorry, love. I really am. I thought I could make this work, but it’s no good. I’d rather get a job stacking shelves somewhere.’
‘There there,’ said Christian, and he kept saying it over and over until her sobs had dwindled into snuffles. Then he adopted a more matter-of-fact tone. ‘Are you looking after yourself?’ he demanded. ‘Are you eating properly?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ve lost my appetite. I had to resort to your mother’s emergency Complan today. Actually, it wasn’t bad. If I mixed a little gin in it, it might taste even better.’
Christian laughed. ‘I’m glad to see your sense of humour’s still intact.’
‘It’s keeping me sane. Bring on those black jokes.’
‘I have one. Here goes: Three old men are talking about their aches, pains and bodily functions. One seventy-year-old man says, “I have this problem. I wake up every morning at seven and it takes me twenty minutes to pee.” An eighty-year-old man says, “My case is worse. I get up at eight and I sit there and grunt and groan for half an hour before I finally have a bowel movement.” The ninety-year-old man says, “At seven I pee like a horse, at eight I crap like a cow.”
“So what’s your problem?” ask the others. “I don’t wake up until nine,” he replies.’
Dervla made an effort to laugh, even though she hadn’t really been listening. After she put the phone down on her husband, she headed to the kitchen and mixed four heaped dessert spoons of Complan into a glass of milk. Studying the info on the side of the pack, she wondered how much of the stuff she’d get through before matters were resolved. And then she thought some more about Christian’s joke, and started to smile. Forget about the gin, forget about the Complan. Black humour and a man with a generous spirit were what were going to get her through this season in hell.
That evening, Fleur phoned Dervla to arrange a time for their jaunt to Arnoldscourt the next day. Dervla’s voice sounded strained, but she didn’t appear to have been drinking, and she assured Fleur that all was well.
‘Have you managed to get much work done on your book?’ Fleur asked.
‘Are you joking? Looking after Daphne is a full-time job. Oops. Gotta go. She’s calling for help. I’m always terrified that I’ll go into the room and find she’s fallen.’
‘OK. Off you go, beauty.’
As Fleur put the phone down, she spied Dervla’s binoculars hanging from the back of one of her patio chairs. She’d have to remember to return them tomorrow – she’d forgotten last time they’d met up.
Merde!
She’d miss her newfound hobby of spying on the village.
Raising the binoculars to eye level, she scanned the main street. Hmm. It looked as if shenanigans were going on again in Corban’s apartment. Those curtains had definitely not been closed earlier today. Amused, she dialled his number.
‘Well, hello,
Monsieur
. Your pals are up to more hankypanky in your penthouse.’