The Small Fortune of Dorothea Q (34 page)

T
he jolly tinkle
of my ringtone wiggled its way through a deep and dreamless sleep. Automatically my hand reached for the mobile beside my bed and flicked it open. I opened my eyes a slit. ‘Neville,’ said the backlit screen. I groaned and contemplated rejecting the call but duty conquered sleep. I grunted something unintelligible.

‘Why can’t you people answer the house phone? And Rika’s bloody mobile is turned off. Do you know how much trouble I had to go to find out your number? I had to call Marion.’

Propped up on my elbow, still lost in a fog of forgetfulness, I only yawned in response to Neville’s fury. A moment later, though, all the horror, despair and final relief of last night rushed into my consciousness, a torn and tangled bundle of emotion. I struggled to think, to focus, to remember. Mum had rung Neville from the hospital phone with the bad news, told him to tell Norbert and Marion. On the way home at almost four a.m. she’d sent him a short text message:
‘Mum out of danger.’

Neville must have called the landline first thing in the morning. The mobile screen said seven a.m.

‘Didn’t hear it.’

‘Well, go on. How is she? Is she going to survive?’ Groggy from barely three hours of sleep, I updated him on the situation.

‘Well, I’m coming down. I’m just leaving home. I’ll be there in a couple of hours. Norbert is coming too. He’s booked a ten a.m. flight. Please wait for me at home.’

‘Wait, wait … I don’t know when we’ll be home …’

‘Well, just be there, that’s all.’

‘Why don’t you go straight to the hospital? We’ll be going there later …’

‘Why should both of you go? What’s the point of going to hospital if she’s not conscious? Give me a bell if there’s any change … But really Inky, this is so
typical
of Rika. Why didn’t you make sure Mummy had her seat belt on? You know very well that your mother ...’

‘I did. I always do. Gran has the habit of secretly unlocking it. Says the strap bites her. Literally. Listen, Neville, Mum and I didn’t get much sleep last night. Can you not call again till …’

‘Yes, yes, I know. But listen Inky … what about the stamp? Have you secured it?’

‘The stamp? Oh, the Stamp. What do you mean?’

‘I mean exactly what I said. Have you made sure it’s safe?’

‘Not the slightest idea. I haven’t thought about the stamp in twenty-four hours.’

‘Well, you should! Really, Inky. You of all people should be watching out for things like this. You know Rika doesn’t. Has Mummy hidden it again or is it in her purse? Did she have a handbag with her when she had the accident? Did you check?’

‘The hospital gave us her handbag. It’s probably downstairs.’

‘Well, go and check it immediately.’

‘I most certainly will not! I’m going back to sleep. Look, Neville, we’ll talk about this later. I’m dead tired.’

‘Inky, no, wait…’

‘We’ll talk later. I have to go. Bye, Neville.’

‘Inky! Inky, wait!’

‘We’ll talk later. I have to go. Bye, Neville.’

I switched off the phone and wrapped the duvet around me, longing for more delicious sleep. But Neville had planted a bug in my brain, and there it crawled around. Yes, Gran was out of immediate danger but there was the worry about brain damage. What if that was indeed the case? What if she woke up out of anaesthesia and was a completely different person?

Last night that notion had made me weep for Gran. This morning it made me worry. For the stamp. Where was it? Only Gran knew. But what if Gran woke up today and
didn’t
know?

Finally I got out of bed. Mum’s bedroom door was open and I peeked in – still fast asleep. Obviously, she’d missed her four a.m. date with the laptop. I tiptoed downstairs. Gran’s handbag lay on the hallway sideboard.

I took it into the living room and sat down on the carpet. It was the same voluminous bag of green imitation leather she’d brought from Guyana, with a brass clasp at the top and two rope-like straps, already cracking apart, that fit over Gran’s shoulder so that she could hug the cushiony bulk of the bag under her armpit.

First I removed a stack of papers: grocery receipts, letters, a folded map of the area, several pamphlets from various organisations and a stack of ads for a variety of items ranging from hearing aids to car rentals, and a half-completed Sudoku torn from a newspaper. Delving deeper into the bag I removed a tiny
London A-Z
, a photograph wallet, a small bottle of Limacol (Gran had found a shop in Brixton that sold it), a box of throat lozenges, a beer coaster from a local pub, a couple of biros, a bottle-opener key-chain with no keys on it, another key-chain in the shape of a boxing glove in Guyana’s colours with several keys on it, a powder compact and a myriad other items. I tipped the bag upside-down so that the rest of its contents fell onto the carpet, tiny things like a book of matches, a hair-pin and a few stray pills of dubious identity.

I searched in an organised manner. First I went through the photo wallet and the purse, searching every secret flap for the stamp. No luck. I returned to the now mostly empty handbag and looked in its side pockets, zipped open a side compartment. No stamp. Satisfied, I replaced all the items into the bag, stood up and replaced the bag on the sideboard.

By now I was quite wide awake, and totally immersed in my quest. Where would Gran have hidden the stamp? I decided the only way to find it would be to go through the whole room with a fine-tooth comb: start at one corner, and work my way through. I looked at the clock on her bedside table; ten past nine. How long would it take Neville to get here? It would be good if I could find the stamp before he arrived. Before he – and Norbert – began turning the place upside down themselves. I couldn’t let that happen. I was doing this for Mum’s sake, I told myself. To protect her from Neville and Norbert who, once they got their hot little hands on the stamp, would bully Mum into backing off which, knowing Mum and her total indifference to it, she would.

I started with Gran’s wardrobe. I removed all the clothes from it and laid them on the bed. I removed the stacks of clothing from the shelves: Gran’s neatly folded underwear, her blouses and nylon petticoats and the cotton dresses she’d brought from Guyana. The whole wardrobe smelt of Gran. Her scent, a melange of Limacol and face-powder, hair-oil and coconut and rose oils, and old-lady skin, enfolded me in an atmosphere redolent of her presence.

I didn’t hear Mum enter the room, so engrossed was I in my work. I only heard her voice.

‘What in the name of twenty million suns are you up to?’

I didn’t answer. I just stood there, staring back.

‘You sneaky little … little …’ Mum was lost for words, for an epithet terrible enough to describe my iniquity. I tried to calm her, reached out for her hand.

‘Mum, I …’

She snatched her hand away. I replaced the pile of clothes in my arms to its shelf and took a step away from the wardrobe, sinking on to Gran’s commode.

‘We have to be sensible, Mum,’ I said. ‘And practical. The stamp …’

‘The stamp. The stamp! Is that all you can think about at a time like this? Mummy isn’t in her grave yet, you know!’

Mum’s eyes blazed with wrath.

‘I know, I know, Mum, but it’s not about that. She’s probably got this brain damage, Dr Stone said so, and Neville’s coming in a few hours and I thought …’

‘Neville’s coming?’

‘Yes, and Norbert too!’

‘Oh.’ Mum was silent for a moment. The news of her brothers’ imminent arrival seemed to have driven out her anger. She stood in the doorway frowning, scratching her head, biting her bottom lip. Her hair was a mess, a mane of partly matted frizz. She was barefoot, her pyjamas mismatched; a plain washed-out purple striped top on faded floral bottoms.

‘I suppose they have the right,’ she said at last. ‘She’s their Mum too. And Marion? I told Neville to tell her too. Is she on her way as well?’

‘I don’t know. He didn’t mention Marion. I suppose she’ll want to come too if everyone else is here.’

‘A family reunion. How nice.’

I smiled at her sarcasm; that was more like Mum. Encouraged by the dissolution of her anger I continued the interrupted explanation of why I was here, in Gran’s room, going through her stuff.

‘You see, they’re worried about the stamp. They’re afraid Gran may have hidden it somewhere and might not remember where, after the accident. Neville said he’s coming to look for it. He …’

‘So you thought
you’d
find it first?’

I nodded. ‘Mum, I’m not the mercenary beast you think. I do care about Gran and I was so relieved the operation went well. I do love her … you saw that last night! But we have to be practical as well. Do you really want Neville and Norbert snooping around in her room? She wouldn’t want that.’

‘She wouldn’t want
you
snooping around in here either. Now you just put everything back exactly the way it was. I don’t know what devil gets into you people’s heads.’

‘Mum, I …’ I jumped to my feet to explain some more; I didn’t appreciate being reduced to Neville and Norbert’s level. But Mum had turned away and was already stomping upstairs. I followed her up, leaving Gran’s room the way it was.

‘I’m going to have a shower, then I’m going to hospital. If you want to come with me you’d better hurry.’

‘But Neville … what if he comes?’

‘I’m not waiting at home for Neville. If he wants to come he should come to the hospital. That’s where Mum is.’

‘Does he know which hospital?’

‘I didn’t tell him. Didn’t he ask?’

‘No. He said he was coming to our place.’

‘Well, serve him right. He’ll just have to wait.’ She disappeared into the bathroom.

M
um was
in such a hurry to get back to hospital I didn’t have time to fix Gran’s room. I promised her to do it the moment we returned. I didn’t want to be left at home in case Neville turned up, and Mum didn’t want to wait.

The hospital was quite a different place during the day. People bustling everywhere, patients in wheelchairs smoking outside, others rolling around the corridors pushed by white-clad orderlies. Nurses rushed past, grasping papers or bending over gurneys. All the waiting rooms were full. Accident and Emergency patients sat with glazed eyes, sipping coffee in paper cups or leafing through last year’s
House Beautiful
, waiting their turn.

No waiting for us, this time. We went straight to Gran’s ward. There she lay. Frail and lifeless and so alone among all the hospital gadgetry, a little brown doll enclosed in bedsheet white. Only her face showed, smaller than ever beneath its turban of white bandage, its expression of peace so absolute that for a moment I thought she was dead.

We took seats on either side of her. There were three more beds in the room, separated from each other by curtains. The one opposite her was occupied by a man who seemed as lifeless as Gran; it was mutual oblivion.

Mum had brought fruit and juice for Gran, and magazines. All of it went unnoticed. Gran wasn’t moving. We whispered comforting words to each other across the bed, and then a nurse popped in. Gran could wake up at any moment, she said cheerfully, and was doing as well as could be under the circumstances. She popped out again.

A
t around eleven
I went outside for a cigarette. I switched on my mobile. Thirteen missed calls, eight from Neville, five unknowns. I called Sal; he had come to the hospital last night to get the door-key, and gone back to feed Samba. We chatted for a while, and then I returned Neville’s call.

‘Where the hell are you people?’ Neville’s voice was a veritable snarl.

‘At the hospital, of course.’

‘And here’s me sitting in the bloody car outside your house for the last half-hour twiddling my thumbs! You could at least have told me which hospital.’

‘You didn’t ask!’

‘Well, tell me now! How’s Mummy by the way?’

I told him.

‘You mean she hasn’t come out of it yet?’

I shook my head unhappily, forgetting he couldn’t see. ‘The doctors aren’t happy. They say she’s fallen into a coma.’

‘Wonderful. Just wonderful.’

‘Do you want to come over? I’ll give you the address.’

‘Well, there’s not much point, is there, if she’s in a fucking coma.’

‘But she might wake up any time. Mum refuses to leave her side.’

‘Well, that’s good. So that’s taken care of. But what concerns me is …’

‘The stamp.’

‘You said it. Did you search her handbag?’

‘Yes.’

The weight of my betrayal sat heavy on my shoulders. Mum’s accusing eyes glared at me through my confession, through the victory of pragmatism over optimism. My heart broke for Mum, sitting there holding Gran’s hand, waiting in vain for the flicker of eyelids closed forever; she was living a fool’s dream. I refused to deceive myself, to give in to the fantasy that Gran would wake up any moment and be her beloved cantankerous old self again. I’d
seen
the veiled truth in doctors’ eyes as they discussed Gran’s case with Mum. I’d
heard
the charity in their voices as they kept her hope alive with best-case scenarios. No mention was made of the worst-case scenario; Mum didn’t ask, and they didn’t offer it. But I knew.

We’d lost Gran. I felt it in my in the pit of my stomach, in the marrow of my bones. We might still have her body; it would lie there frail and still, kept alive by and hope and prayer, by medicines and daily nourishment and care, but
she
was gone. As the past few hours ticked away I’d convinced myself that Gran, even if she should awake, would never be the same again. While Mum sat there grasping her hand, stroking her bony fingers, hanging on to straws of hope, I had fought for sense and reason. I refused to be blinded by hope. I had to be rational and strong – for Mum.

Neville’s voice cut through my musings.

‘It wasn’t there, I suppose.’

‘What? Oh ... the stamp. No.’

‘Inky, you do realise, don’t you, that this is no time for sentimentality. You know as well as I do that Mummy isn’t capable of any kind of rational action concerning that stamp. Even before this happened she was in danger of losing it through sheer bloody-mindedness. Now, Rika isn’t much better, but you, Inky, you know better. We’ve got to find that stamp and keep it in a safe place. Do you agree?’