For the Sake of Elena (Inspector Lynley, #5)(30)

Introductions were made to Mrs. Salkild and Mrs. Pendlebury, who remained, shoulder to shoulder, on the couch. Mrs. Havers hung back, casting a panicked glance in Barbara’s direction. Barbara smiled at her reassuringly. The suitcase she carried seemed to pull upon her arm.

“Shall we take off your nice coat and scarf, dear?” Mrs. Flo reached for the top button of the coat.

“Barbie!” Mrs. Havers shrilled.

“Now it’s all right, isn’t it?” Mrs. Flo said. “There’s not a thing to worry about. We’re all so anxious to have you join us for a bit.”

“I smell cabbage!”

Barbara placed the suitcase on the floor and came to Mrs. Flo’s rescue. Her mother was clutching onto the top button of her coat as if it were the Hope diamond. Spittle gathered at the corners of her mouth.

“Mum, it’s the holiday you’ve wanted,” Barbara said. “Let’s go upstairs so you can see your room.” She took her mother’s arm.

“It’s usually a bit difficult for them at first,” Mrs. Flo said, perhaps noting Barbara’s own incipient panic. “They get riled a bit at the change. It’s perfectly normal. You’re not to worry about it.”

Together they guided her mother from the room as all the Oriental children chimed “day…by…day” in unison. The stairway was too narrow to allow them to climb it three abreast, so Mrs. Flo led the way, continuing to chat in a light-hearted manner. Underneath her words, Barbara heard the calm determination in her voice, and she marvelled at the woman’s patient willingness to spend her life caring for the elderly and infirm. She herself only wanted to get out of the house as quickly as possible, and she despised that feeling of emotional claustrophobia.

Guiding her mother up the stairway did nothing to ameliorate Barbara’s need for escape. Mrs. Havers’ body had gone rigid. Each step was a project. And although Barbara murmured, encouraged, and kept a supportive hand fixed round her mother’s arm, it was like leading an innocent animal to its death in a slaughterhouse in those last horrible moments when it first catches on the air the unmistakable scent of blood.

“The cabbage,” Mrs. Havers whimpered.

Barbara tried to steel herself against the words. She knew there was no smell of cabbage in the house. She understood that her mother’s mind was clinging to the last rational thought it had produced. But when her mother’s head lolled back against Barbara’s shoulder and she saw the milky pattern tears made through the face powder which she had donned impulsively in girlish preparation for her long-coveted holiday, Barbara felt the crushing grip of guilt.

She doesn’t understand, Barbara thought. She’ll never understand.

She said, “Mrs. Flo, I don’t think—”

At the top of the stairs, Mrs. Flo turned and held up a hand, palm out, to stop her words. “Give it a moment, dear. This isn’t easy for anyone, is it?”

She crossed the landing and opened one of the doors at the rear of the house where a light was already burning to welcome the new dear. The room had been furnished with a hospital bed. Otherwise it was as normal-looking as any other bedroom Barbara had ever seen and, admittedly, far more cheerful than her mother’s room in Acton.

“Look at the lovely wallpaper, Mummy,” she said. “All those daisies. You like daisies, don’t you? And the rug. Look. There’re daisies on the rug as well. And you’ve got your own basin. And a rocker by the window. Did I tell you that you can see the common from this window, Mum? You’ll be able to watch the children playing ball.” Please, she thought, please. Just give me a sign.

Clinging to her arm, Mrs. Havers mewled.

“Give me her case, dear,” Mrs. Flo said. “If we pop things away quickly, she’ll settle all the sooner. The less disruption, the better for Mum. You’ve brought photos and little mementoes for her, haven’t you?”

“Yes. They’re on the top.”

“Let’s have them out first, shall we? Just the photos for now, I think. A quick bit of home.”

There were only two photos, together in a hinged frame, one of Barbara’s brother and the other of her father. As Mrs. Flo flipped open the suitcase, took the frame out, and opened it upon the chest of drawers, Barbara realised suddenly that she’d been in such a hurry to clear her mother out of her life that she hadn’t thought to include a picture of herself. She grew hot with the shame of it.

“Now, doesn’t that look nice?” Mrs. Flo said, stepping back from the chest of drawers and cocking her head to one side to admire the photographs. “What a sweet little boy. Is he—”

“My brother. He’s dead.”

Mrs. Flo clucked sympathetically. “Shall we have her coat off now?”

He was ten, Barbara thought. There was no member of the family at his bedside, not even a nurse to hold his hand and make his passing gentle. He died alone.

Mrs. Flo said, “Let’s just slip this off, dearie.”

Next to her, Barbara felt her mother cringe.

“Barbie…” A note of unquestionable defeat sounded in the two syllables of her name.

Barbara had often wondered what it had been like for her brother, whether he’d slipped away easily without rising from his final coma, whether he’d opened his eyes at the last to find himself abandoned by everyone and everything save the machines and tubes and bottles and gadgets that had been industriously prolonging his life.