Reaching down beside the chair into her bag, Mandy quietly slid out her mobile and checked for messages. There were three texts: one from a friend replying to her earlier text, one from her father staying he’d arrived home safely and would ‘c’ her tomorrow, and the third from Adam: ‘Luv n miss u 2. hugs n kisses. adam’. Mandy smiled to herself as she returned the phone to her bag. She’d been forgiven. Resting her head back she gazed at the lava lamp. The larger of the red bubbles of oil was still contorting upwards, becoming thinner and longer, while the smaller one was growing rounder and fatter. The trouble with lava lamps, she thought, was that your eyes were drawn to them, and you had to watch, whether you wanted to or not. Like a television left on with the sound off, it was difficult to look away or concentrate on anything else.
It was only 9.50 p.m. but with the early start and the emotional rollercoaster she’d been on all day it seemed much later and she felt pretty exhausted. Grandpa’s heavy and laboured breathing continued in the background; she saw his legs occasionally twitch beneath the sheets. She wondered if the medication was wearing off already. The nurse had come again at 8 p.m. and given him another injection, which also contained a sleeping draught and was supposed to see him through the night.
Tired, reasonably comfortable in the upholstered chair, and mesmerized by the swirling glow of the lamp and Grandpa’s almost hypnotic breathing, Mandy’s eyes slowly began to close. His breathing seemed louder now her eyes were shut, and with nothing else to concentrate on she found herself silently counting the seconds in the rhythm of his breathing. In – one, two, three, four, and then a pause of five seconds before he breathed out for three seconds. It was far, far slower than her own breathing – she’d taken nearly three breaths to his one. She assumed it was his medication slowing his body rhythm at the same time as it suppressed the pain. Counting the seconds of his breathing was as soporific as counting sheep and, combined with the warmth of the room, soon made her doze.
She was a child again, in this house, and looking out of a window at the front, looking down on the driveway below. She was in the Pink Room, so named because it was decorated pink. Mandy could see herself standing at the window and looking down on to the drive. It was late at night and very dark outside. A car was pulling away, leaving the house, its headlights illuminating the gravel ahead. It was her father’s car and there was someone in the back. As she watched, the girl with the ponytail turned to look at her, just as she had earlier that evening when she’d waved goodbye to her father. Tears streamed down the girl’s cheeks and Mandy could feel her terror and distress. ‘Help! Someone help me. Daddy, no!’
‘Help, Mandy, quick.’ Mandy’s eyes shot open. ‘Wake up. I need your help!’ John’s voice.
The dark of the night outside had gone, and so too had the red glow of the lamp, replaced by the main light of the study. Mandy was immediately on her feet, going to the bed; her heart raced from the shock of suddenly waking. ‘He needs the toilet,’ John said, struggling to get Grandpa out of bed and over to the commode. Grandpa groaned but his eyes stayed closed; he was a dead weight and powerless to help.
Mandy pulled the commode to the bed and then yanked off the lid, but it was too late. As John lifted Grandpa on to the commode, he groaned again, and they heard the rush of water as a wet patch appeared on his pyjama bottoms. ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled in a small voice, and Mandy could have wept.
‘It’s not your fault, Dad,’ John reassured him. ‘I should have woken sooner.’
So should I, Mandy thought, if I’m going to be of any help.
Grandpa’s eyes stayed closed as John steadied him, a hand on each shoulder. Mandy knelt at his feet and carefully slid off the wet pyjama trousers, one leg at a time. ‘Thanks, love,’ he said, his eyes still closed.
‘I’ll get you clean ones,’ she said quietly, humbled by his humility.
He gave a little groan of acknowledgement but didn’t open his eyes.
‘You’ll find the clean stuff either in the dryer or the airing cupboard – in the laundry room, behind the kitchen,’ John said.
Mandy rolled up the wet pyjamas and left the study. She knew she’d let Grandpa down by not hearing his calls for help. The rear hall was lit only by the nightlight and now seemed even darker after the main light of the study. She passed the kitchen, which was still in darkness, and then stopped outside the next door which John had said would be the laundry room. Turning the knob, she felt inside for the light switch and clicked it on before entering. The room was bare and cold compared to the rest of the house, and smelt of pine disinfectant.
She saw the washing machine straight in front of her and next to that the dryer. Crossing the red slate-tiled floor, Mandy pushed the wet pyjama trousers into the washing machine ready for the next wash the following day, then opened the dryer door. There was a single sheet from Grandpa’s bed and two pairs of his pyjama bottoms, still warm from drying – Evelyn must have put them in before going to bed. She gave them a shake and loosely folded them over her arm. She guessed this room was mainly the domain of the housekeeper, Mrs Saunders; her apron hung on the back of the door and the shoes she wore in the house were paired just inside the door. Switching off the light, Mandy came out and returned to the study. If she’d ever been in the laundry room as a child she certainly didn’t remember it.
Grandpa was as she’d left him: on the commode, eyes closed, with John standing behind, holding him. ‘Well done, you found them,’ John said, glancing at the clean laundry draped over her arm. Grandpa didn’t stir and could have been asleep.
Leaving the sheet and spare pair of pyjama trousers on the foot of the bed in case they were needed later, Mandy knelt and concentrated on easing Grandpa’s red and swollen feet into the pyjamas, first one leg then the other. His legs were like dead weights, and there were notches of blue veins clustered on both ankles where the blood had flowed down from sitting. She drew the trousers up to his knees; his pyjama jacket hung over his lap.
‘Ready,’ she said to John, and straightened.
‘On the count of three, Dad,’ John said. ‘One. Two. Three.’ As John lifted, Mandy quickly pulled up the pyjama trousers as she’d seen John previously do, which gave Grandpa as much privacy as possible. ‘Now into bed,’ John said.
Taking most of the weight, John swung Grandpa towards the bed and Mandy guided in his legs. Grandpa moaned but his eyes stayed closed. She pulled up the sheet and tucked it around his neck, as John straightened the pillows. The commode was empty and Mandy moved it to one side, but left the lid off ready for next time. They waited by the bed for Grandpa’s breathing to slowly regulate, signalling he was asleep.
‘Shall I make us a cup of tea?’ Mandy asked, now wide awake.
‘Please. Mine’s skimmed milk with no sugar. And thanks for your help, Mandy. It’s so much easier with two. We make a good team – you and me.’ His gaze lingered appreciatively.
Mandy looked away. A good team. She would have given her right arm to have heard him say that when she’d had her schoolgirl crush. Perhaps it was the embarrassing reminder of that time, or the intimacy of the sick room, but she suddenly felt uncomfortable. ‘I’ll make that tea then,’ she said with a small nod, and left the study.
As she moved around the unfamiliar kitchen, trying to remember where Evelyn had said things were, her thoughts went to her parents. She was pleased her father hadn’t stayed; he would never have coped with seeing Grandpa so vulnerable and compromised, not even able to make it to the commode without wetting himself. Now she was worried her mother wouldn’t be able to cope either when she visited tomorrow. For although her parents hadn’t spoken to John and Evelyn in ten years, they’d always been in close contact with Gran and Grandpa. Indeed her mother saw more of her in-laws than she did her own parents, who lived a long way away. Her mother would be devastated when she saw how ill Grandpa really was and Mandy hoped her father would warn her, although in truth, she thought, nothing could prepare you for the reality of his decline.
She made tea and placed the two mugs on a tray, together with a plate of digestive biscuits, and returned to the study. Grandpa was asleep and John was in his usual armchair with his laptop open before him. He had switched off the main light and the red glow of the lava lamp once more fell across the room, supplemented by the brightness coming from the computer screen. Mandy placed the tray on the coffee table between them, closed the study door and sat in the other armchair, next to John.
‘Thanks, Mandy,’ he said without looking up. ‘You don’t mind if I catch up on a few things?’
‘No, of course not.’
Taking one of the mugs and a couple of biscuits, she sipped the tea and dunked the biscuits as John tapped on the keypad, occasionally extending his arm to reach for his mug. She resisted the temptation to look at the screen, although her eyes were drawn to it. The lava lamp didn’t give off enough light to read a book by and she wanted to stay awake to help if Grandpa woke. Finishing her tea, she checked her phone again. The time showed 11.43. There were no new messages; most of her friends and certainly her father would be in bed now. Returning the mobile to her bag she took out her iPod. Suddenly Grandpa’s legs jerked and he cried out in pain. It was a cry like no other and seemed to rip straight from his body into hers. She was immediately on her feet; so too was John.
‘It’s all right.’ With a hand on each shoulder he began gently massaging, trying to ease away the pain.
Grandpa’s eyes were screwed tightly shut and, despite John’s comforting hands, his face contorted in pain. Then his clenched fists began pummelling the bed either side of him and his legs drummed beneath the sheet. ‘Make it stop. I’m begging you. Please, John!’ he pleaded. ‘I can’t take any more.’
His agony was even worse than it had been that afternoon. Tears sprang to Mandy’s eyes. She felt utterly helpless in the face of his pain. She saw the anguish in John’s face too as he continued rubbing Grandpa’s shoulders, trying to give some relief.
‘Is there nothing we can do?’ she asked in desperation.
‘If it doesn’t pass soon I’ll call the nurse to give him another shot.’
‘Shouldn’t we call him now?’
‘If he gives him a shot now he’ll have to delay the next one. It’s morphine. Too much could kill him.’
Mandy stared in horror as Grandpa’s body arched in pain and John tried impotently to soothe him. It seemed there was nothing they could do to help him and it made her afraid. Guiltily, she thought an overdose of morphine was preferable to this suffering; she would have given it to him herself if it had been possible. Grandpa cried out again. John continued massaging and talking to him in a low, reassuring voice: ‘The pain will pass, Dad. I promise. It will go just as it did last night. Mandy is here with you. Ray has been, and Jean will come tomorrow. We all love you, Dad.’
Tears stung her eyes. Clearly a deep bond had developed between the two men in their nights together, when John had had to deal with Grandpa’s suffering alone and as best he could. Putting aside her own fear she moved closer and, taking one of Grandpa’s hands between hers, began rubbing it. Suddenly his back arched again and, just as Mandy was sure he couldn’t take any more, the pain seemed to peak and subside. His body went limp, collapsing flat on the bed. He was so still and quiet that for a moment she thought he was dead.
‘Thank God,’ John said quietly, taking his hands from Grandpa’s shoulders. ‘He should sleep now.’ Only then did she hear Grandpa take one long deep breath and saw his chest rise and fall.
Mandy remained where she was at the side of the bed, frozen in the horror of what she’d seen. Her heart raced and she felt icy cold. Never before had she witnessed someone in such torment. Grandpa shouldn’t have to suffer; he was a good, kind man, proud and caring, who’d always done the best for his family. He shouldn’t have to end his life begging for release; he should leave it as he lived it – with dignity and self-respect.
She felt the tears escape and run down her cheeks. She turned away from the bed so John couldn’t see. Her gaze fell on the lamp as a red bubble of oil stretched to its limit and the top broke away. She heard John’s voice behind her, tender and close. ‘Are you all right, Mandy?’
Then she felt his hands lightly on her shoulders. Then he was turning her around to face him. Without meeting his eyes and grateful for his support she rested her head against his chest and cried openly. His arms closed around her, safe and secure; he held her tight and comforted her just as he had when she’d been a child.
Ten
It was as though John had to reaffirm his loyalty to Evelyn, Mandy thought later, when he told her yet again how very supportive Evelyn had been. Supportive when the recession had bitten and his business had suffered, and when he’d made an error of judgement in his private life some years before – although exactly what he didn’t state. Evelyn had always been there for him, John said, his rock, and now he was pleased to have the chance to help her by shouldering some of the responsibility for looking after Grandpa.
It was just before dawn. Through the parting in the curtains of the study Mandy could see the distant edge of skyline beginning to lighten. John and she had been talking and dozing intermittently all night in the peculiar intimacy of the sick room with its red bubbles of moving light. Grandpa had woken every couple of hours in discomfort and in need of reassurance, but the pain hadn’t been as bad as that first time, when Mandy had cried and John had comforted her. When she’d stopped crying and had thanked John, he’d seemed embarrassed and had apologized. Since then he’d been extolling Evelyn’s virtues at every opportunity as though he felt guilty. Why he should feel guilty for comforting her, Mandy didn’t know.
At 6.30 a.m. she thought she’d take a shower while all was quiet. John was again dozing in the chair and Grandpa, more peaceful than he’d been all night, seemed in a deep sleep. Mandy stole quietly from the study and upstairs to the bedroom Evelyn had previously shown her. Taking the fresh underwear her aunt had placed on the bed, she went into the guest bathroom and locked the door. Selecting body-wash and shampoo from the array of small bottles on the glass shelf, she showered and washed her hair. Half an hour later, dressed and feeling more refreshed, she returned to the study. As she entered she was surprised to see Evelyn sitting where John had been, also dressed, lipstick on and apparently ready to face the new day.
‘Morning.’ Evelyn smiled brightly.
‘Morning,’ Mandy said, going over and kissing her aunt’s cheek.
The curtains were now fully open and the early-morning sun filtered through the lattice window of the study. The room seemed more optimistic now the natural light had replaced the red glow of the lamp.
‘Shall I fetch you a hairdryer?’ Evelyn asked.
‘No, thanks. I let it dry naturally. Where’s John?’
‘Taking a nap upstairs. He might have to go to the office later. I understand you had a pretty rough night.’
Mandy nodded. ‘But John is so good with Grandpa.’
‘Yes, I don’t know what I’d do without him.’ Evelyn stood up. ‘I usually make coffee now, before Mrs Saunders arrives at eight to make breakfast. Would you like one?’
‘Love one. Thanks.’
A routine then fell into place which Mandy guessed had developed during the past week since Grandpa had come to stay, and would probably continue for as long as it was needed. Evelyn returned to the study a quarter of an hour later with Mandy’s coffee but didn’t stay. ‘I drink mine on the hoof,’ she said, ’while I see to a few things in the kitchen.’ At just gone 8 a.m. Mrs Saunders knocked on the door and came in carrying a fresh jug of water. She said good morning, swapped the fresh jug of water for the one on the tray and, collecting Mandy’s empty coffee cup, asked if she needed anything, which she didn’t. At 8.45 Gran came slowly into the study on her walking frame, having being helped downstairs by Evelyn, who then disappeared. Mandy kissed Gran good morning and they sat by the bed until 9 a.m. when Mrs Saunders reappeared and annou
nced that breakfast was ready.
‘We have breakfast in the morning room while Evelyn sits with Will,’ Gran explained to Mandy. On cue Evelyn came in and said she would sit with Grandpa while they ate breakfast. Gran flashed Mandy a knowing smile.
Mandy helped Gran to her feet and walked by her side along the rear hall to the morning room. As she entered the room she felt she was on a film set for Brideshead Revisited or a similar period piece. Mrs Saunders was standing by the oak sideboard where five silver tureens had been arranged with matching silver serving spoons. The circular oak table was now formally laid for two, with silver cutlery, Aynsley rose-patterned china cups and saucers, and a ringed linen napkin beside each place setting. ‘If you’d like to help yourself…’ Mrs Saunders said to Mandy, removing the lids from the tureens. ‘There’s scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, mushrooms, grilled tomatoes, and toast in the rack.’
Mandy wondered if they always breakfasted like this, and what Grandpa, with his simple tastes and dislike of pretension, would have made of it. Not a lot, she thought. But she was hungry.
‘Thank you,’ she said, accepting the breakfast plate Mrs Saunders handed to her. She then went along the sideboard and took a spoonful from each of the tureens while the housekeeper served Gran. Coming to the end she took a glass of orange juice from the tray and then sat at the table opposite Gran. But unlike the day before, when she’d found the formal meals served in the dining room quite bizarre and somewhat distasteful given what was happening to Grandpa, she now found the ritual almost reassuring. Despite the turmoil and anxiety of the family crisis, here was something that could be relied upon: dependable, consistent, and a complete distraction. It was presumably why Evelyn continued with the routine of formal meals.