Mum’s hands had acquired a translucence of late. The skin reminded Jenny of cling film – it was silky, detached from the flesh. She found it difficult to reconcile this timid creature with the person who was once her mother. The woman who had bought her into the world without a bit of fuss was huddled in bed and peeping from the sheets.
With an effort Margaret remembered something. “How’s Marc?”
“Mum, I told you already. We split up.”
“Oh … that’s a shame. Sorry, I’ve got a memory like a sieve nowadays.”
They had this conversation every visit and Jenny knew what was coming.
“He seemed like such a nice man,” said Margaret, sticking to the script. “You were getting married, weren’t you? Or were you?”
“We were. Until he dumped me.”
For a moment some of the old fire returned to her mother’s eyes. “The bastard. Well, it’s his loss.”
She slurred the ‘ss’ in loss.
Jenny had been taken aside when she arrived at Hammersmith Hospital.
“There’s still no definitive diagnosis,” said Dr Bryant. “But we’re ninety-nine per cent sure it’s genetic. Degenerative, too. It resembles early stage Huntington’s – clumsiness, forgetfulness, a loss of balance. But the tests show it’s not Huntington’s, and we just don’t know what it is. I’m afraid that leaves Margaret slightly in the lurch.”
“Do you know what’s causing the symptoms?”
“Her nerve cells are wasting.” Dr Bryant moved gracefully and he had an aura of poise. “If it carries on we can expect further worsening in memory and speech. You might have noticed she’s developed a slight slur in the last few days.”
Jenny closed her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I simply can’t imagine how upsetting all this must be.”
Her eyes shot open. “I’m fine,” she said. “What happens now?”
“Well, we continue to monitor her and do tests. The chances are someone else has had this before. It’s just a question of finding them and then we can design a treatment programme.”
“What’s her prognosis? And please, do be blunt with me.”
“It’s difficult to say,” admitted Dr Bryant. “If it follows the pattern of Huntington’s we can expect deterioration on all fronts. Eventually breathing’s affected. Then …” his voice tapered off. “Heart function.”
Jenny’s eyelids closed again; this time the doctor kept his mouth shut.
“Is she unhappy?” she said.
“She gets distressed sometimes. But you must be thankful she recognizes you. Her long-term memory seems to be holding up – but it’s definitely worth prompting it when you can. And she’s still cracking jokes. That’s a good sign.”
Jenny willed herself to see the positive. “She was a formidable woman, you know.”
The doctor had smiled at that. “I’m quite sure.”
*
“Do you remember how you were always trying to get me interested in art when I was a little girl?” Jenny tried. “But all I wanted to do was play cops and robbers.”
Margaret smiled gratefully, as if slipping into a hot bath. “Of course, dear,” she said. “But you would only be the cop. You only wanted to be one of the goodies.”
Jenny felt a weight press on her larynx.
“I miss …” said Margaret. “I miss …”
“Miss what, Mum?”
“I miss my kitchen.”
Jenny laughed, spluttering as two emotions collided in her throat. The threat of tears dissipated. Silly cow, she scolded herself.
“Always wanted to be one of the goodies, you did,” murmured her mother.
Jenny’s phone buzzed – it was Alexander Guilherme.
“I’m at Heathrow,” he said, the statement corroborated by a flight announcement in the background. “You need to get here right now – Wolsey’s on the move.”
“Oh sugar.”
“He’s booked onto the next BA flight to Istanbul. I’ve got us both a seat.”
Her mother stirred. “Trouble, love?”
“Oh, work stuff. I’m really sorry, Mum, but I have to go, something’s come up. Dad’s coming in tomorrow.”
“That’ll be nice,” said Margaret. “But don’t let him put himself out on my account.”
Jenny kissed her on the cheek, pausing to inhale; the scent was part of her own body.
“Mum, listen to me for a moment – this is important.”
Margaret looked bewildered. “What is it, love?”
“We’re going to take you back to your kitchen soon, no matter what. I promise.”
As Jenny departed a thought occurred to her and she sought out Dr Bryant.
“You said this disease may be hereditary. That means I might be carrying it, right?”
The doctor looked evasive. “It’s possible.”
“What are the odds? If it was Huntington’s, say.”
“Not great,” he admitted. “For Huntington’s it’s fifty-fifty.”
Jenny blanched. “Is there a test?”
She had to know.
“Miss Frobisher, we haven’t even worked out what your mother’s fighting yet.”
As Jenny sat on the Heathrow Express that evening she had things on her mind.