Dot used to come over after her tea and we’d put on our dresses and do our hair. Mother used to say she’d never heard so much giggling. Then Arthur would knock on the front door and Mother would let him in and call us down. Bill would appear from his room, full of smiles for Dot, and we’d all head off together. Dot and I would link arms and the men would walk behind us. The getting ready and those walks were my favourite part of the evening sometimes. Almost always, really. Once we were in the dance hall, it was often a bit loud and I was never all that good at dancing, but when we were on the way, walking down the hill, the whole town spread out like a blanket, it felt like the world was there for the taking, as if we could pluck it like an apple from a tree.
The photograph doesn’t give much of a sense of her. She looks a bit stiff, like she wishes it wasn’t being taken. We weren’t used to having our photograph taken, not like youngsters now, always posing. I hold it up to the light, try to make out that sparkle she always had, but it isn’t there. Mother didn’t capture it. Or the camera didn’t. I look at myself, next. In some ways it’s hard to believe I was ever so young, and in others that’s how I think I still look now, until I catch my reflection in a mirror unexpectedly. My dark hair is swept up, my skin clear. My chin juts out a bit but it’s not the disaster I always thought it was, back then. Bill just looks like Bill, the way he always did. No apologies or discomfort. People talk now about being comfortable in your own skin, and that’s what Bill was. His hair was slicked back with Brylcreem, his gaze steady, his shirt a little crumpled. I can picture Mother leaning forward to brush the creases out as best she could before holding up the camera. So handsome. And Arthur, next to Bill, his eyes smiling. You can’t make out the reddish tint to his hair or the fact that he was slightly heavier, slightly more solid than Bill. His eyes aren’t focused on the camera – he’s looking slightly off to the side, in Dot’s direction.
We all look young and beautiful, and that’s the truth of it. And now, Bill’s been gone for decades and Arthur for just a few weeks, and I can’t help but wonder about Dot. Whether it’s just me left, or whether she’s still walking the Earth too, somewhere.
I hear her voice again, little more than a whisper. Find me.
8
I can’t remember the last time the doorbell rang, so it makes me jump. I push my feet into my woolly slippers and shuffle out into the hall. When I open the door, there’s a woman standing there, beaming at me. She’s about fifty. A good age, lots of life behind you but lots still ahead. She has bottle-blonde hair cut in a bob and her clothes don’t fit right.
‘Who are you?’ I ask.
She throws her head back and laughs. She’s the sort of woman who laughs with her whole body. But she’s got sad eyes, too.
‘I’m Julie,’ she says. ‘Your new carer. Can I come in?’
Carer indeed. I tell her there must be some mistake, but she’s insistent. I can hardly let her in when she’s a complete stranger, can I? She shows me her lanyard thingy but anyone could knock up one of those. We seem to be in a sort of stalemate, until she offers to telephone her boss. Once she’s got hold of him, she passes her mobile telephone over to me.
‘Hello,’ I say, ‘this is Mabel Beaumont and I have a woman at my door claiming to be my new carer but I did not arrange for this.’
‘Ah, didn’t you receive a call from us?’
‘I did not.’
‘Your husband got in touch…’
‘My husband is dead,’ I tell him.
‘Yes, I thought he would be. Let me explain, Mrs Beaumont.’
‘I think you’d better.’
‘You see, your husband contacted us a while ago to set up a care package for after he’d… gone. He would call every couple of months with an update on his health, and we haven’t heard from him for a while so we thought the time had perhaps come. But there should have been a phone call first. I can see how this would come as a bit of a shock. I apologise.’
Arthur. A care package. So he knew, or at least suspected, that he didn’t have long. And he didn’t say a word. I put a hand to my throat and Julie looks a bit panicked and steps forward with her arms out, presumably in case I collapse, but I just wave her inside. She’s clearly not a threat. I won’t leave her shivering while I sort this out.
‘I don’t need this. And we can’t afford it,’ I say.
‘Ah, he did say you might have a few thoughts about it, but I can assure you he’s paid upfront for the first three months.’
The first three months. Up to the end of February, pretty much. I think of him, coming up with this idea, fine-tuning the details and making the arrangements, and I feel as if my heart’s grown, suddenly, and it’s blocking my windpipe, and I can’t breathe. Why didn’t he say? All those nights we lay side by side, neither of us good sleepers in the past few years. There were so many opportunities to tell me.
‘Is that everything?’ he asks. ‘It’s just, I have a few things to be getting on with. If you have any other questions, I’m sure Julie can help.’
I look at Julie. We’re still in the hallway and she’s got a puffy sort of coat on. She won’t be able to get past me until I step back.
‘Thank you,’ I say, and I pass the telephone back to her, then turn and walk into the front room.
‘I’m sorry this is a shock, and I’m sorry you’ve lost your husband, but let’s make the best of it, eh?’
‘How often are you coming?’
I expect her to say once a week. Twice, perhaps.
‘Every day, for a couple of hours.’
‘Every day! That’ll be costing a fortune!’ What I don’t say is that I don’t know whether I like her, yet.
She shrugs. ‘Did Arthur deal with the finances, Mabel? Perhaps he’s had money set aside for this for a long time, just in case. And I have to say, as someone whose husband’s just walked out on her for a younger model, I think you got pretty lucky with yours.’
What a thing to say. She knows nothing about my marriage. And she never will. That will explain the sad eyes, though, I suppose. There’s a floral scent in the room that wasn’t there before, which I suppose must be her perfume. It’s nice, light.
‘Will it always be you?’ I ask.
She does that laugh again, puts a hand on the sofa for support. ‘Oh Mabel, you’re classic, you are. Yes, it’s always going to be me. I think we’re going to get along just fine, don’t you?’
I don’t. But I don’t say so. We sit down, me in my armchair by the window and her on the sofa with Olly. She reaches across to pet him and I think about warning her, but he does it for me, pulling away and letting out a soft little growl.
‘Who’s this bundle of fur, then?’
‘That’s Olly. He doesn’t really like… most people.’
‘Not even you?’
‘Not even me. He liked Arthur.’
‘I see. Right then, let’s talk through what I can do for you. Do you need any help with washing and dressing?’
I shudder at the thought. Arthur once said he’d rather be dead than rely on someone for help with intimate tasks. And he got his way, didn’t he?