The Woman Next Door (14 page)

She’d never really looked at him. She was too busy being married to Peter. But there was something ‘messy’ about Dr Mama. It was strange because this was the last thing you might want in a doctor. Except what Hortensia detested most about those in the health industry was the way all the things they knew built up between them and you, like a mountain. Dr Mama – Gordon – had none of that. He seemed to somehow be a doctor by accident, as if it wasn’t his fault and he was sorry about it. He seemed helpless but intelligent all the same, nonchalant that he had happened to know some stuff, so they made him a doctor; he didn’t look like he’d ever have to shove that in your face. He was more the type to get you to forget.

‘Okay. Now, anything else? How’s the movement? – bowels, I mean.’

‘I beg your pardon.’

‘I understand. Just find a respectable way to let me know in the case of constipation, would you?’ He winked.

Hortensia relaxed some more but her guard wasn’t totally down.

‘I’m confused, are you
my
doctor now? Did the hospital send you?’

‘Not quite. I’m here as a concerned friend.’

‘Liar!’

‘Carole is your physio, am I correct?’

‘Ah, Carole. Good girl. Decent.’

‘She told me about you,’ Mama said.

‘Bad things?’

‘Not at all, but she did explain the “difficulties” they’ve been having with you at Constantinople. I agreed to … well, I said I’d come and see you,’ he smiled affably. ‘I think they hoped you’d like me.’

‘I see. And was all this at the secret doctor-sect meeting?’

‘Still so funny, Hortensia. I remember you as being very funny.’

No one found Hortensia funny. Caustic, yes, but not funny.

‘And I also wanted to say: I’m sorry for your loss. I heard Mr James passed away some weeks ago.’

She reached back for her smile, her armour. Hortensia held her face. Holding was something she was good at. Holding was a way of staving off being ambushed by the kindness of strangers.

‘… you call me,’ he was saying.

Except Hortensia couldn’t work out if he’d just said she could call him for sex or if he’d asked her out to the theatre. She nodded.

‘Then there’s the final matter of the care-nurse.’

‘I can take care of myself, Doctor. Gordon.’

Dr Mama was buckling the brown leather bag he’d walked in with. For that bag alone, the elegant cut and the audacious red stitching, Hortensia felt she ought to kiss him.

‘I understand that, Hortensia. But there’s something about the care-nurse that wasn’t explained to you.’

She straightened up.

‘The care-nurse is something we doctors put in place that is not really for the benefit of our patients.’

‘What!’ Hortensia laughed in disbelief.

‘Well, of course it is to the patient’s benefit. But in cases like yours where a doctor cannot see you every day, cannot monitor you, that nurse is more for us than for you. He or she will help us ensure that we give you the best treatment possible. There are too many dangers otherwise.’

Hortensia had listened attentively. She liked Dr Mama, he had a soft way of talking. She realised he was only telling her what she needed to hear, but appreciated it nonetheless.

‘So you really think I need a nurse.’

‘Absolutely, Hortensia.’

She puffed.

‘I hate nurses.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

She looked out the window and got annoyed that her building works were on hold. Blast!

‘So will you assure me? No more ill-treatment of your nurses? They mean no harm, Hortensia.’

‘You just want someone here with me, is that right?’

‘That’s right. Someone with some ability. Even just another body for … well, in the instance of an emergency, for example.’

Hortensia nodded. She’d already asked Bassey. He’d declined in that way that was annoying but that she respected; she did not own him, he did not owe her.

‘There’s a great nursing sister – I’ve had the chance to work with her before. Trudy.’

Trudy? What kind of name was Trudy? Hortensia forced what she hoped was a smile. But she felt helpless, put-upon.

‘So, is that settled? You happy with that? She’ll come in from tomorrow and, at least for the first week, I’ll have her stay nights. Then we look again – how’s that?’

Hortensia flicked her fingers, a sign of defeat.

‘I’m glad we could work something out.’

She felt nauseous for the rest of the day.

The unfortunate person named Trudy was black. She said she was Zambian, spoke with an American accent and was so short and pudgy that after the first week Hortensia felt Trudy was the perfect comedic foil to Bassey’s largeness. Put the two of them onstage and laughter would happen spontaneously. Trudy was also disappointingly young. After her first day Hortensia called Dr Mama.

‘You sent me a Lilliputian.’

He laughed and Hortensia pointed out that she wasn’t joking.

But it was Trudy or nothing – there were no more nurses. And perhaps her youth helped. Hortensia disagreed with the prevailing wisdom that the young were somehow quick-witted and savvy. On the contrary, in her older years Hortensia had discovered young people (generally speaking) to be cocooned in a special fluff of obtuseness, which made them immune to the world and could easily be mistaken for intelligence, but only if you, the onlooker, were a little less than sharp in your observations. Trudy had this coating, which was just as well because Hortensia’s bite had little effect on her.

‘And that name of yours?’ Hortensia had started in on Trudy within hours of her arrival.

‘I hate it,’ Trudy had said in a whine that wore on Hortensia like wire on glass.

There the volley ended. Hortensia, for once, without a response.

On the bottom floor of No. 10, apart from the common areas and Hortensia’s study that had now been converted into a sickbay, there was also Peter’s study, which he hadn’t used since his illness. There too was a laundry room that led out to a granny flat. Bassey stored his day-bag there and Hortensia threatened him with it as a place to live if he agreed to stay nights, but in all the years he’d worked for her this had never happened. Adjacent to the laundry room was a small en-suite guest room, which is where Trudy slept.

Without knocking, Trudy walked into Hortensia’s study. ‘You slept later than normal today, it’s almost nine a.m. Wonderful progress.’

Hortensia wished she could reach her to slap her. Where did these people find these tones of voice? That particular lilt that could only mean they thought they were talking to someone they considered mentally deficient.

‘What do they teach you?’

‘Pardon?’ Trudy was constantly hard of hearing, which was both good and bad.

‘What, are you deaf?’ It was bad because Hortensia actually wanted people to hear her, but good because it allowed her extra room for particularly rotten insults.

‘Yes, I’m deaf in my left ear actually. Sorry, I often forget to mention it. I lip-read. Let me put this down and give you my full attention.’ Trudy placed Hortensia’s exercise file on the desk and turned to face her charge. ‘You were saying?’

Hortensia, her lips pushed forward in displeasure, shook her head.

‘What I meant was sleep is good at this stage. Doctor would be happy to hear the small change in medicines is working. You ready for your ablutions? And then today we’ll walk the hallway. I’ve set up a little obstacle course for you to make it fun.’ At this Trudy giggled.

Hortensia cursed God.

Lawyer Marx called. He asked if she’d contacted Esme. And she said no, she hadn’t contacted Esme. To hell with Esme. What, was it a crime to take her time? An old woman like her.

The medication took turns making Hortensia feel like a superhero and making her want to punch everyone. In other words, it had little effect on her. She felt she owed Trudy a daily battle when it came to the time to swallow the pills.

‘What’s this now?’ Hortensia asked, although it was the same dosage of medicine she’d been taking for the past couple of weeks. ‘They giving me morphine again?’

‘Nothing’s changed, Mrs James. We stopped the morphine – Carole stopped that, as far as I can tell from your chart. This is jus—’

‘And no sleeping pills. I expressly asked for no sleeping pills.’

‘Absolutely, Dr Mama made that clear to me. He’ll make a call tomorrow by the way. Check in on you.’

Trudy handed Hortensia the cup of water and then passed her the pills one by one.

‘What’s that noise?’ Hortensia asked, alarmed.

Trudy swung her head.

‘Bassey!’ Hortensia called out.

‘I’ll get him.’

‘Bassey!’ she called again, pressing the button at the same time.

When he appeared, Hortensia questioned him.

‘It’s next door,’ he explained.

The mess of insurances had been sorted out, Marion the Vulture was repairing her nest. Hortensia felt a pang of jealousy. Her builder had wanted to know if she’d be continuing with the works to No. 10 and she’d had to decline, had to accept that in her state she didn’t have the energy for managing the project just then.

Hortensia spent the day tuned to the sound of what she guessed was rubble being cleared, the occasional call of one worker to another, bits of broken house scraping about. Then, with late afternoon approaching, came the doorbell and the sound of Marion herself. Hortensia tried to make out what was going on in the front room. After she heard the front door shut, she prised an explanation from Bassey. Marion had simply needed a drink of water. Next door, her water had been switched off and while the workers were drinking from an outside tap – linked to a borehole – Marion, who’d come to visit the site, didn’t think that suitable drinking water. The hag, Hortensia said. Bassey frowned and excused himself to make dinner.

MARION HADN’T BEEN
on a building site in longer than she cared to remember. It felt good. The builder had not been on-site when she dropped by, but she’d phoned and made an appointment with him for the following day.

She awoke uncertain what to wear, even from her limited supply. The phone went, reception said Agnes was downstairs to see her. Marion rehearsed in her head. Only when walking down the dank stairway did she realise her buttons were misaligned.

‘Agnes.’ Marion walked up to where her maid stood at the reception counter.

‘Good morning,’ Agnes said.

‘Your key, please, Ma’am,’ the receptionist said.

Marion placed the key attached to an oblong piece of wood on the counter. She walked towards a grouping of chairs. Agnes followed. The woman was still shapely at her age, in a way Marion had always envied but never had the strength to admit to herself.

‘Sit down, Agnes.’ Marion liked the sound of her own voice. She was relieved it sounded stronger than she felt. She was relieved at being able to give orders. Bring command to chaos.

Agnes settled herself on a weary couch and Marion sat beside her. She looked around; she’d keep her voice down, say as little as possible. Agnes wouldn’t make a scene.

‘As you know … things at home have changed slightly.’ Marion coughed into her hand for no reason.

Agnes’s face had always surprised Marion. Two eyes, a nose and mouth, yes, but the composure. Where does someone, especially without much money, buy that kind of peace? And even, as here and now, about to hear bad news. She must know surely.

‘Agnes, I—’

‘I found this, Ma’am.’ Agnes pulled a long chain from the pocket of her skirt.

‘Oh, gosh.’

Marion had thought it lost for ever in the rubble. She’d searched for it, racking her brain to remember what the last valuer had offered. It was a thick spiral of gold links. A gift from her father before her parents divorced, before life got more tangled. The rope of gold had always seemed inelegant, but Marion was grateful for it now. That and the large sapphire.

‘Where did you find it, Agnes?’

Agnes shrugged. ‘I went back. After the accident, Niknaks came with a bakkie to pick up my things. I wasn’t with her and when I looked I saw I’d left something, so I went back. A picture of her when she was still a baby, with her father. And then, I don’t know, one of those things, while looking at the damage I saw something shiny. There’s a small break.’ She stretched across to show Marion where she meant. ‘But otherwise good.’

‘You went back. Oh, did you … perhaps see …?’ She wanted to ask without letting on how important it was, although this impulse embarrassed Marion – after all these years, to think Agnes would steal from her. ‘I had wrapped a painting. Just before the accident. But Marelena can’t find it. Did you see anything like that when you went back?’

Agnes frowned, thinking.

‘I mean, thanks for this. Thanks for the chain, but did you see a painting?’

‘No, Ma’am.’

Marion felt like crying; in a few seconds she’d convinced herself that Agnes had the Pierneef in her back pocket. ‘Well, okay. Let’s get on with it. I actually don’t know what to say. You’ve been with us so long.’

‘It’s fine, Ma’am. Ag, Niknaks has been saying I must retire anyway. For some years now.’

‘Oh.’ Why did Marion always feel like she had to fight so much in Agnes’s presence. Fight for her own dignity.

‘She sends her greetings. And says she’s sorry about all the … for the accident.’

‘Yes. Thank her.’

They sat. Marion had no money to give Agnes but felt thankful, for the first time in her life, for the government and that Unemployment Insurance Fund business. She’d been sluggish in registering when they first employed Agnes, but the woman had pestered her and, now, Marion was glad she had.

Both women sat with their hands in their laps. Marion looked at her loafers – good enough for site?

‘Well …’ Agnes made to stand.

‘What will you do, Agnes?’

‘Niknaks is about to have another little one. Her business is doing well, which is why, I suppose … why she kept asking. She wants me to be a grandmother.’ Agnes sighed in a way Marion hadn’t heard before. ‘But … my boyfriend asked me to go with him on holiday … to Mozambique. He was in exile there back when … Anyway, I think I’ll do that first.’