Go Not Gently Page 2

  Ray takes the same tack with Tom. We’re both single parents and we have to agree on ground rules for the kids to avoid their playing us off against each other. Ray and I share the house and the childcare but never a bed. Some people seem to find it hard to believe; I don’t know whether it’s the shared childcare or the asexual relationship that gives them the most trouble. It’s the latter as far as Ray’s mother is concerned. She thinks we’re lying about it.

  By eight o’clock the children were asleep, the pots washed and the kitchen clear. I sat in the old overstuffed armchair by the bay window, feet up on a chair, and browsed through the evening paper. ‘Council Freezes Repairs’, ‘Triple Wedding at Hacienda’, ‘School Will Sell Land’, ‘Man Held in Shooting’. My head nodded as I settled in. I jerked awake to the sound of the doorbell. Quarter to nine. Not bad.

  Moira’s tall, spindly frame filled the doorway. She came in hugging her doctor’s case and a Tesco carrier bag, and followed me through into the kitchen.

  ‘God, it’s years,’ she boomed, looking round.

  ‘Still the same,’ I said. ‘Besides, you’re always too busy and I’ve sort of lost the habit of inviting people round to eat.’

  ‘Should do it again,’ she admonished. ‘Social eating relieves stress.’

  ‘Depends who you do it with,’ I thought of the children, ‘and who’s cooking. What about Christmas dinner? That’s pretty stressful if you’re the one with the turkey.’

  ‘Family don’t count.’ She grinned, took off her jacket and scarf and draped them over one of the chairs. Pulled out another one and sat down. ‘Well?’

  I explained to Moira the basic facts about Lily Palmer’s decline. Her fall, the dislocated shoulder, her move to Homelea and the change in her behaviour, the confusion, the loss of sparkle. How could I establish whether she was being treated competently?

  ‘Difficult. Find out what medication she’s on, the drugs and the dosage. People give bucketloads sometimes. Any of the things you mention could be side effects. See the GP. Ask for a diagnosis. What she first presented with, chronology of symptoms. Alzheimer’s, pre-dementia.’ She puffed her cheeks out with air then slowly released it. ‘Whole other ball game. There can be confusion after trauma – the fall, the move. Should have regained equilibrium by now. Two months?’

  ‘Yes.’ I picked a satsuma from the bowl. ‘Two since she moved, four since the fall.’

  ‘Don’t do anything drastic,’ Moira continued, ‘no sudden stop on medication. Who’s treating her? Own GP?’

  ‘I don’t know. Her friend said there was a matron at the home who ran the nursing side.’

  ‘She wouldn’t prescribe. But once she’d got something from the doctor she could reorder easily enough. Some people go on for years on drugs they should only have had for a couple of weeks.’

  ‘What about the dosages, if–’

  Before I could finish Moira’s bleeper sounded. She switched it off and went to use the phone in the hall.

  ‘Woman in labour.’ She scooped up her jacket and case. ‘Every time I cover for Dr Wardle one of his mothers gets going. Have a look at these,’ she pushed the Tesco carrier across the table, ‘couple of years old. Most of it’s still relevant. Must go. Later. Ring me.’

  I saw her out, watching as she folded herself into the little Fiat she drove.

  Two of the books were on geriatric medicine, one of those covered mental health in particular. The other, Medicines, was a family guide. It listed common drugs and what they were used for, and each entry included all of the side effects that could occur. Enough to put anybody off rushing out to buy all those over-the-counter drugs advertised on the telly.

  I made a cup of tea and joined Ray in the lounge. He was sprawled on the sofa watching the news. Toys were still scattered about, and plates with remains of crumpets

  ‘Home visit?’ he asked.

  ‘No, picking her brains. I’ve got a new case needing a bit of medical background. You know you’ve still got paint in your hair.’

  ‘Where?’ He ran his hands over his dark springy curls.

  ‘There, at the front.’

  He stood up and peered in the mirror. ‘I told them not to start the painting yet. It’ll only need doing again, there’s that much dust flying around.’ He smoothed his moustache. ‘But they’re in such a hurry. Bonuses for bringing it in by the end of March.’ In between making his own wooden furniture to order Ray took on sub-contract work with a couple of builders.

  He bared his teeth, turned his profile this way and that.

  ‘Ray!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Preening.’

  ‘Just checking.’

  ‘What? That there’s no paint on your teeth. You’re just vain.’

  ‘No. Careful with my appearance. It’s in my blood, style, all Italians have it. You English have no idea.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah.’

  He turned back to the mirror to smooth his hair again. Bit pointless. Then whistled the dog. Digger came bounding in, Ray did something playful to his ears and the two of them went off for walkies.

  I put Moira’s books on one side then swept toys into one corner of the room where I couldn’t actually see them from the sofa. I removed crumpets and crockery. There was nothing worth watching on television so I watched nothing for half an hour. My yawning reached chronic proportions.

  In bed I guzzled a couple of chapters of my library book. When the print began to blur I switched out the lamp and hugged the duvet to me.

  I could hear the dog down the street yapping. On and on. I felt my shoulders tense with irritation. Noise pollution. Why couldn’t they just let the creature in or remove its vocal cords? I’d time it tonight. Begin to gather hard facts so I could challenge the neighbours. See how long it kept me awake. It was too much effort to lift my head up to read the clock. I fell asleep.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I rang Rachel, my social work contact, at ten a.m. She was busy for the rest of the day: visits, case conference, court reports, the lot. After further prodding and a promise to foot the bill I persuaded her to meet me for lunch the following day. Her office is in Longsight, mine in Withington. We agreed on a friendly Greek restaurant in Fallowfield, midway between us.

  I stuck some washing in the machine, then sat in the kitchen and browsed through the books that Moira had left. It became clear that dementia wouldn’t have resulted from either Lily’s fall or from leaving her home. But both the books listed two types of dementia, Alzheimer’s and something called acute confusional disorder. The latter could result from physical illness, like a severe infection or as a reaction to drugs. So it could be treated and would stop, unlike actual senile dementia.

  Agnes had described Lily’s decline as rapid, the books said Alzheimer’s developed slowly over several months. But Mrs Valley-Brown had told Agnes that Lily had Alzheimer’s disease, the commonest form of dementia. Presumably the GP knew how to tell the two states apart and for some reason they’d discounted acute confusion. I understood Agnes’ disquiet: at first glance the facts didn’t appear to add up.

  I opened my notepad and listed the questions we needed answers to. The more I thought about it the more likely it seemed that there’d been a misdiagnosis. That an untreated illness or an adverse reaction to medication had led to Lily Palmer becoming troubled, confused, unlike her usual self. If we could establish the cause and treat it then Lily would get better and Agnes would have her old friend back. It wasn’t right: Agnes had been anxious enough to come to a private investigator when the Homelea staff dismissed her concerns. They should have been on to it straight away.

  I switched the washing to the tumble dryer in the cellar, then made a quick foray to the shops on my bicycle. Withington is a real mix of taste and tack. Discount shops selling brightly coloured, semi-disposable goods made in China and the Philippines nestle cheek by jowl with more upmarket outlets: delicatessens, health food shop, designer clothes boutiques.

  I bought pa
sta, cheese and milk from the small supermarket, then negotiated my way to the greengrocer’s. The pavements were narrow and crowded with shoppers. I wheeled my bike along the gutter to avoid colliding with anyone.

  I was tempted by gleaming displays of avocados, imported beef tomatoes, limes and grapes, by bright bunches of hothouse herbs, but I resisted. Our budget rarely ran to the exotic end of the stall. If it was in season or on offer we ate it. Cabbage, carrots, turnips, onions. Fruit was the exception as the mainstay of the battle against tooth decay: ‘No you can’t, have some fruit.’

  It had actually stopped raining but the cold, grey fug lingered as though the drizzle had been freeze-framed. Back home I had cheese on toast, pulled on another sweater and gathered things up to take round to the office.

  The crocuses that dotted gardens along the way had taken a battering from the recent gales. The purple and yellow flowers lay sprawled and broken. I’d never bothered with crocuses, they were just too feeble for the season. I stuck to polyanthus and primroses, snowdrops and winter pansies – lovely gaudy colours for murky winter days.

  I picked up my business mail from the table in the hall and went down to the cellar. The answerphone light blinked three times and paused. I hung my coat on the back of the door and made ready to take notes. The first message was from Wondawindow Systems, from Michelle, no less, who would call again later to discuss with me the new range of low-maintenance, high-quality, fully guaranteed, top-security, bonus-offer uPVC double-glazed windows currently available. I glanced at the narrow basement window with its broken blind. Shrugged.

  The second caller had rung off without leaving a message. The third was the man who’d rung me the previous afternoon. I recognised the nervous laugh.

  ‘Hello…’ laugh. ‘Yeah, it’s about something I want you to investigate. Can you ring me at work?’ He reeled off the number. ‘And, erm…’ laugh, ‘if I’m out on a job then leave a message for me and I’ll ring you when I get back. Right.’ Pause. ‘Thanks.’

  Well, I’d have done so gladly but he hadn’t left his name. I did try the number on the off chance it was a direct line. A woman answered. ‘Hello, Swift Deliveries.’

  I explained that I wanted to get in touch with one of the younger men whose name I’d forgotten. She couldn’t help.

  ‘We’ve fifteen drivers, love. All over the region. I need a name.’

  I gave up. With luck, he’d try again.

  My mail consisted of bumf from the bank trying to get me to take out a loan and a letter from the accountants asking for my detailed income and expenditure so they could prepare my year-end accounts.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon preparing my accounts. It would have been easier if I’d entered things on a more regular basis but I shoved all my invoices and receipts into a box file marked ‘Finance’ and left it till the dreaded letter arrived. It wasn’t even all that complicated. The thought of doing it was always worse than the reality.

  By the time I’d finished I reckoned I’d have to pay about £500 tax in a couple of instalments over the next year. I couldn’t believe that I could earn so little and still have to pay tax. I certainly didn’t have a spare £500 sloshing round in the bank. Oh, well. It wasn’t due yet and maybe by the time that bill came in I’d have found a nice little earner.

  The phone interrupted my musing.

  ‘Hello, is that Miss Kilkenny?’

  ‘Yes. Miss Donlan?’

  ‘That’s right. I was wondering how you were getting along.’ She spoke tentatively, she didn’t want to bother me but she was worrying herself sick.

  ‘Fine. I’ve been doing a bit of background reading and talking to people. I didn’t want to visit Mrs Palmer until I’d a little more information. But we could fix that up now.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How about Friday?’

  ‘Oh.’ A note of disappointment.

  Did she want to go tomorrow? I was meeting Rachel for lunch but that left gaps either end of the day. And I couldn’t see it mattered which order I did things in. ‘Unless you want to go tomorrow.’

  ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘Does it matter when? Are there visiting times?’

  ‘Oh no. We can visit whenever we like. I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong impression. It’s quite a nice place really, comfortable.’

  ‘How about half-past ten? I could come and pick you up.’

  ‘I’ll get the bus.’

  ‘I think it’ll look better if we arrive together. If it’s no trouble.’

  ‘Of course, yes.’

  I checked her address and arranged to pick her up a little before ten thirty the following morning.

  No sooner had I put the phone down than it rang again.

  ‘Hello. This is Michelle from Wondawindow Systems. We have some very attractive special offers on at the moment. I’d like to arrange a convenient time for our rep to call on you, at your own convenience, without any obligation, to discuss options with you.’ Her voice was brisk, cheery and full of laboured reassurance.

  ‘No thanks.’ I got it in quickly, but she hardly drew breath.

  ‘The Wondawindows System not only improves security and reduces maintenance but can dramatically cut heating costs and increase the value of your property.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you thought about window improvements?’

  ‘No. I–’

  ‘There’d be no obligation.’

  ‘I’m not interested.’ I put the phone down before she had a chance to carry on. The things some people do for a living.

  Ray was working on a conversion job (old houses to new sheltered flats). He was doing all the woodwork: floors, window and door frames, built-in cupboards. Several weeks’ work. It would supplement the money he made on the furniture he created in our cellar. One consequence was he’d be better off for a while, another was that I had to take on more of the domestic jobs. He’d do the same if I got very busy. To date we’d never both been inundated at the same time.

  I got Maddie and Tom from school and walked them back. I bunged potatoes in to bake, whizzed up coleslaw in the processor and grated cheese.

  While the spuds cooked I sorted the clean clothes and put them in the kids’ drawers, left Ray’s pile on his bed, put mine away. I joined the children, who were watching a bizarre cartoon. I was completely baffled, unable to follow the plot or even tell what type of creatures the characters were meant to be.

  ‘Why’s she doing that?’ I asked.

  ‘Shush,’ Maddie complained.

  ‘She’s saving him,’ Tom explained.

  ‘Shush.’ Maddie rounded on Tom.

  ‘Who’s the blue one?’ I said.

  ‘Mummy,’ Maddie said sharply, ‘go away. You’re ruining it.’

  I went.

  Agnes lived in a small redbrick terrace in Ladybarn. The house had colourful stained-glass panels at the sides of the front door. The woodwork was painted a deep jade green, an old-fashioned flavour. It was the sort of place that the estate agents describe as full of original features.

  The creamy lace curtain moved when I drew up. Agnes looked out and waved. She was ready and waiting. Her white hair was carefully styled and she wore the same navy coat. I got out and opened the passenger door for her. She was nervous. She got the seat belt tangled up with her handbag and the more she struggled the worse it got.

  ‘Here, let me sort that out.’ I leant across and unwound everything, buckled the seat belt. Set off.

  ‘Have you told Mrs Palmer we’re coming?’

  ‘Yes. I popped in on Tuesday after I’d been to see you. I don’t know whether she took it in really. I said I’d be back later in the week, that I’d be bringing a friend. She didn’t ask who.’

  ‘We’d better agree on who I am, in case anyone asks. Perhaps we should pass me off as your niece or something like that.’

  ‘No.’ She was shocked. ‘No, I’d rather a friend of the family.’ Her hand worked away at the jet brooch on her co
at. I’d obviously touched a nerve. A niece she preferred to forget? I couldn’t ask about it. The colour had drained from her face and I needed to put her at ease before we reached Homelea.

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘A friend of the family. Call me Sal – it sounds better than Miss Kilkenny. I prefer it anyway.’

  ‘Yes, and you had better call me Agnes.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. I know a lot of my generation like to keep to the formalities but it really doesn’t matter any more. There’s hardly anyone left to call me Agnes now, you know.’

  ‘OK. How was Mrs Palmer on Tuesday?’

  ‘Very restless. Other times she just dozes off.’

  ‘That could be the side effects of the medicine. Anyway, I just want to meet her today and get a look at the place. I’ve had a word with a GP I know and she’s suggested we find out from Mrs Palmer’s doctor exactly how the trouble started and what drugs she’s on. It’s possible that there’s been a wrong diagnosis and that she hasn’t got Alzheimer’s at all. I was reading this book…’

  ‘Acute confusional disorder,’ said Agnes.

  ‘Yes.’ My surprise showed.

  ‘I’ve been reading too,’ she smiled. ‘I got some books from the library.’ She pointed. ‘It’s left here.’

  We turned into a gravelled driveway between large stone gateposts. I parked in front of the house. It was a huge place with outbuildings beyond and a conservatory along one wall of the house. Homelea was probably built by one of the Manchester merchants, a visible statement of his wealth and success. It even boasted a small turret on one corner.

  I let Agnes lead the way. There was a ramp as well as steps up to the front porch. Agnes rang the bell. The door was opened promptly by a young woman who recognised her and invited us in. She disappeared. My first impression was of warmth and tasteful decoration, everything in cream, pale green and rose. The aroma of fresh coffee. The broad entrance hall had a large room off to each side, stairs ahead and more doorways at the bottom. Those led to the kitchen and dining room, I assumed. The door to our right was closed; I could hear the murmur of television. But Agnes went through to the room on our left.