The Winners, page 4
‘Are you sure? I don’t want to intrude.’
‘Not at all. And I promise to keep my latte slurping to a minimum.’
He let out a soft chuckle as he lowered himself into the chair with a sigh. He was around her age, perhaps a little older, with thick grey hair and a strong, defined jaw. When he smiled, his blue eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘I’m sure you never slurp,’ he said, amusement flickering across his face.
They exchanged grins before he glanced around the café. ‘I was just glad to find Costa still open. So many places are closing down these days.’
‘Gosh, yes. There are more empty units than open ones in Burnbridge, it’s like a ghost town. Are you not local then?’
‘No, I’m visiting my mother. I live in Richmond, North Yorkshire, so it’s not too far away, just fifty minutes if the roads are good. Mum’s not too grand. Dementia, it’s an awful disease.’ He looked down into his cup, sadness clouding his face.
‘How awful for you. Is she in care? Oh, sorry, that’s none of my business. I’m just being nosy!’
‘No, it’s fine. It’s good to have someone to talk to about it. Yes, she’s recently gone into care and is unhappy about it. I spend as much time as possible with her, but I also have the house to sort out and get on the market. I’m her only child, so it all falls on me, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh, how difficult for you.’
‘No, I don’t mean to complain. I love my mother and I’m sure she’ll settle in soon. At least it’s reassuring to know she’s well looked after. Previously I arranged carers for her at home, but her condition grew worse and safety became an issue.’ The man took a bite of his doughnut and sipped his coffee.
‘It’s a cruel part of getting old, and I’m sure you’ve done the right thing. It’s not an easy decision, but as you say, safety must come first.’ Julie thought about Bill. He didn’t suffer from dementia, but she had some knowledge of the difficulties of living in a care home.
The man smiled and, wiping sugar from his lips, continued. ‘It was getting worrying, with frequent calls from the neighbours about her wandering in the street or the smoke alarm going off because she’d put eggs or something on to boil and forget about them. I could manage the household bills and general running of the house, but the decision was inevitable. Huh, would you believe Mum thinks she’s in a boarding school and keeps asking for her dad to come and take her away?’ He looked up, a sad frown on his face. ‘My apologies, I shouldn’t be unburdening to you; you must think I’m awful, and you don’t even know me. My name’s Sean, by the way, Sean Henderson.’ He offered his hand across the table.
Julie put her hand into his warm grasp. ‘I’m Julie Grainger, and please don’t apologise; we all need to talk sometime, and if it helps, then it’s fine by me.’
‘You’re a very kind lady. Can I get you another coffee?’ Sean nodded to her empty cup.
‘Thank you, but no, I’ll be getting off soon.’ Julie blushed, suddenly feeling like a schoolgirl. ‘I’ve some shopping to do before going home. My husband will wonder where I am if I’m late.’ How stupid to think she had to mention a husband. This was only a casual meeting of two strangers, but Julie didn’t move for another minute or two, reluctant to end their conversation.
‘Do you live in Burnbridge?’ Sean asked.
‘Yes. Born and bred here. I have two children who also live locally, so I count myself lucky.’
‘Ah, yes. I have a son who lives in London. I’m divorced, so I don’t see him much. He’s closer to his mother than me.’
‘That’s a shame for you. Look, I’ll have to be going. Good luck with your mother. I hope she settles well.’
‘Thank you, Julie, and thanks for the conversation, I’ve enjoyed meeting you.’ Sean stood when she did and nodded his farewell. ‘I tend to come in here most days around this time. If you’re in town again and want a coffee, I’d like to buy you one for your kindness.’
‘Oh, there’s no need, but I occasionally come here, so maybe we’ll bump into each other again.’ Julie smiled into Sean’s blue eyes and felt the colour rise in her cheeks. She left Costa and made her way to the bus stop feeling strangely excited. Julie didn’t need any more shopping and decided to go straight home. Perhaps she would cook eggs and chips for tea – she could quite fancy something simple herself.
CHAPTER NINE
Later that evening, as Malcolm reflected on his visit to his dad, he wondered why he would want him to read his old journals. He and Julie had packed them away with various other personal items and stored them in their loft, where they remained as an emblem of hope that one day Bill could pick up the threads of everyday life and would need his belongings again. The reality being that it was never going to happen.
Julie was busy in the kitchen washing up after their egg and chips. ‘Like a cup of tea, love?’ she asked.
‘No thanks, I’m just going into the loft to look for something Dad wants me to read.’ Malcolm kissed his wife on the cheek and, working on the premise of no time like the present, went into the hall and, with a firm tug, pulled down the ladders to the loft and then semi-reluctantly climbed into the roof space. The attic was predictably dusty, an untouched time capsule. No one had been up there since after Christmas when the decorations were returned after their annual appearance. Malcolm wasn’t one for hoarding. Apart from a few old suitcases that had seen better days, the Christmas tree and assorted ornaments, the attic housed only the boxes containing his father’s belongings.
It felt intrusive opening them. They’d been sealed with parcel tape a couple of months after Bill’s stroke when it became clear he wouldn’t be returning to his little rented house, at least for some time. When they finally cleared the house, most of the furniture was given away, and only personal items like books and photographs were kept, among which were half a dozen leather-bound journals. Malcolm remembered how, as a child, he’d watched his dad writing regularly in these books with his neat script, his preferred writing implement, a fountain pen.
Bill had been Liverpool’s town librarian during his working life, a fitting occupation for a man who loved the written word, both to read and to write. The highlight of his job was purchasing new stock, and his wife often remarked that he must have read almost all of the books he purchased on the library’s behalf.
Memories sprung to life from the dust as Mal wiped his hand across the first box and opened it. Peering inside, his gaze was met with ancient photographs from his grandparents’ day yellowing in an album, barely held together by a crumbling spine. Other images were encased in ornate frames, dated pictures recording his boyhood, pictures that stopped abruptly after his eighth birthday.
His childhood came flooding back to mind, and tears stung Mal’s eyes at the inevitable memories. A tinted photograph of his mother, Mary, made him gasp momentarily as she smiled up at him, carefree and beautiful, his favourite image and the one he liked to hold in his mind. Gently placing the photograph inside an album cover to protect it, he moved on to the next box. What he was looking for, yet reluctant to find, was there. Hesitantly, Malcolm lifted the journals from their box and, after wiping away the dust from the cracked leather covers, he settled himself on an ancient armchair and opened the first one.
June 1st 1967
What a sad and strange summer this is turning out to be. I can’t believe the doctor’s diagnosis is correct. Mary looks like her usual self, a little tired perhaps, yet caring for her mother as well as Malcolm and me must be taking its toll… but cancer, no, surely not, please God, no! I don’t want to believe it; I don’t want to imagine life without my beloved wife. The day we learned this news was the worst day of my life so far, yet somewhere inside of me, I can acknowledge it as a portent of the inevitable worst day to come.
Cancer. An ugly word synonymous with death. My beloved Mary has ovarian cancer and will not be with us much longer – a hateful, insidious type of cancer which remained undetected until it was too late to treat. Typically, Mary ignored the early symptoms, brushing them away as simply feeling ‘under the weather’. My wife has such a beautiful nature and is one of life’s givers; she is never a taker and never one to focus on herself. Embracing the role of wife and mother, she has always lavished her love and attention (which, to my shame, I often take for granted) on me and our son.
When her mother took ill, Mary waited on her, too, a caring daughter for whom nothing was too much trouble. Even when Joan became bedridden, Mary insisted on her living with us, attending to her every need with only an hour’s help each day from a woman who came in to bathe Joan, a task too difficult for one, especially when the patient could offer no help.
For over a year, we’ve watched Joan’s condition deteriorate. Bed sores and ulcers became a constant source of pain, eventually resulting in the amputation of her left leg, a low point for us all. But Mary remained cheerful, lifting her mother’s mood and somehow managing to care for Malcolm and me without either of us feeling in the slightest way neglected. She is the heart and soul of our family, the very lifeblood which keeps us happy and content; her love is a tangible presence filling our home. How will I ever manage without her?
For Mary, the diagnosis typically focused her thoughts on her family rather than herself. She gently prepared us as we talked late into each night about a future I did not want to contemplate, a future that did not include my wife. Mary made plans, and I could see the agony in her eyes as she talked about our son growing up without his mother; he was not yet eight years old and still so much in need of maternal love and support.
‘Don’t be afraid to hug and kiss him,’ she instructed, adding with a smile, ‘Just not in front of his friends!’ But it’s a seemingly impossible task to be both mother and father to our child. It’s a daunting one, and I feel so utterly inadequate. And then, when the doctor broke the news that we had only three months left at the most, I nearly crumpled. Mary, however, has continued her planning and instruction. The biggest surprise was her request that after her death, Malcolm and I should move away from Liverpool. I didn’t understand why she asked me to do this, even when she tried to explain.
‘A fresh start in a smaller town, away from all the memories.’ For myself, I don’t want to consider any life without her, yet Mary remains so strong, willing her strength into me for Malcolm’s sake. So, I write these feeble words, hoping that expressing my feelings on paper will release me from the utter helplessness and overwhelming sadness that are presently my constant companions. Mary’s positivity should inspire me, but I lack her strength and selflessness. Each day is one step closer to our parting and brings such agony; is it possible to prepare for such an event?
Malcolm, reading his history from the perspective of his father and, to some degree, his mother, was near to tears. Naturally, he had his memories – sketchy and jumbled, not events Malcolm ever wanted to dwell on. If he continued reading his father’s journals, many of those partial memories would be completed, and the missing pieces of the jigsaw puzzle of his life would finally slot into place. Did he want this? If he was honest, it scared him, yet reading the content of these dusty tomes was his father’s wish, so perhaps the right thing to do was to trust this man whom he respected and who had never let him down. He turned the page.
June 10th 1967
What a change in such a few days. Mary, my strong and determined wife, is suffering but stubbornly refuses to slow down. She has lost weight, which she could ill afford, and her face is so pale and drawn, but as always, not a word of complaint passes her lips, and all thoughts are of those she loves.
Joan is at a low point, too; knowing your only child will not outlive you must be hard to bear; it’s unnatural, so very wrong. I worry about what will happen to the old lady when Mary’s strength fails… which is beginning already. As usual, Mary tells me not to worry and that things will work out in the end, but how can they? And I am so weak when I should be the strong one. How pathetic to feel sorry for myself when Mary is so ill yet remains so positive! She speaks confidently as if truly believing we will all survive without her, and even hints at a plan forming in her mind, something she says she must do soon while she has the strength…
The doorbell rang, bringing Malcolm back to the present day. He’d been in the attic far too long and Julie must be wondering what on earth he was doing. Climbing down the ladder and brushing the dust from his clothing, Malcolm found his wife in the kitchen happily chatting with their neighbour, a woman who seemed to desire their company far more frequently than before.
He was, however, reassured that Julie wasn’t taken in by this woman’s fawning when his wife turned towards him and winked with a rather mischievous look on her face. He grinned and left them to their chatter while he went to catch the news on the television.
CHAPTER TEN
The attic became Malcolm’s place of solace, a retreat from a world moving far too quickly for his liking. It was warm and quiet, housing, amongst other things, his father’s few remaining possessions, particularly the journals. The attic drew him back repeatedly, scurrying back to those journals as if the past could bring the answers he needed for the future.
Over the years, his grandmother’s death often came to mind, and the part his mother played in it, yet it was perhaps only now, through reading the record of those dark days, that Malcolm pieced together the event in its entirety. His memories were vague and patchy, so he turned again to the journal, seeking clarity whilst knowing it would also bring pain.
June 18th 1967
Mary seems but a shadow of her former self. She appears to take up less space in this world every day, and the time she will leave us is approaching too quickly. I feel useless and have no idea how we will cope without her.
June 20th 1967
Why did I not see it coming? I must be blind as well as stupid! Mary had hinted at a ‘plan’, yet I remained ignorant.
Joan reached out to embrace Malcolm and me last night with tears in her eyes, which I assumed were from the stress of our lives. Now I realise she was saying goodbye!
When had they hatched this plot, for they’d obviously colluded? I found Mary sitting beside Joan early this morning. It appeared Joan had died several hours earlier.
I called the doctor’s surgery before persuading Mary to come downstairs. Even then, I didn’t suspect the truth and assumed my mother-in-law had passed away naturally. I realised something was not quite right when the doctor arrived and started asking questions. Yes, he told us Joan was elderly, but he was surprised by her death; apparently, her heart was strong, and the pain was under control with medication. As he hadn’t seen Joan for several days, he said there would have to be a post-mortem examination. Mary sobbed quietly when the doctor left and I held her close, the only way I knew to comfort her. Malcolm was in school, unaware of his grandmother’s death.
Mary then told me everything. When she had been diagnosed with cancer and realised how little time there was left, her thoughts turned to her mother as well as to Malcolm and me. She confided her fears to Joan, fears as to how we would all cope without her, and that was when Joan asked Mary to do one last thing for her. They reduced the number of morphine tablets which Joan took each day, secreting the excess away until the time was right. Mary believed the estimation of three months more for her to live was overly optimistic, so together, they chose the time while there was still strength and resolve within them to carry out their plan. How could I have been so blind as not to have seen what was happening? I don’t even know how I feel about it. Horrified? Stunned? Shocked? Yes, perhaps all of these and more. Mary is so quiet, so sad. I can feel her grief. She loved her mother dearly, but was it right to have helped her to take her own life if, indeed, this was what it was? So many questions, so many emotions, I almost envy Joan; she is out of it all now, at peace…
Malcolm laid the journal aside, remembering so well the day his grandmother died. He didn’t find out until after school, by which time her body had been removed and his parents were making an effort to carry on as usual.
Mary was in the kitchen making tea and his father took him into the lounge to break the news. Malcolm remembered running upstairs to his grandmother’s room, hoping it wasn’t true and he might find her there, smiling at him as was always the case, waiting to learn everything about his day at school. But the bed was empty with the sheets and the pretty flowered eiderdown gone too. An open window made the room feel cold, even though it was a hot, balmy day. He remembered his anguish and the hot tears streaming down his face. His much-loved grandmother was gone, and Malcolm felt so alone. Worse still, he was instantly frightened for the future. It was the first time the boy had faced the reality of death, and it brought an uncertainty to life never before experienced. If one constant could depart from his life so suddenly, anything could happen and Malcolm’s childhood was changed forever.
…but what about us, Mary, Malcolm, myself? How will we survive if the truth comes out, which it surely must when the post-mortem is done?
Mary’s tears seemed to be spent, and she moved about the house like a ghost, attempting to maintain a degree of normality and busying herself in the kitchen. She had shared the facts. Who knows if she would have remained silent if there was not to be an inquest? She may have taken the truth to the grave, but it was not as simple for her or us. And now, I have to break the news to Malcolm. The boy has been so close to Joan, so loving and caring, and I know he will be distressed. I need to be strong for him and Mary but where can I find such strength?
June 27th 1967
