Frances was crying again. She didn’t understand why: she had never been someone to give in to tears. But recently she’d been experiencing this horrible sense of dread, which crept up on her at odd times when she was alone. It was like a soft, dark cloak descending, suffocating her and making her guts turn to water, her heart trip over itself in a race to nowhere. She felt as though she were about to die, and she had no idea what to do when the feeling overtook her. Taking deep breaths helped, but sometimes she was in so much of a tither that she couldn’t even do that: her lungs seemed to shrink to a tiny section up round her throat and she despaired of getting the next breath.
She was just recovering from an attack now, as she sat in the sitting room at two in the morning, huddled in her quilted pink dressing gown, a cup of tea on the table beside her, her toes freezing in the toweling mules she wore in summer. She had turned on the television for company, and settled on an episode of Minder, keeping the sound very low. She’d never liked the program, even back in the early eighties, but George Cole and his roguish antics had always made Kenny laugh. The thought brought another tear to her eye.
Picking up her mug, Frances took a sip of tea. Just a tiny one, because she’d been having trouble swallowing recently. Even when she did force something down, she’d get terrible indigestion. Nancy had noticed, of course, but Frances dreaded fuss so she’d said nothing, swatted off her daughter’s concern. She’d go to Dr. Henderson soon, but on her own terms. Otherwise there would be a whole family hoo-hah and everyone would get involved—dear Louise worried for Britain. It was probably just the usual.
“You must expect this sort of problem at your age,” her doctor had been telling her for years. Frances didn’t see why she should. Was it entirely necessary for her knees to give out, her fingers to swell and skew with arthritis, her heart to need statins, her ears to buzz continuously with tinnitus? Couldn’t someone do something? She often envied Kenny, getting out when he had—she was still furious with him for leaving her to suffer on her own.
The pain in her stomach was like a sharp, pricking cramp, which came and went in pulses as soon as the hot tea went down. Frances held her breath; she felt sick. The house was chilly, but she certainly wasn’t going to turn on the heating, not in May. What she needed was a hot-water bottle, but she didn’t have the strength to get up and organize it.
How tired she was of being alone. She was jolly good at pretending otherwise, of course, what with the bridge club and the theater, trips to galleries and those endless dreary gardens to which her friends seemed so addicted. Good at pretending she had a great life. And she did do an awful lot more than most people of her age, because she knew she’d go mad if she didn’t. But the other week, when she’d been over for lunch with the family, she’d had this overwhelming desire just to stay put, never go home, never move from that ghastly green sofa with Bob curled up by her side, sleep in Nancy’s slope-roofed spare room, with the delightful blue-flowered curtains, let others sort out her life for her.
Now the thought of that alternative life gave her a moment of yearning as she idly watched George and his sidekick Dennis Waterman crazy-running along the pavement, fleeing some dodgy villain in a sharp suit, George holding onto his trilby for dear life. She wondered how many older people like herself were sitting there, dreaming of the exact same thing. Thousands, surely. It wasn’t natural to be alone at her age. In the past she would have been expected to live within the bosom of the family, pass down all the wisdom she’d gleaned in her life—not that she could think of what that might be right now.
Nancy might welcome not being alone, Frances thought. She didn’t seem to go out much. I could keep to myself, “maintain my independence”—that patronizing phrase always used about her age group—go out with my friends just like I do now, not bother Nancy when she has pupils. The spare room is just big enough for me to have a television up there. Louise and the girls were across the way, so if she and Nancy were driving each other mad she could divide her time between them, not burden anyone. Her friend Joyce had just sold her cottage and moved into an adorable “granny-annex” next to her son’s house. And Joyce had a pretty tricky relationship with her daughter-in-law at the best of times—Frances wouldn’t want to live so close to that bossy girl. So if Joyce could do it . . .
She sighed, knowing she would rather die than ask Nancy to take her in.
The next thing she knew, light was pouring through the sitting room window, the birds chirping away noisily at their dawn chorus. Looking at the clock on the mantelpiece, she saw it was nearly five-thirty. Her whole body was like ice and aching with stiffness. She felt nauseous, but when she tried to get up, her limbs wouldn’t respond. The familiar panic began to take hold.
Breathe, she told herself. But it wasn’t working and she felt the bile rise in her throat. Bending over, gasping for breath, she threw up on the carpet, tears streaming down her face as she retched and retched, bringing up only liquid and mucus, but unable to stop.
When she finally lay back on the flowered sofa cushions, wiping her mouth with an old tissue she found in her dressing gown pocket, she knew she needed help. Reaching for the phone she rang her daughter.
“Mum . . .” Nancy’s sleepy voice held a tinge of irritation.
“Sorry, darling . . . so sorry. . . I’m not well . . . Can you come?” Frances forced the words through her parched lips.
“What is it? What’s happened?” Nancy no longer sounded sleepy.
“I’ve been sick . . . I don’t know . . .” The effort of holding the phone seemed too much for Frances and she felt a new wave of nausea sweep over her. “Please . . .” She hung up and retched again, looking in dismay at the slimy mess on the carpet.
It seemed a lifetime before she heard Nancy’s key in the door.
“God, Mum, what happened?”
Nancy was by her side: she was safe. She lay back and closed her eyes, clutching her daughter’s hand as if for dear life.
*
The next thing she knew she was tucked up in bed, warm and clean, a hot-water bottle against her side, a glass of water on the night table, the yellow plastic washing-up bowl on the floor beside the bed, a nasty taste of bile still in her mouth. She reached for the water and took a sip, then pulled the duvet tighter around her shoulders.
“You’re awake.” Nancy’s anxious face appeared at the door. “How are you feeling?”
Frances gave her a wan smile. “All right, I think. I must have eaten something.”
Nancy sat on the bed beside her, gently took her hand. “What did you have for supper?”
“Umm . . . an egg . . . bread and butter. A couple of biscuits.” The egg bit was a lie, and the bread and butter, but she had nibbled at least half of a digestive with her tea.
Her daughter frowned. “Maybe it was the egg.” Her eyes widened. “I hope it’s not salmonella.”
Frances shook her head. “I’m sure I’d be much worse if it was. I don’t feel sick anymore.”
“No, well . . . Dr. Henderson is coming this afternoon, anyway.”
“Oh, darling. You shouldn’t have bothered him. I’m fine now.”
“Are you, Mum? You look dreadful.”
Frances raised her eyebrows.
“You know what I mean.” Nancy said, getting up. “Can I bring you anything? A cup of tea?”
“No, thank you. But if the doctor’s coming, can you pass me my brush and face cream, please.”