FOUR

Eddie was sitting on her bed, with her hairbrush in her hand. Since moving into The Spruces, she had put on weight and Jane suspected that, given half a chance, she helped herself to the other residents’ sweets and biscuits. In the past, she had been fussy about what she ate, taking notice of the constant supply of information on the media. Drink a glass of red wine for your heart. No, don’t. Eat low-fat products. No, don’t – they’re full of sugar. Eat five a day. No, eat eight.

For a time, they had consumed vast amounts of broccoli until one day Eddie had asked her why she kept cooking such a disgusting vegetable. But you said we should eat it three times a week. No, I didn’t! Had that been when it all began? Small inconsistencies that gradually turned into larger ones, like the time Eddie had accused her of stealing her raincoat, an absurd accusation since Jane was four inches taller and had a perfectly good raincoat of her own.

Something that had always irritated Eddie, was Jane’s liking for Beatrix Potter. Squirrel Nutkin – oh, for heaven’s sake. Jemima Puddleduck? It’s just a duck, Jane, you’re so sentimental, you’ve never grown up. But after the illness took hold, it was a different matter. Eddie had studied Jane’s collection of Beatrix Potter books, pointing out particular illustrations and insisting Jane take in the details. Tom Kitten’s buttons or Mrs Tiggywinkle’s basket of washing. Jeremy Fisher’s galoshes or Squirrel Nutkin’s missing tail.

‘Are you ready?’ The bristles of Eddie’s hairbrush on the back of Jane’s hand had put an end to her trip down memory lane. ‘Shall we go downstairs?’

‘No!’ Eddie scowled at her so Jane concentrated on the wallpaper with its pattern of orange and white flowers on a pale yellow background. When the house was a convent, the walls would have been plain. No wallpaper, no pictures, but possibly a crucifix. The scent of holiness still lingered. Or perhaps it was air freshener. Holy water fragrance?

Eddie had a few items from home, unbreakable ones, a velvet mouse, a small wooden box with a carved lid, a pot of hand cream and a jar of moisturiser. Jane doubted if she noticed them any longer, but they made the room feel a little homelier. Taking a box of fruit jellies from her bag, she removed the polythene, and handed it to Eddie, who ignored it.

‘Where’s Biddy?’

‘Biddy?’ The polythene had reminded Jane of the fluffy handcuffs and made her flinch. With guilt? No, it was fear. ‘Sun’s out, we could have a stroll round the garden.’

Eddie stayed where she was so Jane sat down again. ‘It’s a comfortable bed, not too hard, not too soft.’

‘Shut up!’ Eddie flung out an arm, narrowly missing Jane’s glasses.

Taking one of her soft little hands – her own were more like eagles’ talons – Jane pulled her up and guided her towards the door. No need for her jacket. She was wearing the green cardigan she had knitted for herself several years ago. Her light blue trousers had a stain on the back. Blue and green should never be seen. Jane could remember her mother reciting the adage, one today’s fashion icons would find absurd.

‘Down we go.’

‘Get off!’

‘What did you have for breakfast? Do they give you a cooked one? I always enjoy a cooked breakfast, provided someone else has cooked it.’ Keeping up a stream of chatter seemed to work best. ‘I was looking at your painting, Eddie, the one with the three cats. Rousseau’s well. Eats like a pig.’ Not true – he was finickity and turned up his nose at inexpensive cat food – but, in Eddie’s company, Jane found herself mouthing mindless platitudes.

‘Where’s my comb?’

‘You want to comb your hair?’

‘No!’

‘I saw Simmy this morning. Simmy who lives next door, you remember.’ Simmy, whose father won’t tell her what happened to her mother. ‘It’s the school holidays, six whole weeks. I don’t think they’re going away. Dave’s too busy.’

‘Dave’s workshop.’

‘Yes, that’s right.’ Something had clicked in her brain, possibly because she had liked Dave, who she once described as a “no frills” person who called a spade a spade. ‘Dave is Simmy’s father.’

‘No, he’s not.’

Negotiating the stairs was tricky. Eddie clung to the rail, and Jane clung to Eddie. She smelled of talcum powder, something a care worker sprinkled on her when she helped her to wash? ‘It’s a nice, warm day. I saw Tricia Tidewell when I was leaving and the two older children were wearing shorts and T-shirts, and the baby had her sun hat.’

‘Shat.’

Jane laughed and Eddie turned her head, surprised. ‘Oh, Eddie, I do miss you.’

‘Where’s Biddy?’

The garden was well kept, too well for Jane’s taste, with large patio slabs at intervals, and the minimum of plant life, but it felt cool and fresh, compared with the stuffiness of the house. The Spruces was a well-run home – Eddie had an en suite bathroom – but Jane’s heart sank at the thought she might end up in such a place.

Did Eddie mind? Who could tell? Since she had always been mildly eccentric, Jane had failed to notice her early symptoms. Or refused to accept they were symptoms. Lack of concentration was not unusual. She was an artist and artists were allowed to be in a bit of a dream. The memory loss had come later, and followed a small seizure. Not Alzheimer’s, as Jane had feared, but vascular dementia, the result of a stroke or several strokes, when the blood supply to part of the brain was cut off and caused permanent brain damage. Multi-infarct dementia, the hospital doctor called it, following cognitive tests and a brain scan.

The previous summer, Eddie had started to look vacant, and stopped painting altogether, and later she had refused to buy new shoes even though the ones she wore every day had soles that were coming away from the uppers. On the other hand, once, when the sink was blocked, she had become very active and managed to unblock it, thereby avoiding the expense of a plumber.

During her last year at the school, Jane had worried how she was coping with her classes, but art was a subject where you could get away with murder. Loud laughter had come from the art room. One of Eddie’s funny anecdotes about her childhood, or Eddie saying or doing something inappropriate? Jane had prayed the Head was not walking past.

‘Look, Eddie, a thrush.’ Up in the maple tree that stood out from its neighbouring pines, the bird was singing, blissfully unaware of the nature of its chosen location.

‘I’m cold.’ A hand clutched at her skirt, dragging her back towards the house.

‘A new person, a woman, has moved into number twenty-two, Eddie. I’ve seen her but we haven’t been introduced. Nothing as bad as a ring in her nose, but not far off. Black leggings and a woolly hat, pulled down over her ears, and it’s not as though she’s young. In her forties, I’d say, but reluctant to join the adult world.’

Eddie had stopped listening. No, she had never been listening. Before she became ill, she had talked too much so that Jane had sometimes felt she “needed some space”. Now the house felt so quiet she was sometimes obliged to go for a walk, in the hope of seeing someone she knew, if only by sight. As the person approached she would plan a way of starting a conversation. How big the children are growing. Your wisteria is doing well. Or, when all else failed, Very warm for the time of year – or cold, or wet, or windy. Acquaintances said “hi”, something Jane had never managed, although these days even “hello” sounded a little formal.

‘Rousseau sends his love,’ she said, painfully aware it was the kind of thing people said to very young children. ‘I bought him some cat treats but they were not to his liking.’

Eddie’s lips moved and Jane held her breath, but she was only gathering saliva in her mouth so she could spit on a patio stone.

‘I saw Gus when I was coming out. Gus, who used to run his own camera shop, you remember. Oh, and Noel sent you his best wishes.’ Not true, but mention of Noel might divert her from pulling leaves off a plant. ‘His loft conversion company seems to be doing well. They’re converting next door’s.’

‘My loft.’

‘Yes, where you did your painting. All your paintings are still on the wall. I often look at them. D’you remember how we went up to London to the Summer Exhibition and they’d hung your picture in a corner and you were afraid nobody would notice it, but they did?’

‘A landscape.’

‘Yes, that’s right.’ So she did remember. ‘It sold for quite a lot of money and we had a little celebration.’

‘I’m cold.’

‘I took in a parcel for Willa Molloy. You remember Willa, bushy hair and brightly coloured clothes.’

‘I’m cold.’

‘No, you’re not.’ She had spoken too sharply and poor Eddie was looking puzzled. ‘Yes, all right, we’ll go inside again. I was telling you about Willa’s parcel. Willa who’s married to Brian. The paper had torn and the packages inside ... a teacher’s outfit, Eddie.’ Jane started to giggle. Nerves, rather than because it was funny.

‘Brian.’ Eddie was refusing to let go of a shrub.

‘Careful. It looks prickly. Yes, Brian, he used to be your doctor. Brian and Willa. Handcuffs, Eddie, aren’t people odd?’

‘I’m cold.’

Back in the dayroom, Eddie sat down heavily and kicked off her slippers. Jane wished they insisted on shoes. Shoes gave a semblance of normality. Slippers were more comfortable but Eddie’s feet, unlike Jane’s, had never caused her any trouble, and slippers felt like stage one of a decline that culminated in a walking aid.

The dayroom was pleasant enough. Comfy chairs and coffee tables and an enormous television attached to one of the walls. Just now, there was one of those consumer programmes. The sound was turned down too low to hear what the participants were saying but, because of the display of gadgets, Jane guessed it was about cold callers. The correct response, when a voice told you your computer had a fault, was to ring off. Normally Jane did just that, but yesterday she had asked the caller if he believed in God and, when he said “Of course, Madam”, she had suggested he must be worried what would happen when he went to heaven, or the other place. So silly, but it had given her a modicum of satisfaction, although later she had felt sorry for the man. Perhaps it was the only job he could find.

Matron was approaching and, by the look of her, it was not good news. She was dressed informally but her dark blue skirt and blouse would have passed as a uniform. Her bronze hair was short and wavy and she had a silver brooch in the shape of a fish, with matching earrings. ‘We had a little incident, Miss Seymour, someone’s valuables dropped down the toilet.’

‘By Eddie? Oh, dear. Had something upset her?’

‘Something or someone. Anyway.’ She licked her lips in anticipation. ‘Part of the frame is rotten so we’re having the window in Edwina’s room replaced, and since the carpenter is willing to work at the weekend, Doctor thought it might be a good idea if she went home.’

‘To my house?’

‘She has her new tablets and we’re hoping they’ll help. One night would be sufficient. You could collect her first thing on Saturday and return her on Sunday evening.’

‘This coming weekend?’

‘I’ll make a note of it.’ The matron drifted away, doubtless relieved that Jane had raised no objection, and aware that she had the whip hand since if she protested that Eddie was in no fit state to go home, it could be used against her. In the circumstances, I’m afraid we may have to ask you to find a different care home, Miss Seymour.

Looking back, Jane would curse herself – and the gimlet-eyed matron. Of all the weekends she could have chosen, why, oh why, had it been that one?