Nancy stepped
into the foyer. The walls appeared more sedate without the sunlight pouring
through the tinted windows. A pinnied figure resembling a white chess pawn
pushed a rag across the side of the desk. Nancy guessed she might be the
housekeeper with the cosmopolitan cadence.
Henry
stood before her, awaiting her next words. Did this reflex always afflict him
when presented with a figure assuming authority? Nancy could see how he had
wound up the groundskeeper.
‘Can
you tell me when Mr. Jonas is expected back?’ she asked.
Henry’s
spectacled eyes were unwavering. ‘He’s getting the late flight from London,
could be past ten tonight.’
Nancy
frowned. ‘Why doesn’t he overnight at his other place in Knightsbridge?’
For
one who assumed the subservient role, Henry could inflict the most distilled
glower. ‘All his stuff is here,’ he said as though he were stating the obvious.
Nancy
maintained eye contact though he uneased her. ‘I don’t follow.’
A
crinkle formed beneath one eye. ‘The equipment…for his legs. The doctors aren’t
expecting him to walk again. I thought you would have known.’
Another
awkward silence.
‘I’m
sorry, Nurse, but you don’t seem that well-informed.’
He
had called her nurse. She took this as her cue. ‘Oh.’ she regrouped her thoughts.
‘Well, this had not been made clear to me on his previous evaluation. Perhaps I
had taken an optimistic view.’ She attempted a small laugh. Henry’s small
pupils merely flicked over her face. Nancy would be glad to put some distance
from him. ‘I’d best get on,’ she uttered and turned for the stairs, noticing
the housekeeper had disappeared into the next room. ‘Henry, can you please tell
the housekeeper and anyone else here that I will be taking care of things
upstairs for Mr. Jonas. This may take all afternoon.’
Henry
returned to his former casual self. ‘Sure. Just give us a shout if you need
anything.’
‘I
shall,’ Nancy closed, wanting to tell him to sod off and mounted the stairs.
His footfalls receded behind her but the stairlift affixed to the Newell post
detained her progress. Like the wheelchair she’d seen yesterday, this model
appeared to be the pinnacle of its kind: a black leather seat, lever, seatbelt,
footrests and a range of shiny buttons. Sheila had planned to get one fitted to
her stair-rail anon. Yet again, Sheila would adopt that gratified serenity to
inspire sympathy and offers of help from friends and regulars at the Hatchet
Inn.
Nancy
pulled out her small screwdriver. Finally, that stupid whirring sound of the mobility
scooter would find its way inside Sheila’s house. Nancy had always wanted to tip
Sheila out of her chair. When it suited her, Sheila could still hang the
washing, she could still jive the funky chicken at revelries and waltz between
the taxi and a plane bound for Mallorca. No one could argue with the trite
excuse about the weather, the good and the bad days. But Nancy couldn’t argue
her mother’s calves had of late resembled saveloy sausages. No one could tell
her that Sheila’s so-called moderation had actually insulted her system. Sheila
owned her denial and she could do what she liked with it.
A
Svorn model, Nancy noted; a little pricy for Sheila. Still, any model would do
for one afflicted with liver damage and borderline diabetes. Nancy had no choice
but to observe her mother’s requests for help in getting her out of bed, pulling
her shoes on and in dishing out the pills akin to a nurse working at the Weston
Hill Care Centre. You know I love ya, Nancy.
Nancy’s
trips to the Quick Shop for the usual came together in a leaden chain that Nancy
wore about her neck. Nancy had become an unwitting participant in creating Sheila’s
ultimate state. Her mother’s stupid serene expression; her stupid stretch tights
and her stupid hospital-style dinner tray. It had all started with a pack of
lies.
Nancy
pocketed four screws and checked the foyer was still empty. She made her way to
the upper landing of Vince’s foyer, pausing at a door ahead. Somewhere
downstairs, a radio chirped. Nancy pushed through and found a large utility
room that at first appeared empty. Built-in wardrobes blended into walls of buff.
She took at punt for a deep drawer that glided elegantly upon an apparent
cushion of air.
Bedding
of Mulberry silk rippled beneath her touch; primrose, indigo and scarlet. Reflections
snaked in elaborate patterns as though a living being. An adjoining door
fronted a cavern no smaller than her guestroom at the Cheap Sleep. Towels,
bathrobes, throws, curtains and pillowcases had been neatly folded in pullout
compartments. Designs not of the high street mesmerized. Prussian blue spliced
with scarlet, brocades of chocolate and cream, influences from the Far East,
the Mediterranean, South America. What did the stuff she had nicked her entire
life amount to but junk deserving a carboot? Her fingers insulted the fabric by
a mere touch. Nancy slammed the door shut and aimed low. And yes, aiming low
had found herself back home. Linen sheets. Pillowcases. White. In packets never
opened. Evidently, Vince’s guests, himself included, had never had to stoop to
plain linen.
Nancy
tucked the packets beneath her arm and paused at an abutting drawer. Curtains.
Pale blue. Cotton.
Nancy
reemerged at the landing and made her way to Vince’s room. She found not to her
surprise the door locked. Without pause, she placed the packets upon the floor
and made her way down.
