The O’Hara Affair (32 page)

‘Who’s it from?’

‘It’s from me.’

‘Oh! How kind! Who did you say you are again?’

‘I’m Dervla, Daphne.’

‘Dervla?
Dervla?
Did you marry someone I know?’

‘Yes, Daphne. I married Christian.’

‘You married Christian? My son, Christian?’

‘Yes.’

‘You don’t mean to tell me that you two are married?’

‘We are.’

‘Why did nobody ever tell me? That’s great news! I’m so happy to hear that! Well, welcome to our family, Dervla!’

‘Thank you. Would you like me to help you out of bed, Daphne?’

‘Why do I have to get out of bed?’

‘We’re going to have a wash, before lunch.’ Dervla moved to the chest of drawers and took out a nightdress. ‘And I’m going to look out a fresh nightdress for you. Let’s see – this one’s pretty. You’re wearing a white one, so let’s ring the changes and wear blue today.’

Dervla tried very hard to sound bright and upbeat, but she was dreading what was coming next.

‘What’s that you’ve got wrapped around your head?’

‘It’s a scarf, Daphne.’

‘Aha! Fancy yourself, do you?’

‘No. It’s to keep my hair back from my face. Now!’ said Dervla, pulling back the duvet cover. ‘If you take hold of my hands, I’ll help you up.’

Daphne reached out and grasped Dervla’s outstretched hands. ‘Oh! Your hands are like stones!’ she cried.

‘No worries. It’s lovely and warm in the bathroom.’

Daphne was on her feet, teetering a little. ‘Which way do I go now?’ she asked.

‘Through this door, to the right. Follow me.’

Dervla had turned on the electric heater that hung high up on the wall and it was warm in the bathroom. She stood by the basin, testing the temperature of the water. ‘Hmm. Yes. I think that’s about perfect.’

‘What do you want me to do now?’ asked Daphne.

‘If you stand here, and hold on to the basin, I’ll give your face a wash.’

‘There are bubbles in there. I don’t like soap.’

‘It’s not soap,’ improvised Dervla. ‘It’s an emollient.’

‘A what?’

‘A kind of moisturiser.’

Dervla dipped a flannel into the water, wrung it out, then proceeded to wipe Daphne’s face. Daphne had her eyes squeezed shut, and her expression was that of someone doing penance. ‘There’s a thing,’ she said, ‘on my face.’ Raising a bony hand, she pointed at a small growth sprouting from the corner of her jaw.

‘Yes, I know. Don’t worry about that. Nemia has made an appointment for you with the doctor. She’s going to take you to see him once she gets back from Malta.’

‘And there’s another one, here.’ Daphne pointed at a similar growth on her forehead. She must have been worrying at it: it had formed a scab.

‘The doctor will have a look at that too,’ Dervla told her. ‘You must try not to fiddle with it, Daphne.’

‘I don’t
like
it!’

‘No. Of course you don’t. But the doctor will take care of
it.’ Dervla dipped the flannel in the water, squeezed it, then assayed another gentle swipe at Daphne’s face.

‘That’s enough!’ said Daphne.

‘Fair enough. I’ll get a towel.’

Dervla reached for a bath towel, and handed it to Daphne. ‘It’s heavy!’

‘All right. I’ll dry your face for you.’ She did so, then draped the towel over a rail. ‘Now.’ She steeled herself. ‘Arms up, and I’ll help you off with your nightgown.’

For an awful moment, Dervla thought Daphne was going to refuse to cooperate. But then she raised her arms, and Dervla drew the gown over her head.

Dervla had never seen an old person naked before.

Daphne’s skin was as thin and transparent as clingfilm, apart from the skin on her bum, which was leathery, and a mottled purplish colour. Daphne’s tummy was like a deflated balloon, her breasts sagged like empty silk purses, and the folds of her sex drooped like some exotic dying flower.

‘Raise your arm for me, Daphne, will you please?’ Dervla took a sponge, and wiped first under Daphne’s left arm, then the right. She wiped the folds under the left breast, then the right. Then she got to her knees. ‘Can you part your legs for me?’ she asked.

‘It’s a long time since anyone’s asked me to do that!’ quipped Daphne, and Dervla managed a laugh.

She did as Nemia had told her to: first front bottom, then back. ‘Hmm,’ she said, trying not to gag and hastily dropping the sponge back into the basin. ‘I think we’re going to need baby wipes for this job.’

‘Baby wipes! I’m not a baby!’

‘I know that, Daphne. But we have to look after your hygiene.’

‘Oh – you’re such a fusspot! Little Miss Finickity Boots!’

‘Bear with me.’ Dervla reached for the baby wipes on the shelf, and peeled away three. ‘You’re very good, Daphne. Very patient. I know it can’t be easy.’

She performed the task in silence, and when she had finished, Daphne slumped and said, ‘Can I sit down now?’

‘Yes. Let me just put a towel on there for you, to make it more comfortable.’

Dervla laid a towel across the seat of a Perspex chair, and Daphne sat down with an ‘Oof!’ She really did look exhausted. She’d been standing for maybe all of four minutes.

‘Now. How about a little talcum powder, to help dry under your arms?’ Dervla reached for a tub of baby powder, and sprinkled some onto her palms. Daphne obediently raised her arms, and allowed Dervla to anoint her with the talc before drooping again. ‘And now let’s get you into a clean nightgown. Here we go.’

Dervla managed to get the collar of the blue gown over Daphne’s head, but the armholes were problematic. Sliding her hand inside a cuff, she invited Daphne to take hold of it. That way she could draw first one arm through the sleeve, then the other.

Oh, yay, Dervla! You’ve done it! she congratulated herself. You’re nearly there!

She knelt again, and guided Daphne’s feet into a pair of slippers. Daphne’s feet were like misshapen claws, the bones jutting out so far they looked as if they might break through the skin. There was a massive bunion on the right foot.

‘My foot hurts,’ said Daphne.

‘I’ll mention that to Nemia. She can ask the doctor to have a look at it when she takes you to see him.’

‘And I have an itch.’

‘Yes. I noticed that you’ve been scratching yourself.’

There had been red score marks on Daphne’s back.
Dervla supposed the skin was so thin that even scratching damaged it now. ‘Now,’ she said, all businesslike. ‘Shall I do your hair for you, or can you do it yourself?’

‘I’ll do it myself.’

‘OK.’

Dervla handed Daphne a wide-toothed comb, and she raked it through her hair. She was a little thin on top, and there were flaky patches on the bald bit. When she’d finished, she handed the comb back to Dervla, who immediately rinsed it under the tap.

‘What do you want me to do now?’ asked Daphne.

‘Here’s some moisturiser for your face,’ Dervla told her, unscrewing the top of a tub of Nivea. She scooped out a dollop, and transferred it to Daphne’s fingers.

‘What do you want me to do with it?’

‘Rub it onto your face. You can sit there and do your moisturiser while I tidy up. And then we’ll go through to the sitting room and I’ll give you your present.’

‘A present? Who’s it from?’

‘It’s from me.’

‘Oh! How kind!’ Daphne proceeded to rub her face with the white cream, pausing to inspect the growth on her jaw with her forefinger. ‘I don’t like this thing on my face!’

‘Try not to fiddle with it, Daphne. The doctor will have a look at it when Nemia takes you to see him.’

Dervla moved to the basin, and pulled the plug. The sponge went into the pedal bin, the flannel was rinsed in hot water and folded, and then Dervla washed her hands again and again. She could be Lady Macbeth in the sleepwalking scene, she washed them so thoroughly.

After drying her hands, Dervla picked Daphne’s discarded nightie up from the floor. What she found on Daphne’s nightie did not make her a happy bunny. She dropped the
garment into a plastic bucket, and reached for the long ribbed cardigan that Nemia told her Daphne liked to wear in preference to a dressing gown.

‘Now, Daphne!’ she said, automatically adopting the bright tone of the professional carer. ‘Let’s go through into the sitting room, shall we? And then I’ll organize lunch for us.’

‘Where do you want me to go?’ asked Daphne.

‘The sitting room.’

‘You mumble, you know. It’s difficult to hear.’

‘Sorry.’ Dervla helped Daphne to her feet. ‘Let’s get this on, first,’ she said, angling the cardigan so that Daphne could negotiate the sleeves. ‘It’s nice and warm in here, but it might be a little chillier in the sitting room. I’ll give the heating a boost. The weather’s taken a turn for the worse.’ She moved to the bathroom door and held it open.

‘Where are we going?’

‘The sitting room.’

‘Which way is it?’

‘It’s this way. Follow me.’

Dervla started to walk slowly down the corridor and Daphne trailed after her, moving like one of the cast members of
Night of the Living Dead
. When she reached the right turn in the corridor, she halted abruptly.

‘Where have the stairs gone?’ she asked.

‘There are no stairs in this house, Daphne.’

‘Oh, yes. I forgot. There were stairs in my old house, weren’t there?’

‘I think so.’

‘I forget these things, you see.’

‘It’s perfectly natural to forget things at your age.’

Daphne sniffed the air. ‘What’s that smell? Is something burning?’

‘No. It’s our lunch. We’re having macaroni cheese.’

‘Oh, good. I love macaroni cheese.’

Dervla flicked the booster switch on the wall to re-activate the heating, and then opened the sitting-room door for Daphne. Now Daphne seemed to have a better idea of where she was going, for she headed towards her chair like a heat-seeking missile. Well, not
exactly
like a heat-seeking missile – more like Wall-E over rough terrain.

‘It’s chilly in here,’ said Daphne.

‘I’ll put the fire on, until the central heating’s warmed up, shall I?’ Dervla stooped, and flicked a switch on the gas fire. Then she reached for a blue cardboard box that was sitting on the table beside Daphne’s chair. ‘Here is your present, Daphne,’ she said.

‘Oh! Thank you. What is it?’

‘It’s a bottle of your favourite scent.
Je Reviens
.’

‘Oh! How kind.’

‘Shall I put some on you?’

‘Yes, please. That’d be lovely.’

Dervla opened the box that contained the perfume, unscrewed the little blue bottle and dabbed first Daphne’s left wrist, then her right, with
Je Reviens
. ‘Did you know that this is the perfume traditionally given by departing soldiers to their sweethearts? Hence the title.’

‘What’s it called?’

‘
Je Reviens
.’

‘Oh, yes. “I’ll be back.”’

Dervla didn’t articulate the thought that came into her head, the one that related to Arnold Schwarzenegger as The Terminator. Instead she said ‘Mmm!’ and put the bottle back in its box. ‘How heavenly! We’ll have this as a treat every day after your wash, shall we?’

‘That’d be lovely! But it’s wasted on an old bag like me.’

‘You’re not an old bag, Daphne. You’re my
belle-mère
.
That’s French for “mother-in-law”, you know. It translates as “beautiful mother”.’

She really was labouring at keeping Daphne sweet.

‘Now. I’ll put your CD player on, so that you can listen to one of your stories before lunch.’

‘What are we having?’

‘Macaroni cheese. It’ll be ready in ten minutes or so.’ Dervla inserted a CD into the player, and after a moment or two of white noise, a voice boomed into the room. ‘
She’s got to be killed!
’

‘Is that loud enough for you?’

‘No it’s not. Turn it up a bit.’

Dervla adjusted the volume to an even higher decibel level, and then she said – raising her voice so that she could be heard above the actors bellowing their way through Agatha Christie’s
An Appointment with Death
– ‘I’ll just finish tidying up, and then I’ll bring lunch in.’

She left the room, and went to gather up Daphne’s discarded night clothes, her demeanour faltering a little.
Stay strong, stay strong, stay strong
, she told herself. She fetched the bucket from the bathroom, then went to check on the bed sheets. The bottom sheet would have to be changed. She pulled the duvet off the bed, then bundled up the sheet. Then she went into the utility room, and reached for the stain removal spray on top of the washing machine.

From the sitting room came the sound of a whistle. Daphne was calling her.

Later that afternoon, Dervla opened up her laptop and went to
How to Sell Your House
–
What Every First-Timer Needs to Know
. CHAPTER FOURTEEN, she typed. And then she sat and stared at the blank screen for forty minutes, waiting for
something to happen while the David Attenborough theme music on the DVD menu mode went round and round on a loop in the sitting room. She’d have to change the DVD – she never wanted to hear that theme tune again in her life.

Getting to her feet, she stretched and yawned. She’d have to think about what they would have for supper soon. Lunch had been a pallid affair. Literally. Macaroni cheese had not been a good idea because the food was the same colour as the plate and Dervla had had to keep spearing bits of macaroni for Daphne. And every time she did so, Daphne would ask what was on the fork. Dervla must have said the words ‘macaroni cheese’ twenty times.

She closed over the lid of her laptop, and moved down the corridor. Daphne was staring – not at the screen of the television – but at the fish tank, seemingly lost in thought. What might she be thinking, wondered Dervla. Were past memories crowding her brain? Ghosts of lovers, friends and family? And if so, were they pleasant memories or un settling ones? Nemia had said that going through old photo albums was always a good way of keeping Daphne entertained: she’d left a pile of them on the book shelf nearest the door. Dervla reached for the topmost one.

‘Daphne?’