Still You Page 6

  Although Sinéad was perhaps one of the most streetwise people I knew, she was floored by the events of the day. “I know Jonathan Hegarty likes his own way – but taking you away from all your clients?”

  “I know!” I intoned in my very best ‘Monica from Friends’ voice. “And then he went on to be mean to me – and then nice to me – and then mean to me again. I don’t think I like him.”

  “I must ask my ad reps what he’s like to do business with. See if he runs hot and cold with them.” She dunked a chocolate finger into her tea and slurped at it with gusto.

  “It’s an odd set-up,” I said. I knew it was against the rules to talk about clients – but I had known Sinéad since my school days and I knew I could trust her with my very life. I would tell her things that I never could have dreamed of telling Matthew. “He showed me round the big house today.”

  “Oh, you must spill! Is it just gorgeous? All elegant and oozing wealth and stature?”

  I shook my head, then shrugged my shoulders. “Not really. The kitchen is lovely – stuck in the fifties but cool in a retro way. The rest of the house is kind of typical old-woman style. He keeps most of the doors locked upstairs so that Áine won’t get confused.”

  Sinéad’s eyes mirrored the disbelief I had felt when I had learned about the closed doors.

  “And when he showed me her room . . . it just felt strange. It didn’t feel like the room of a woman who had lived her whole life there. It felt a bit cell-like – bleak – just a couple of pictures.”

  Sinéad curled up a little more. “God, very odd. I mean I know people are strange and all that – but that just seems weird. Even if he does say it’s for her own good – keeping her house locked up. I wonder what is behind all those doors? All the family jewels, perhaps? Or is he making sure ‘the help’ doesn’t ‘help’ herself?” she added with a wink.

  I stuck my tongue out. “You are a cheeky one!” I laughed. “But whatever his reason, I’m stuck with him – and I need to find a way to work through this. I need to hit the books about dementia.”

  “Rather you than me,” Sinéad said. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again – I don’t know how you do it. I’d find it all just horribly, horribly depressing.”

  “Well, that’s my job. It is hard at times – and depressing at times – but it has its own rewards. And I don’t think ‘Oh no, that made me sad’ would wash with his nibs if things went wrong again.”

  “Your place in heaven is assured,” Sinéad said.

  “Nope,” I laughed. “I blew that with the sex before marriage, the swearing and the impending divorce.”

  “Oh, sweetheart, I’m not sure if divorce is still a sin,” Sinéad said, lifting another biscuit.

  “Give it here and I’ll look for you,” Sorcha said, trying to grab her laptop back from my knees. She clearly wasn’t all that impressed with my lack of technical prowess – but, to be fair to me, I’d never really had a need to know too much about computers. I used Facebook on my phone and sent a few emails but that was it. The world of Google searches was a minefield. One word wrong or phrased badly and you never knew what shockers you might stumble upon.

  I had started to question just how much of a free run my children had over the internet and its dodgy ways, as I shook my head at some very questionable pictures of some old people doing some very strange things, when Sorcha’s patience ran out.

  “Mum, look, tell me what you want and I will find it for you.”

  “Erm,” I said, trying to make sure my wording was spot on this time, “best practice for dementia patients. Or Alzheimer’s – type in Alzheimer’s – and early onset. And perhaps memory work.”

  “Hang on, hang on,” she said, her fingers flying over the keyboard and her eyes scanning the screen. “There,” she said, turning the computer towards me. “There are some articles there – on decent sites, reputable sites. And there’s a link to the Alzheimer’s Society – seems like they could give you some advice.”

  I looked at the articles she had found and kissed her on the forehead. To my delight she didn’t grunt or shrug. Instead she got up from where she had been sitting on the sofa beside me and told me she was going to bed.

  “Just leave my laptop here when you’re done,” she said. “I’ll get it in the morning.”

  If I hadn’t been so busy I might have wondered why my normally truculent teen was being so accommodating. Instead I focused on the pages in front of me and started reading.

  Chapter 6

  Present Day

  “You’re back again,” Áine said, smiling as she opened the door.

  “I am indeed. And I bring food – some hotpot my daughter made,” I said, nodding towards the casserole dish I was carrying. “As I said, she’s quite the cook.”

  “That’s nice of you,” Áine said, “but I’ve just had lunch.”

  “It’s for dinner. Remember I told you I would be here a little longer from now on?”

  She looked blank for a moment and then nodded. “Of course. Silly me.”

  I wasn’t convinced that she had remembered but I wasn’t going to panic that today would be a bad day. It was important to keep things as calm, as normal, as possible – for me as well as for her.

  “Not silly at all,” I said. “Things have changed quite quickly – it’s hard to keep up with everything.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  She led the way to the kitchen and showed me where to put the dish before she went to the range and lifted her trusty kettle. I should have known that every afternoon would begin with a cup of tea.

  “Well,” she said, “you might as well sit down and I’ll make the tea.”

  “Áine, why don’t you sit down and I’ll do it? After all, I’m supposed to be here for you.”

  “I’ve done enough sitting down for one day already – and I’ll have plenty of sitting down to do once you go again. And soon enough, I imagine, I’ll be spending my time laid out in a pine box, so I might as well make myself useful while I still can.”

  It was hard to argue with her logic but still I felt awkward sitting down and waiting to be served a cup of tea in a nice china cup.

  “And I imagine a young thing like yourself has been on her feet long enough today already,” she said.

  I was starting to really warm to her – considering me a young thing. I smiled as she busied herself making the tea. When she eventually sat down, she smiled at me.

  “Well then,” she said, “if we are going to be spending some time together, I suppose we might as well figure out what we’re going to do with our time. Tell me, Georgina – it is Georgina, isn’t it? – what do you normally do with your clients?”

  “Well,” I told her, “I normally only have twenty minutes with them so it can be pretty rushed. I make sure their personal-care needs are met – washing, changing, making sure they have their medication – that kind of thing. And then perhaps making them a cup of tea, giving them a listening ear, if I have the time.”

  Áine exhaled slowly. “Well, if you don’t mind, I don’t need help with washing, changing or anything of a personal-care nature. And, as you can see, I make a nice cup of tea myself.”

  “I can see that – all of those things. But your nephew was quite insistent that I spoil you and do as much for you as I can.” I winked at her – trying to reassure her that I still considered her a fairly capable woman.

  She nodded. “He can be insistent all right. I told him that I didn’t think a carer was needed – but when Jonathan makes up his mind that is it and nothing can change it. He’s like his mother in that regard. She was one very determined lady.”

  “He clearly cares for you very much,” I said softly.

  She smiled. “Oh, I have no doubt about that. My nephew may come across as quite gruff at times but he does have a good heart. I know he worries. I’d like to say he has no cause to, but I know things aren’t right. I don’t think I need a baby-sitter every afternoon – but I know – I know w
hat is happening to me.”

  “It must be a worry,” I said softly.

  She smiled – a weak smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “No point worrying about what you can’t change. It will become easier for me – in a while I won’t even realise – won’t remember, I imagine. But, you know, that’s all awfully depressing – and maybe we should talk about something else.”

  She lifted her cup of tea to her mouth and drank slowly.

  “So,” I said, breaking the silence, “what would you like to do? Is there anything I can help you with?”

  “You know, just having someone here is nice. This house used to be so busy once. You wouldn’t think it now – with just me rattling around in it. But at one time it was a busy home – with children running up and down the stairs, and my mother busy in the kitchen. So having someone here – believe me – that helps.”

  “Well,” I said, “why don’t you just tell me about those days then? And maybe top up these teacups again?”

  “Sounds lovely,” Áine said – and her smile was genuine this time.

  1964

  “You look lovely,” Áine said, embracing her sister who kissed her on each cheek in a manner she thought very cosmopolitan.

  She couldn’t deny it, Charlotte was positively glowing. And Jonathan and Emma looked so alive too – like two little brown berries, sun-kissed, with their hair highlighted by the bright Italian sun. The two had scampered into the house, running straight at their aunt and squeezing her tight. They shouted “Ciao!” and “Bella!” and ran on through to the kitchen to find their grandmother while Áine waited for Charlotte to follow. Her sister brought a whole new colour to the house at Temple Muse. She brought life to the muted tones and dark wallpaper and she brought noise to the hallway which was more often silent but for the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock by the kitchen door.

  “My lovely little sister,” Charlotte breathed, and Áine could smell her Chanel No. 5 mixed with her favourite cigarettes.

  “Charlotte, it’s wonderful to see you.”

  Áine felt a little dowdy – more than a little wallflowerish beside this glamorous bombshell beside her. She felt conscious of her flat shoes, her A-line skirt and her buttoned-up blouse. Charlotte had arrived wearing a sundress and espadrilles, a loose crocheted wrap around her shoulders. Her nails were painted a deep red and eyes slicked with liner. Áine had never even tried to put on eyeliner – a bit of blush was enough for her on the (very) occasional night she went out. But she always loved to see her sister arrive back from her travels and bring the house to life.

  Charlotte linked her sister’s arm and the pair walked together towards the kitchen where the children were already delving into the large cookie jar Áine had stocked with her freshly baked goods that morning.

  “I’ll put the kettle on,” Áine said, as Charlotte hugged their mother, who had been encouraging her beloved grandchildren to take at least two cookies to make up for “the foreign stuff your mother feeds you”.

  “Mum,” Charlotte said softly, hugging the smaller woman, “they have cookies in Italy too!”

  “Oh, I know, but nothing like the biscuits our Áine bakes. Surely you know that? And if I can’t indulge the children I see so little of, then there is something wrong with the world. My, how they have grown! Has it really only been a few months?”

  “Three, yes. And of course we have missed you as well. Both of you. You look well yourself. Not as well as you might look if you gave in and decided to come with us on one of these trips – away from the smoky air here. Away from the mizzling rain.”

  “It hasn’t rained in five days,” Rosaleen Quigley said, sitting back down on the armchair which nestled in the corner of the big sitting room. “And there is nothing like being back home in Derry, on the banks of the Foyle. Sure haven’t they written songs about it?”

  “They’ve written songs about a lot of things – war, death, all sorts of horrible things!” Charlotte said, laughing.

  “Charlotte Anne Rose, you know full well what I meant. Now I’ve not seen you in three months so let’s not fall out within three minutes. You know we have agreed to disagree on such matters.”

  “Sorry,” Charlotte said, dipping her hand into the cookie jar herself and then taking a giant bite from a cookie before swigging a mouthful of milk straight from the bottle which was sitting on worktop, much to her mother’s chagrin.

  “You would think you were dragged up not raised by a decent family,” Rosaleen huffed.

  “I was raised by the best mother in the world,” Charlotte said, taking a glass from the cupboard and pouring herself a good helping of milk. “You know I just like to keep you on your toes.”

  “On my toes and on my nerves,” Rosaleen said.

  The daughter who lived for the moment – who didn’t care about saving or planning for the future or keeping her children close enough to home to enjoy a good, solid, Irish education – was the cause of many sleepless nights for Rosaleen Quigley. While she said she enjoyed having her family around her, it was clear that the flamboyant nature of her eldest child left her feeling uneasy. And if Rosaleen Quigley was uneasy, Áine felt it. In a way it was easier when they were in Italy. Áine imagined her mother was able to shut the door on her worries for a while when they weren’t there, staring her in the face. When they were away she could imagine them in the next room – living a sensible life. The kind of life Áine lived. The kind of life that Rosaleen had worked so hard to give her daughters. But when they were actually in the next room and under her nose, she could see just how bohemian their lives were becoming and, while she did her best to hide it, she couldn’t help but let her concerns shine through. She tried to smile and laugh and enjoy the brief time she had with them, but Áine was aware of the way her mother pulled concerned faces when the children didn’t talk about school so much, or when they mentioned the grand dinner parties at the Italian villa which ended after midnight. She would try not to show any disdain when Charlotte retold a story about Jack’s contacts, their work practices or how she thought there was no better education than seeing the world rather than simply learning about it.

  “It’s lovely to be home,” Charlotte said, cutting through Áine’s thoughts. “Cold, but lovely. The weather in Italy was just divine.”

  “Yes, well, it’s less divine here so maybe you might want to wear something a bit warmer. Áine, why don’t you get your sister a cardigan?”

  Charlotte laughed it off. “I don’t need a cardigan,” she said. “I’m fine right here beside the stove. And isn’t our Áine making a lovely cup of tea. That’ll warm me up!”

  Áine set out some cups, and poured some milk for the children, cherishing their gap-toothed smiles as they said thank you.

  Worry aside, she reckoned, life was definitely more colourful when her sister was home and she was already looking forward to that evening when their mother would go to bed, the children would be asleep and they could sneak a swig of wine, a cigarette or two, and she could lose herself in her sister’s glamorous lifestyle.

  “These biscuits are the best,” Jonathan grinned. “Thank you, Auntie Áine.”

  “You’re welcome, sweet pea,” Áine said, ruffling the hair on his head. “It’s so nice to have you both home for a little bit. I can’t wait to hear all about your latest adventures.”

  “We brought you presents,” Emma chirped. “Mummy said you would like them. I helped her choose them in the market.”

  “Well, I can’t wait to see them,” Áine said.

  “It’s not much,” Charlotte said, “but if you refuse to come with us on one of these trips …”

  “It’s not that easy,” Áine said, trying not to glance over at her mother who relied on her to keep the house running and take care of her now that arthritis had left her in daily pain. The last thing she wanted was for Rosaleen to worry that she would disappear for months at a time travelling the world too.

  “We’ll not get into that now,” Charlotte said.
“But one day, my lovely sister.”

  Áine nodded. Maybe one day. But, if the truth was told, she had no great ambitions to travel the world. She wanted some of what her sister had – of course she did – but she’d be happy baking cookies in her own oven, in her own house, for her own children. That’s what she wanted more than anything in the world.

  Present Day

  It was strange going home that evening. The day had not felt as hectic as my days normally did, largely consisting of eating biscuits, drinking tea, doing a little light housework and talking with Áine about her life. She was a strange one, I thought, as I showered and changed into a fitted T and jeans. In some ways she was so open, so willing to welcome me into her house, to be a daily part of her life – but also guarded. I didn’t want to push her too far or too hard – I had asked her a few things about her life and, while she had answered me, the answers were short – as if she wanted to keep the information to herself. Then again perhaps she didn’t remember all the details. I’d have to find ways to tease the memories out, I thought as I towel-dried my hair.

  I was just making my way downstairs to the kitchen, where Eve had prepared a delicious pasta sauce, when my phone beeped in my pocket. I took it out and saw a message from Matthew. “Call round tomorrow at 7. We can talk then.” It was an order more than a request – and I found myself glaring at it. Did he care if it suited me to call round? I know I had said we needed to chat but it would have been nice to have been consulted on the when’s and where’s. I typed back a quick ‘OK’ and put my phone back in my pocket – trying to shake the feeling that my world was that little bit off balance. That I no longer understood the person I had been sure I was going to grow very old with. But, not wanting to let the girls know something had rankled me, I pasted on a smile and walked into the kitchen making all the right appreciative noises.