AT THE OPPOSITE end of our town and the landmark spectrum to The Blooding we have a lovely park called Fieldwood Park, which has a small lake in it, a cricket pavilion and a rather posh restaurant. The dining area looks out on to the lake, where three or four swans slide about on the glassy water and willow trees bend over to take a look. The restaurant is called Madeleine’s and usually they get a bit sniffy about clients using mobile phones while eating.
Hector is having lunch here with someone. They’re at one of the tables with the lake view, at the back of the restaurant. These are the best tables in the place. Hector’s just clicking off his mobile phone, smiling and frowning at the same time. Although he’s angry about his brother, he’s greatly enjoyed talking to me again – you can see that in his face. He doesn’t know yet that this is going to be one of the worst days of his life.
The waiting staff know Hector well as he comes here a lot. They also know that he always leaves a generous tip, so after fighting over who would serve his table, they have refrained from giving him the ‘look’ when his phone rang, and actually stayed away from the table during the call in order to give him some privacy.
His lunch companion is very elegantly dressed in cream and has impeccable manners, discreetly turning towards the window view of the lake and sipping tastefully on a white wine spritzer while Hector talks. Hector is evidently receiving some bad – or at least infuriating – news and his guest tries desperately not to overhear.
Hector himself is conscious of how rude he is being to his guest, but he can’t help himself. He keeps his phone with him, switched on, at all times because of his mum, and when it rang nine minutes ago he picked it up, dreading to see his home number in the display. Instead, it showed his old mobile number, which informed him immediately who it was.
Let’s pause a moment and go back nine minutes. I want to show you the moment when the phone rang and he saw that number in the window. Here he is, elbows on the table, nodding as his companion is talking. He glances up and smiles as a young waitress sashays past. Then – there – the phone in his jacket pocket rings and he reaches in and pulls it out. Focus on his face – anxiety, dread, maybe even fear. But now it’s in his hand and he can see the display and – look at that! His brow smoothes, he smiles, excuses himself hurriedly and turns away from the table, flicking open the phone eagerly. The fact is, he had intended to leave all calls, except any from his mum, until after his lunch. His pleasure at seeing that number in the display drove the plan completely from his mind.
So now he’s finished the call. He stares down at the now silent phone in his hand for a few seconds, as if it is something very precious, then puts it away in his jacket pocket. His companion turns back from the window at last.
‘Everything all right?,’ says Rupert de Witter, putting his glass down on the table.
Hector nods, then shakes his head. ‘Brilliant and fucking awful at the same time.’
‘That sounds interesting. Care to elaborate?’
‘I just found out from someone that my brother is an arsehole.’
Rupert smiles. ‘Which is clearly the bad news. So I’m guessing it’s the person who told you that’s the brilliant part?’
Hector nods. ‘Oh yes, my friend. I’ll tell you all about it one day. In the mean time, can we get on with the business, please? I feel a pressing need to pay a family visit this afternoon.’
‘Fine with me. I can get a round of golf in if we’re quick.’
From this moment on, you can see that Hector has become quite distracted. He’s frowning a lot, so must be thinking about what I have just told him about his brother. When he’s not frowning, he’s smiling to himself, though, and looking thoughtful, perhaps remembering the conversation he’s just had with me? Perhaps really pleased that I’ve called him again? Perhaps delighted with the way his business transaction with Rupert de Witter is working out?
Twenty minutes later and they’re shaking hands in the car park before parting company – Rupert to the driving range for a quick eighteen holes, Hector to the bypass to tear his brother a new hole.
He looks furious and is driving far too fast, particularly as he is not concentrating properly on the road. Every so often, he gets an image of Sarah on her knees cleaning, and Glenn mysteriously absent, supposedly working overtime, which makes the blood in his head start pounding and his eyesight go all blurry, and he squints and snarls through the windscreen, banging his hands against the wheel.
He’s talking now. His muttering starts off quietly, then gets louder as he becomes more animated.
‘You’re a selfish, mean, dirty little low-life, Glenn McCarthy. You’re scum. You’re the lowest, vilest, filthiest, spineless little belly-crawler who doesn’t deserve to have a wife and son and be loved like that. Ugh, you little shit. You shit, you shit.’ A moped suddenly appears in the road ahead, having pulled out of a side road directly in front of Hector’s speeding car. His eyes widen and he stamps on the brake, then yanks the wheel violently to the right, skidding on to the oncoming carriageway. He struggles to regain control of the car as it swerves to the left and right, the tyres squealing on the tarmac, and he braces himself as the large shape of a parked lorry looms up very fast towards him. He closes his eyes and wraps his arms around his head, tensed for impact.
The smash doesn’t come. After a second or two, he lowers his arms and looks around. His car has come to a standstill close to the middle of the road, at a ninety-degree angle to his original direction. To his left, the parked lorry is intact, a man standing on the pavement next to it looking white and horrified. Hector raises his hand to the man to indicate that he’s all right, releasing a pent-up breath as he does so.
A sudden tapping on the driver’s window startles Hector and he looks up. There’s a youth standing there in a crash helmet, visor still down, indicating for Hector to put the window down. This is evidently the careless moped rider who had so nearly been knocked over. Hector presses the window button, feeling a tremor in his hand. As the window reaches the bottom, the moped owner raises the visor and Hector can see that it’s not a youth at all, but an elderly lady.
‘Oh my goodness, are you all right, my love?’ she asks. Her lips are trembling and her mouth sags with worry, and she puts her hand further inside the window as if to touch Hector’s arm. ‘I did look, you know, I always look. I don’t understand how I can have missed you. Harry keeps telling me I shouldn’t be on the road any more, not if I can’t wear my glasses, you know, with the helmet on, but it’s so easy to jump on and go, you see. Are you sure you’re all right? When I think what might have happened . . .’ She shakes her head.
Hector smiles. ‘I’m fine,’ he says firmly. ‘Absolutely fine. No harm done at all. I needed to turn round anyway.’
‘Oh, heavens, aren’t you nice? What a gentleman. You don’t meet many like you these days, I can tell you. They’re just as likely to stick two fingers up at you as offer you a good morning. Now look, are you sure I can’t do something for you? Would you at least let me—?’
‘No, no, really, there’s no need.’ He wasn’t sure what she was going to offer to do, but he didn’t want her to do it. ‘I’m fine, you’re fine, that chap over there is fine. We’re all fine so there’s no need for you to do anything, and you really don’t need to worry. I was probably driving too fast anyway.’
‘Well, you should be ashamed of yourself,’ she says, suddenly frowning. ‘This is a residential district, you know. You could have caused an accident.’
Hector blinks. ‘Oh, er, well, yes, I suppose you’re right. I’ll be more careful.’
‘I should think so.’ She snaps her visor down and says, her voice muffled, ‘Young people zooming around the streets without a single regard for an OAP like me out for a ride,’ and wanders away, back to her bike.
‘Cheerio then,’ Hector calls out. She does not acknowledge him and he has the discomfiting feeling that her hearing is failing as well as her eyesight.
The engine is still ticking over, so he shifts into first gear and carefully pulls away, back the way he has just come.
He’s realized suddenly that now is not the time to confront Glenn with the news of the affair anyway. It’s Saturday afternoon – Sarah and Jake will be there, and Hector has no intention of allowing either of them to hear about it. Besides which, he’s so angry with his brother, whatever he wants to say would probably not come out right. He shakes his head. No. He will call Glenn at work on Monday and ask him to come round in the evening. They can thrash it out there, with no danger of being overheard by Sarah. With any luck, Hector will be able to convince Glenn to break it off and that will be the end of the matter.
The usual cold dread begins to seep into him as he nears home. What is he coming home to this time? Unconsciously, his foot eases off the accelerator and his speed decreases as he drives reluctantly along the road towards his driveway.
When he pushes open the front door, everything is quiet. He creeps into the hallway, concerned about disturbing her if she’s nodded off in the armchair. As he progresses along the hallway, he begins to notice a faint smell of gas, which grows stronger as he approaches the kitchen. ‘Not again,’ he says and runs quickly into the kitchen.
On the threshold, he stops dead and stares into the room, frozen with terror.
The gas ring is on and hissing gently. Smashed glass litters the table and the floor, along with some newspaper and, most disturbingly, a few dots of blood. One of the kitchen chairs is tipped over and underneath it Hector can see one of his mum’s purple suede slippers. Quickly he turns off the hissing gas and approaches the table. With sickening horror he realizes that the slipper is still attached to her foot, and she is lying prone on the floor by the table, her face pressed against the cold tiles. ‘Mum!’ he calls out, dropping to his knees, reaching for her, rolling her over on to her back frantically. He presses his ear to her chest but hears nothing. ‘Oh God, come on, Mum, come on,’ he whispers, placing his face close, his lips millimetres away from hers. He strokes her hair back from her face and holds his own breath; eventually he feels a faint, barely discernible stir of air on his lips. ‘Yes, thank you, God, thank you.’ He grabs a cushion from one of the dining chairs and pushes it under her head, then pulls out his mobile phone and calls an ambulance.
She’s taken straight into Accident and Emergency, jumping to the front of the queue of Saturday-afternoon sports injuries. Hector jogs along beside the trolley until finally he is prevented from going further and the last set of doors swing closed in his face. He stands there helplessly for a few moments until the man behind the desk calls him over to give his mum’s personal information.
Look around the waiting room a moment. Can you see, sitting at the back of the room, one well-toned leg extended and resting on a chair in front, someone who looks familiar? Black, floppy hair, baby-blue eyes. We know who that is, don’t we? Look a bit more closely – are there tear stains on those smooth cheeks? And all for a sprained ankle. I wonder how he would cope in Hector’s shoes.
Hector is pacing now. His hair is standing on end from constantly running his hands through it, the crease between his eyes has deepened and he is biting at the skin of his lips. He starts, realizing suddenly that he ought to tell Glenn what has happened.
There is a phone on the wall inside a clear plastic hood. Hector walks to it and dials his brother’s number.
‘What’s she done this time?’ Glenn asks. ‘More burns?’
‘Glenn, you shit, you get here this second.’ A few people have looked up from their misery towards Hector, and he lowers his voice. ‘Just get here now.’
‘Right, OK, I’ll come. Just give me an hour or so. I’ll ask Sarah’s mum if she can look after Jake for a bit, but it’s going to take a little while to get him over there and then drive all the way back—’
‘Jesus, Glenn, stop making excuses and get moving. Your mum is lying unconscious in Casualty. Nothing is more important than that at this point in time.’
Twenty minutes pass. Hector paces the waiting area, rubbing his head, checking his watch, jumping every time the doors open and a doctor or nurse enters or leaves. He tries to see through the doors, tries to locate his mum in the room beyond, but it’s impossible. There are hospital staff everywhere and mingling with them are the friends and families of the sick and injured.
The outside doors open and Glenn and Sarah arrive, glancing around in dismay at the crowded room, the overriding feeling evident on their faces one of irritation.
Hector spots them and strides over. ‘Where’ve you been? Hi, Sarah, how are you?’ He glares at his brother, then leans forward and kisses Sarah lightly on the cheek.
‘We had to drop Jake off at a friend’s in the end,’ Glenn says defensively. ‘Sarah’s mum was . . .’ He stops and dismisses this thought with a quick wave of his hand. ‘Where is she then?’
Hector indicates the doors where he last saw his mum. ‘They took her through there. No one’s told me anything yet, but I suppose no news is good news.’
Glenn shrugs. ‘Maybe. Depends on what your definition of good news is.’
Hector glares at him, but at that moment they are approached by a young woman with a hesitant smile on her face. Hector walks over to her quickly.
‘Are you the doctor? What’s happening? Is she all right?’
‘Are you the son?’
‘Yes, I brought her in,’ Hector says anxiously.
‘One of them,’ Glenn announces, walking up. ‘I’m the other one. What’s going on?’
‘Perhaps you’d all like to follow me. I’ll explain everything, but let’s find somewhere quiet, shall we?’
She walks away towards a door, beyond which is a room with three sofas and a coffee table in it. Glenn and Sarah follow her in but Hector doesn’t move for a few seconds. The blood has drained from his face and he puts a hand against the wall to steady himself.
In the room, there are flowers in a vase on the table and pictures of flowers and clouds on sunny days on the walls. The walls have been painted lilac. It is in here that the doctor explains in a calm, matter-of-fact tone that Hector and Glenn’s mum had a massive stroke at home, and another one after she had arrived in the hospital. The second one proved fatal. Hector stares at a framed print of sunflowers as he hears her telling them that they did all they could, but she had never regained consciousness. She had not suffered at all. At least her death had spared her that.
Sarah cries out, ‘Oh no!’ and covers her mouth with her hand, sinking down on to one of the beige sofas. Glenn glances at Hector, then sits down next to his wife and cradles her in his arms. Hector is counting how many sunflowers there are in the picture on the wall. There are eight in the picture above the sofa, and each one has fourteen petals. He looks briefly at his brother and sister-in-law comforting each other, then he wraps his arms around himself and goes out into the empty corridor.
Twenty minutes later, Hector and Glenn are sitting on either side of their mum, holding her cooling hands. She is there, on that bed, but you can’t really make her out because she’s so very tiny. She hardly raises a bump in the sheet. All the tubes and wires that connected her to life have been taken away. If you can see her face, she looks peaceful, but she doesn’t look like she’s asleep – she’s far too still to be sleeping. She is inanimate now and it’s already hard to imagine that she ever did move. It’s like looking at a representation of her; like a waxwork figure of herself, asleep.
Hector can’t stand the unmovingness of her. He gazes at her face but no eyelash flickers, no pulse beats, no muscle spasms, no nerve twitches; no breath goes in or out. She is as motionless as an ornament. He has read accounts of people looking at their lifeless loved ones, expecting any moment that the person will open their eyes and ask for a drink, but he has no such feeling. He can see that she is no more likely to move spontaneously than the equipment around her.
You’ll notice that Sarah is no longer present. She went home in a taxi a few minutes ago. Hector is looking at Glenn as if he wishes he would go as well, but Glenn can’t see that because he’s got his head down on the mattress.
‘I can’t believe she’s gone,’ Glenn says quietly, his voice muffled.
‘No,’ Hector says simply.
Glenn raises his head. ‘I mean, the way she’s been lately, I’ve kind of been thinking that maybe, if she . . . But now that it’s happened, I can’t . . .’
‘I know,’ Hector says, putting his hand on his brother’s arm. ‘You shouldn’t feel guilty for thinking like that, Glenn. She had hardly any quality of life left. She was just stuck in a time when things were happy for her. And now she’s out of her misery.’
After half an hour or so, they reach an unspoken decision to leave. Each glances at the other and understands implicitly that it is time to go. Glenn kisses his mum’s hand then lays it down beside her on the mattress, takes one final look then bows his head and leaves the room.
Hector stands. There are tears running silently down his cheeks. He leans over his mum and wraps his arms around her for the last time, clutching her body to his chest. She does not return the hug. ‘Thank you, Mum,’ he says into her hair, mouth distorted with grief. ‘Thank you for everything you’ve done. I love you so much. I’m going to miss you every day.’ He kisses her cheek, then kisses it again, lingering there a few moments before laying her down on the pillow again. He strokes her hair away from her face and says, ‘Say hi to Dad for me.’ Then he walks quickly away.
Glenn drops him off but doesn’t stay long. He has to get back to Sarah and Jake. Hector understands and prefers to be on his own anyway. Glenn is moving back down the path towards his car really quickly. He’s almost running, as if desperate to get away. He probably is desperate; Hector is in a depressive mood.
In the kitchen, Hector is standing staring at the place on the floor that has become his mum’s last memory. He tortures himself, imagining what she experienced. Was there pain? Did she understand what was happening? Did she feel frightened? Did she call out for him? He closes his eyes as he realizes that if she did cry out, it was more likely to be for Charlie, her husband, dead for eighteen years, than for Hector.
Why did he go to lunch with Rupert? He didn’t have to do it that day. It could have waited until the following weekend, or they could even have met in the office during the week. But he and Rupert were old friends and he was looking forward to conducting their business over a pleasant lunch.
Ten hours earlier, that morning, Celia had said, ‘Where’re you going?’, touching his arm.
‘To work, Mum. I won’t be long.’
‘Work? Who works on a Saturday?’
Hector had stared at her. It was extraordinary that she knew what day of the week it was. Perhaps it was just coincidence.
‘Don’t go, Hector,’ she had said then. ‘I don’t want to be here all on my own today.’
He had smiled and kissed her. ‘You’re being daft. I’ll only be a couple of hours, then I’ll come home and make you some pancakes. All right?’
She had nodded uncertainly, but followed Hector around the house, as he had got ready to go out. He had felt irritated with her, but forced it down.
So her last conscious moments were alone in the kitchen, doing . . . what? The broken glass everywhere looks as if it used to be a thick mixing bowl. There is a carton of smashed eggs on the floor behind the table, and the gas ring was on underneath a large frying pan. Hector looks around at the pitiful last efforts of his sad and deluded mother. It looks as if Celia McCarthy had been trying to make pancakes.
He can’t stand to look at it any more and heads upstairs to bed. He doesn’t sleep but spends hour after hour remembering long-ago holidays, Christmases, school plays and poorly days. His mum had done her best every day to make the boys happy, holding their hands both literally and figuratively for as long as she could. He remembered her hand clamped on to his so tightly it hurt at his father’s funeral eighteen years ago, when he was just fifteen. The shocked whiteness of her face that day would stay with him for ever, and he had been totally unable to make her feel better.
He thinks about her illness, the cruelty of early-onset Alzheimer’s that started eight years after she was separated from her beloved Charlie, when she was only sixty. He remembers the agony of watching as day by day she forgot her life, her family and her loved ones, finally retreating into the comfort of long-gone days when her husband was still alive, conjuring him up from her memory.
Finally Hector is asleep. It’s just after three a.m. It’s not a restful sleep and he tosses and turns all night, waking at eight o’clock the next morning to the realization that his mum is dead.
And now here he is arriving for work on Monday morning, forty minutes late. His face is drawn and grey and his eyes are red rimmed. Darren, his assistant, watches him as he moves slowly towards the door to his office, his shoulders slumped over, head low.
‘Can I get you anything, boss?’ he asks, but Hector shakes his head without looking up. He moves into the office and closes the door gently behind him. Darren goes back in the main office and tells the other two people working there, Moira and Carl, that something is very wrong. ‘He seems very down and depressed, not his usual cheery self, and should probably be left alone as much as possible today, OK? He looks like he hasn’t had much sleep all weekend, and I daresay—’
He is cut off suddenly by a loud explosion of laughter from the office behind that makes Moira start in her seat. All three turn to look at the door to try and understand this inexplicable change in attitude, then Carl and Moira turn to Darren, eyebrows raised. He is utterly baffled and can offer nothing more than a shrug.