The Nurse(21)

Now, I was having to do a crash course.

I could hardly ring the solicitor and tell him that life interest he’d mentioned wasn’t a problem any more. I’d have to wait till her next of kin contacted him. With no idea who this was, or how long it was going to take, it looked as if I was going to have to wait.





The Bartholomew Clinic was set in the middle of wooded grounds a mile outside the village of Monkton Combe, and four miles from Bathford. It entailed a two-bus journey, followed by a twenty-five-minute walk. Plenty of time for me to worry about what I might find when I got there.

An imposing gateway into the clinic’s grounds opened into a winding driveway that took me five minutes to walk before reaching the surprisingly modern building that housed the clinic.

The administrator was pleased to see me. More pleased, if slightly surprised, when I told her I’d come to pay for my mother’s care to date. ‘Dr Brennan informed us of the circumstances,’ she said. ‘Since you’re not of age to sign a contract, we have sent a letter to your mother’s solicitor. It appears it may be some time before your father’s estate is settled.’

‘Yes, that’s correct, but I do have some funds and I’d prefer not to let the bill accumulate.’ I might be young, but I was old enough to know that money spoke. It seemed to be important that the clinic knew there would be money for my mother’s care regardless of what happened. They would never know what I had done to ensure it.

The administrator’s eyes widened when I took a roll of cash from my pocket and peeled off sufficient to pay for the first week’s bill, an astronomical £900.

Whether it was money talking, or she was simply being kind, she escorted me to where my mother was sitting in a big lounge overlooking the gardens.

‘I’ll tell the nurse you’re visiting,’ she said, and left me alone with my mother.

My mother? It had only been a week. She’d sunken into herself, shoulders drooping forward, her chin resting on her chest, her thin hair in two curtains hiding her pasty face.

I knelt on the floor beside her chair. ‘Mum?’

There was no reaction. Her eyes were open, fixed on her lap as if everything was written in the pattern of her dress… all her past, all her future.

I got to my feet and pulled a chair closer just as a nurse came through the door. She greeted me with a smile before turning to my mother and, keeping up a quiet monologue, she adjusted her position in the chair, then the chair itself, tilting it back a little. Her ministrations brought my mother’s face up.

Her position may have changed but that was all. Now instead of looking into her lap, she was staring out of the floor-to-ceiling windows.

I moved my chair so I was almost directly in front of her, but there was no change in her expression, no light in her eyes, no upward curve on lips that were pressed in a tight line. I took her hand in mine. It was warm, limp, and when I squeezed it gently there was no response.

‘Just talk to her,’ the nurse said, ‘tell her about your life, what you’ve been doing.’

She was probably surprised when I laughed. She’d have been a hell of a lot more surprised if I’d told her what I had been doing. A final adjustment of my mother’s chair, and the nurse left.

With my mother’s hand held in mine, I spent the next hour telling her the more mundane things I’d done recently. I spoke of how kind Mrs Higgins had been. About my visit to the solicitor and how everything was okay, that our finances were in good order and how Dad’s life insurance would pay off the mortgage. All the lies that I hoped would settle any worries that were buzzing around her head. If I succeeded, there was no sign, her eyes remained as blank, her mouth as tight, her expression as dull and distant.

Perhaps I should have told her what I’d done. The shock of my father’s death had locked her away, maybe another would drag her out. I could tell her the gruesome details, the feel of Olivia’s warm blood gushing over my hand, her attempt to get away from me, how I’d waited and watched as she’d struggled for breath. I could tell her of the framed photographs, the ones depicting the happy couple… my mother’s adoring husband, the love of her life hand in hand with his second wife… I could tell her how I’d smashed them all to smithereens.

But I couldn’t tell her that, I couldn’t tell her any of it.

I pressed my lips to her cheek, wishing she’d reach up to hold me in an embrace, that she’d look at me with love… that she’d look at me with any emotion at all. I stood, feeling hollow and walked from the room without looking back.





16





I didn’t have to wait long to find out what was going to happen with the house in Thornbury. A week after Olivia Burton reluctantly departed this life, I was eating a late breakfast when the doorbell pealed and startled me out of the dark mood I had found myself in since I’d visited my mother. It had made me restless, prevented me from falling asleep or had woken me in the early hours.

It wouldn’t be a neighbour at the door. Mrs Higgins had departed for Canada, and I’d let Rachel Robinson know that I wasn’t in the mood for her company or that of her animals who she assured me, would be beneficial to my health.

‘I could leave Billy here with you,’ she’d said two days before, when I’d stupidly answered the summons of the doorbell instead of ignoring it. I’d looked down at the overweight dog, his tongue hanging out, a whiff of a distinctive doggy smell drifting towards me, and struggled to be polite. ‘Thank you, but that’s not necessary. I’m doing fine. And actually,’ – a brainwave hit me – ‘I’m allergic to dogs, and cats,’ I added hurriedly.