Crimson (46 page)

to do everything we can, Mrs. O’Dare, to make you comfortable.” Matron Braddock’s voice was surprisingly light and pleasant.

First, blood and urine samples were taken; then Elinor was X-rayed, after which she spent the rest of the day being wired up to various machines for tests. That eve ming Dr. Cyril Craig-Dunlop stopped in just to visit. He was a small, mild-manner cd man with surprisingly beautiful, black-fringed grey eyes.

The next morning, the heart specialist, Sir George, was ushered into Elinor’s bedroom by Matron Braddock. Elinor hated to be interrupted: she was reading Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood.

Other specialists followed. On the third morning, Dr. Craig-Dunlop again visited Elinor.

“I’ve had the results of nearly all the tests,” he said, which are more or less what we expected. However, as you know, you must be very, very careful with the few years that remain to you.” In Cold Blood fell to the floor. Elinor sat upright.

“What do you mean? I have recovered completely! That’s what I was told!”

Dr. Craig-Dunlop stammered, clearly confused, “I - I’m so sorry, Mrs. O’Dare. I assumed you were the type of patient who would have been told ..

“Told what?” “The truth about your condition,” Dr. Craig-Dunlop said apologetically.

“The few years that remain to me? Are you sur eT Elinor blanched, her pallor more obvious against her peach chiffon robe.

“I’d like a second opinion.” Dr. Craig-Dunlop coughed.

“Your three specialists are all of the same opinion.” Elinor stared bleakly out of the window, beyond the sloping lawn to where the sludge-coloured sea met with the grey sky. There was no sound in the room.

Eventually she said, “I don’t want my granddaughters to know. They would worry, you see.” Shortly after the doctor left, a smiling nurse, smart in a lavender-and-white-striped uniform, entered; she carried two pills in a small vial.

“This will make you feel better.” She watched to make sure that Elinor swallowed the medication. The nurses were well trained in dealing with rich patients who were used to doing as they pleased and often disliked accepting the discipline of routine; they knew that the very old, the alcoholics, and the more than slightly batty patients called ‘eccentric’ had to be carefully supervised. This old dear, who was to be kept under heavy sedation, clearly didn’t know that she was a long-term patient, being treated for depression.

During the next two days, Elinor slept a lot, which Dr. Craig-Dunlop said might be because she wished to evade reality. But the reason was simply that Elinor was very sensitive to medicine; for her, a normal dose of sedative was an overdose.

In a moment of clarity, just before her eleven a.m. medication on Friday, a bewildered Elinor threatened to leave and was told by a nurse that this was not possible without the prior permission of the matron.

Elinor, used to prompt obedience to her wishes, flew into a rage, of which the nurse took not the slightest notice. An injection was swiftly administered, and Sister correctly reported that’ the patient had become uncontrollable and needed sedation.

“Paranoia,” Dr. Craig-Dunlop said quietly to Matron upon reading this report.

Matron Braddock nodded. She knew that a classic symptom of paranoia was the suspicion that those who were caring for you were trying to harm you.

SATURDAY, 17 FEBRUARY 1968

After Elinor had spent a week in the nursing home, Annabel and Miranda were allowed to visit. On the way, sitting in the back of the Bentley that drove them from London, the two worried sisters spoke little. Finally, Miranda inquired after Scott.

Annabel snapped, “Don’t ask me how Scott is! I hardly ever see him I don’t even suppose he’s noticed that I’m not there this week!”

“What do you mean?” Miranda was surprised.

“Oh, he’s too wrapped up in his work to bother about his wife. He even forgot our tenth anniversary!”

“That doesn’t sound like Scott.”

“Well, he would have forgotten,” Annabel amended, “but I reminded him.”

Annabel and Miranda were shocked by their grandmother’s appearance: her golden hair was lifeless, her eyes were dull, her speech was thick and slurred, she seemed inert and limp. Forewarned by the matron to treat her normally and to ignore anything eccentric that she did or said, the two sisters immediately wrapped Elinor in an invisible cloud of affection.

Afterwards, in the matron’s office, where Adam and Dr. Craig-Dunlop were waiting for them, Annabel burst into tears.

“I can’t understand why I couldn’t see that she was ill.” Miranda put her arms around her sister.

“Don’t cry, Frog. I had no idea either. It’s lucky she’s being properly looked after.”

“Oh, what bad luck that Buzz was away!” Annabel sobbed.

“She could have been here with Gran.”

“What exactly is paranoia?” Miranda impatiently asked the doctor.

“We prefer to describe it as a personality disorder,” he said.

“A chronic, slowly progressive mental disorder. In this case, I fear that there will be delusions of persecution.”

“What treatment is she having?” Miranda asked while Annabel wept.

“She is being given a drug called Mellaril. And sedatives as necessary.”

“How long will she be ill?”

There was a short, ominous silence.

“How lone.” Miranda repeated shrilly.

“I cannot say. Not yet. We’ll have to see how she responds to treatment, but it may take quite a long time.”

“How many week sT “Perhaps you should think in terms of months,” Dr. Craig-Dunlop said gently. He added, “But I must emphasize that at this stage we simply cannot tell. She is an elderly lady, she has had one stroke, and she has a personality disorder. We simply cannot say what will happen.”

“How can she have deteriorated so seriously in such a short time, when she only came here for a check-up?” Miranda persisted.

“It was extremely fortunate that she came here when she did,” said the doctor gravely, “or her situation might have been much more serious.” Over a depressing hotel lunch of beige roast beef and sour cabbage, Miranda asked, “Why didn’t you tell us, Ada mT “I didn’t want to cause you unnecessary anxiety until Dr. Craig-Dunlop and the specialist consultants had reached a definite conclusion.” In front of Annabel, Adam was careful to speak to Miranda formally and without endearment. Although many people suspected them to be lovers, Adam still insisted on secrecy.

“But we can’t leave Gran in that place,” Miranda said.

“She must come to London where we can get the best medical advice, and I can look after her.”

“She seems to be getting very good care where she is. The sea air is bracing, and you wont find a London nursing home in acres of garden, like this one,” Adam said.

“But if you want further opinions, we can go to any London consultant you choose.”

“Why can’t Gran go back to Saracen when Buzz returns and be nursed the re?” Annabel pushed aside her untouched plate.

“She loves Saracen.”

“That might be a bit too heavy a load for Buzz,” Adam suggested.

“Remember how she knocked herself out after Elinor had her stroke? Round-the-clock nursing, such as Elinor is getting here, would mean overseeing four nurses, organizing their schedules, plus providing meals, transport and the rest of it.”

“We don’t want Buzz ill as well,” Miranda agreed.

“I’ve telephoned Dr. Montand at Saracen,” Adam continued.

“He agrees that the best place for Elinor is an English nursing home where she can get round-the-clock medical care if necessary. In any case, Dr. Craig-Dunlop is adamant that, for the moment, she must be under proper medical supervision for twenty-four hours a day, in case her condition deteriorates rapidly.” Both sisters looked alarmed at the thought of possible further deterioration. Both were glad of Adam’s presence. He was always so comforting in times of trouble.

“If you’re sure this is the best place…” Annabel said hesitantly.

Miranda said, “Firstly, I’d like to be sure that a nursing home is the best place for her, rather than a hospital. Secondly, if she’s likely to … be like this for some time, that the Lord Whatsit is the best nursing home available.”

Annabel nodded in agreement. From his briefcase, Adam produced a sheaf of coloured brochures for nursing homes. Silently he handed them to the two sisters.

Miranda looked at the imposing exteriors and the bleak interiors of the nursing and residential homes.

“These reception rooms look like pub lounges. Gran wouldn’t put a maid in one of these bedrooms! I’m sure they’re comfortable but they look so deeply unattractive.”

Annabel read aloud, ““Each bedroom has a fitted hand basing Big deal. No private bathrooms.”

“Elinor has her own bathroom at the Lord Willingtorn,” Adam pointed out.

“But these other places have a certain number of amenities physiotherapist, chiropodist, hairdresser.” ““Singsongs and sideshows’P Annabel read. ““Bingo-P “I brought only the most attractive brochures, “Adam said.

“I hate to think what the others are like,” Annabel said.

“But look at the prices they chargeP “Gran could practically live at the Ritz for what the Lord Whatsit is costing,” Miranda pointed out.

Adam said in a stiff voice, “I went to considerable trouble to choose the best place, so naturally it isn’t cheap. But you’re welcome to move her if you wish.”

The sisters looked at each other and shook their heads.

“It’s not the nursing home we hate,” Annabel acknowledged.

“It’s what’s happened to Gran that we can’t bear..”

“We must find Clare and tell her straight away.” Miranda did not look forward to this.

Adam coughed. “I must warn you that any mention of Clare agitates your grandmother. I really feel that her wishes must be respected-Elinor clearly doesn’t wish to see Clare.”

SUNDAY, 18 FEBRUARY 1968

Standing barefoot in her pink-sprigged Laura Ashley nightgown, Clare looked from her bedroom window at the quietly falling snow. The moon dimly lit the woods, faintly etched against the hill behind Applebank Cottage.

She shivered, jumped back into bed, and snuggled lower under the patchwork quilt. In half an hour it would be time to take her loaves out of the oven: the only drawback to her new business was that it meant getting up early every single morning of the year. Because her business had long outgrown the kitchen, David had drawn plans to convert the outhouse into a proper bakery.

Clare had accidentally metamorphosed into a baker ten months before, when David took some of her homebaked bread to friends who lived nearby: they asked if they could buy bread regularly from her. Why not? she thought, and packed a sample treacle cake and some shortbread with her first order.

One month later, Clare had tacked a plastic-covered price list to her back door and another to the garden gate. She now baked rye bread, whole-grain bread, soda bread, and date bread; pasties, rich chocolate cake, rum-flavoured fruitcake, brandy snaps, and shortbread. She cooked fruit flans when fruit was in season. Clare baked nothing that could be found at!he local baker and charged what she considered exorbitant prices, which people seemed happy to pay in cash.

The main reason Clare did not allow credit was because it complicated her bookkeeping. Having experienced that particular chaos, she was careful to keep her books up to date, a simple matter of filling in two columns each day, “Purchases made” and “Total cash takings’.

IUnder the patchwork quilt, David turned over and sleepily pulled Clare towards him. Her nightgown had ridden up around her waist, and she enjoyed feeling his hard, muscular legs entwined around hers. Still half asleep, he kissed her cheek and fumbled beneath her gown, seeking her breasts.

With a loud crash, the door burst open, and Josh, in yellow Donald Duck pyJamas, leapt upon the bed.

“Ith thnowing! Ith thnowing! David, can I have a th ledge I’m Old enough now. Oh, plea the David sat up, turned on the light, yawned, and scratched 1111’kis hairy chest.

“You can take a tea tray up to the wood and slide down to the back garden. But not now. It’s the middle of the night. After breakfast.” He turned and smiled at Clare. “You are going to have breakfast in bed … No, not a word! Josh and I planned it yesterday evening, didn’t we, Josh? After you’ve taken your loaves out, you’re coming back to bed. Isn’t she, Josh?” Josh nodded happily.

“There must be a catch,” Clare said.

“You’re too perfect!” “Yes, there’s a catch,” David said quietly as he made room for Josh in the bed.

Later, David pulled on Clare’s to welling bathrobe and led Josh down to the kitchen.

After twenty minutes, her breakfast tray arrived; upon it was boiling red soup, chocolate ice cream, and a fizzy orange drink.

David winked over Josh’s head.

“Josh chose the menu.”

“Delicious,” Clare said feebly as she looked into the smiling face and aquamarine eyes of her son. She looked down at the tray on her lap.

“That’s too much tomato soup just for me. Perhaps you could help me eat it, Josh?” Suddenly Clare’s baby was wearing jeans and a navy nylon anorak, and howling for tough boots like the village boys’. Now five years old, he went to school in Warminster and was trying hard to adopt a Dorset accent, having been teased about the snob way he talked. Josh liked reading comics, watching TV especially Dr. Who, and peeing in his bath when his mother was looking the other way. He loved soccer and couldn’t remember baseball; neither could he remember California, except for a vague recollection of sunshine and a white house and what

seemed an enormous swintating pool, although Clare laughed and told him it had really been quite small for LA.

When Josh had scraped the plates and gone to tea tray down the hill, David produced another tray with coffee, Clare’s own homemade croissants, and strawberry jam.

After that, huddled under the patchwork quilt, they made love in a lazy, unhurried way. This morning Clare felt tender and loving; she wanted to be close to him. But sometimes after they made love, she felt wide awake and energetic, beautiful and happy, strong enough to lift the stove.