Bad Little Girl(29)

Finally, Norma was asked if she wanted to go to the hospice. A single room had opened up, they said. That means someone died today, thought Claire.

‘Norma? My love?’ the nurse whispered. ‘The choice is yours. You might want to stay at home, but there is a room . . .’

Norma spoke for the first time that day. Her voice was firm. ‘I don’t want to die here. Don’t want Claire to have the memory of that.’

‘Mother – you’re not going to—’ began Claire, and was checked by a warning but sympathetic glance from the nurse. ‘I mean, you have to think of what you want. What you want is what I want.’

Norma gazed at her for a long time. ‘I want a little turn around the garden. With you. Then I’ll go.’

‘Right, you two do that and I’ll go ahead and meet you there – Norma? You’ll go with Claire? Will you be comfortable in the car?’

Norma’s eyes gleamed with amusement. ‘Comfortable, Lucy? On my way to the grave?’

‘Mother—’

‘Claire, I know Norma and her sense of humour by now, don’t worry! I’ll see you there. And I’ll have a cup of tea waiting.’ The nurse extended a hand and took Norma’s fingers in hers. Norma squeezed back. Claire, envious, looked away.

And so they took a walk around the garden in the glorious spring sunshine. The magnolia tree was blooming and blossom dotted the lawn. Norma trailed her fingers through the fresh, live leaves, and they didn’t say a word until Norma tired and they had to sit on the little bench by the cherry tree.

‘I’ll miss this. I shall. Miss this.’ Norma reached out and plucked blossom from the cherry tree, crushed the petals and sniffed her fingers. ‘How strange. Passing strange.’



* * *



At ten o'clock that night there was a phone call. Claire snatched up the receiver, but there was no-one there, no computer clicking of a call centre, no noise at all. She put the phone down, but when she woke up in the morning, she found that the line was blocked. Whoever had called last night hadn’t put their receiver down. She could hear a television blaring, dogs barking.

‘If anyone’s there, please put the phone down!’ Claire shouted. ‘I need this line to stay open. My mother is ill. I need to use the phone!’

The other phone was abruptly put down.

When Claire called the hospice with trembling fingers, they told her that Norma had died an hour before.

‘We tried to call, but you were engaged, and we didn’t have a mobile number. Lucy just got in the car to let you know. Miss Penny, it was very peaceful. Lucy will tell you the details, but I want you to know. She went very peacefully. She was a great lady. I don’t know if you know, but my two daughters went to the girls’ school, and, well, I’m sure you’ve heard it before, but she was such a wonderful teacher. Just, wonderful.’



* * *



Condolence cards came from friends and relatives. A card came from Norma’s school, from Claire’s school. And another, unstamped and shoved through the letter-box, dirty in the folds, as if it had been carried around for a long time. A cartoon cat pegged to a washing line. Hang in There! in Comic Sans. Lorna had signed it with a flourish of hearts. This was the card Claire kept.





12





After the funeral, after everyone had come back for sandwiches and tea, expressed their admiration for Norma, and asked-what-they-could-do-to-help, Claire sat alone in the empty house, not moving, not making a noise.

Derek had given her a bereavement support leaflet.

‘Awfully good people. Very nice. Helped Pippa no end when she lost her father.’ It lay in front of her on the coffee table, tea-stained, amongst the sandwich crumbs: ‘We offer a buddy service – one of our volunteers can help you get out and about again by accompanying you to one of our Bereavement Network mixer events held on the first Tuesday of every month at the Jubilee Halls.’ Claire had shuddered, but dutifully circled the number and pinned the leaflet to the noticeboard in the kitchen.

‘That’s the only way, Claire. Onwards and upwards, and listen, if me and Pippa can do anything – you might want to thin out some of this furniture . . .’

Lucy, the nurse Norma had been with when she died, had offered to stay behind to help, but Claire told her no. There wasn’t much to do, it wasn’t a job for two people. But here she was, hours later, and she still hadn’t stirred herself to clear up the glasses, the plates, the wreath that Derek had taken from the crematorium and placed, oddly, in the empty fireplace. When she did begin, she moved so slowly, and her mind wasn’t on the job; cards were put in the cutlery drawer and she dropped a glass into the bin. Strange. She’d felt all right at the funeral itself – a brisk affair. Claire had picked the right music, the right readings, chosen the right coffin and gone with the good undertakers. Afterwards, she’d been attentive to the guests, providing just enough alcohol to be sociable, but not enough to encourage the retelling of frivolous or maudlin anecdotes; she’d spoken practically about the future and had accepted assurances that she had done whatever a daughter could have done. It was only now, now that there was nothing else to do, that time slowed down, and the quiet of the house resolved itself into a series of pointers marking her isolation. The ticking of the boiler. The rattle of the bathroom window in the wind. The slight creak of Mother’s door, as it opened to an empty room.