ONE DAY(42)

So if Cassie’s so good at this, he wonders, where is she when she’s needed? They are inside, at the bottom of the staircase. He had never realised there were so many stairs.

‘How do I? . . .’

‘It’s best if you just lift me. I’m not heavy, not these days.’

I am not up to this. I am not capable. I thought I would be, but I’m not. Some part of me is missing, and I cannot do this.

‘Does it hurt anywhere? I mean is there anywhere I should? . . .’

‘Don’t worry about that.’ She removes her sunhat and settles her headscarf. He takes a firmer hold of her below her shoulder blade, the fingers of his hand aligning with the grooves of her ribs, then bends at the knee, feels the back of her legs beneath her dress against his forearm, smooth and cool, and when he thinks she is ready he lifts, scooping her up and feeling her body loosen in his arms. She exhales deeply, and her breath is sweet and hot on his face. Either she is heavier than he expected or he is weaker than he thought, and he bumps her shoulder against the stair post, then readjusts, turning sideways as he starts to climb the stairs. Her head rests against his shoulder, the headscarf slippery against his face. It feels like a parody of a stock situation, the husband carrying the bride over the threshold perhaps, and several light-hearted remarks run through his head, none of which will make this any easier. As they reach the landing, she obliges instead – ‘My hero,’ she says, looking up at him, and they both smile.

He kicks open the door to the dark room, and lays her on the bed.

‘Can I get you anything?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Are you due anything? Medicine or . . .’

‘No, I’m fine.’

‘Dry martini with a twist?’

‘Oh yes please.’

‘Do you want to get under the covers?’

‘Just that blanket, please.’

‘Curtains closed?’

‘Please. But leave the window open.’

‘See you later then.’

‘Goodbye, darling.’

‘See you.’

He smiles tightly at her, but she is already lying on her side with her back to him, and he steps out of the room, pulling the door loosely closed. One day quite soon, probably within the year, he will walk out of a room and never see her again, and this thought is so hard to conceive of that he shoves it away violently, concentrating instead on himself: his hangover, how tired he feels, how the pain throbs in his temples as he trots down the stairs.

The large, untidy kitchen is empty so he crosses to the fridge, which is almost empty too. A wilted celery heart, a chicken carcass, opened cans and economy ham all indicate that his father has taken over the domestic duties. In the fridge door is an opened bottle of white wine. He takes the bottle out and swigs from it, taking four, five gulps of the sweet liquid before he hears father’s footsteps in the hall. He replaces the bottle, wipes his mouth with the back of the hand just as his father enters, carrying two plastic bags from the village supermarket.

‘Where’s your mother?’

‘Tired. I carried her upstairs for a lie-down.’ Dexter wants him to know that he is brave and mature, but his father seems unimpressed.

‘I see. Did you chat?’

‘A little. Just about this and that.’ His voice sounds strange in his own head, booming and slurred and self-conscious. Drunk. Can his father tell, he wonders? ‘We’ll talk more when she wakes up.’ He opens the fridge door again, and pretends to see the wine for the first time. ‘Mind if I?’ He takes it, empties the dregs into a glass then heads out past his father. ‘I’m just going to be in my room for a bit.’

‘What for?’ scowls his father.

‘I’m looking for something. Old books.’

‘Don’t you want lunch? Little food with your wine perhaps?’

Dexter glances at the shopping bag at his father’s feet, splitting from the weight of all the tins. ‘Maybe later,’ he says, already out of the room.

On the landing, he notices the door of his parents’ room has swung open, and silently he steps inside once again. The curtains move in the afternoon breeze, and the sunlight comes and goes on her sleeping form beneath an old blanket, the dirty soles of her feet visible, toes curled up tight. The smell that he remembers from his childhood, of expensive lotions and mysterious powders, has been replaced with a vegetable odour that he would rather not think about. A hospital smell has invaded his childhood home. He closes her door, and pads to the bathroom.

As he pees, he checks in the medicine cabinet: his father’s copious sleeping pills tell of night fears, and there’s an old bottle of his mother’s valium dated March 1989, long superseded by more potent medication. He shakes out two of each and slips them into his wallet, then a third valium, which he swallows with water from the hand basin’s tap, just to take the edge off.

His old bedroom is used for storage now, and he has to squeeze past an old chesterfield, tea chest and cardboard boxes. On the walls, a few dog-eared family snapshots, and his own black and white prints of shells and leaves that he took as a teenager, imperfectly fixed and fading now. Like a child sent to his room he lies on the old double bed, hands behind his head. He had always imagined that some sort of emotional mental equipment was meant to arrive, when he was forty-five, say, or fifty, a kind of kit that would enable him to deal with the impending loss of a parent. If he were only in possession of this equipment, he would be just fine. He would be noble and selfless, wise and philosophical. Perhaps he might even have kids of his own, and would presumably possess the maturity that comes with fatherhood, the understanding of life as a process.