The Couple at No. 9(23)

Joy, the manager of the care home, a thin, officious woman in her late fifties, strides over to where we’re hovering in the doorway.

‘Rose is having a good day,’ she says. She smiles but it doesn’t reach her eyes beyond her horn-rimmed glasses. She always has an air of harassment. ‘I’ll let you know when the police arrive. I don’t want them coming in here and distracting the other residents.’

Mum nods, thanks Joy, and we wander over to Gran. There’s a cane two-seater sofa next to her and we squash onto it together.

Gran doesn’t look up as we join her, continuing to gaze off into the middle distance. She has her false teeth in. I’m so used to seeing her without them that the effect changes her face shape, accentuating her jaw and making her look sterner, somehow.

‘Hi, Gran,’ I begin, shifting my weight towards her. I’m sitting closest to her.

Mum leans across me and reaches out her hand to take Gran’s. ‘Lovely to see you, Mum. You’re looking well.’

But Gran turns and frowns at Mum. Her face is blank. ‘Who are you?’

My heart sinks.

‘It’s me. Lorna. Your daughter.’ Mum’s voice wavers.

Panic flutters across Gran’s face. ‘I don’t have a daughter.’

My eyes fill with tears at Mum’s crushed expression and I blink rapidly to stop them spilling over. That’s not going to be helpful to anyone. Mum quickly recovers. ‘Of course you do. And a granddaughter.’ But she retracts her hand from Gran’s.

Gran turns to me, a spark of recognition in her eyes. ‘Saffy!’

I smile, trying not to look at Mum. ‘Hi, Gran.’

‘How’s that lovely man of yours?’

‘He’s good.’

‘I hope you’re still feeding him up.’

I laugh. Mum has slumped against the back of the sofa, utterly dejected.

‘It’s not a Thursday. You usually come and see me on a Thursday.’

Sometimes I’m shocked by how switched on Gran can be. And at others it’s like someone has snuck into the care home late at night and wiped her memory. It seems all the more cruel that she can’t remember Mum when she’s so lucid about other things. ‘It’s Monday, you’re right. But today the police are coming. Remember last week I told you about the bodies in the garden?’

Gran stiffens and Mum leans forward expectantly.

‘Why do the police need to see me?’

‘They just want to ask you a few questions, that’s all, because you used to live in the house.’

She narrows her eyes.

‘Just try to answer them as best you can. You … you spoke about a Sheila last time. And a Victor.’

‘Sheila. Wicked little girl.’

Who is this Sheila she keeps mentioning? As much as I’d love to know more I need to get her to focus on the topic in hand. ‘Can you remember living in the cottage, Gran?’

Gran straightens up. ‘Of course I can. I’m not fucking stupid.’

I’m taken aback. Gran has never spoken to me like that before and I’ve never heard her swear. ‘I know you’re not stupid,’ I say softly.

Mum’s voice cuts across us. ‘I think we should leave the questioning to the police, honey.’

‘I’m not questioning her,’ I say, throwing Mum a look. Even though I know I am. But Mum doesn’t understand how to handle Gran. And I do. The three of us fall into a terse silence. I know Mum is silently brooding that Gran forgot who she is. And I appreciate how hurtful that is, but she does it to me sometimes. Mum hasn’t been to see Gran very often since she was admitted to the home. I should have warned her it can be like this.

‘Jean hit her,’ Gran says suddenly, breaking the silence.

I lean towards her. ‘Who’s Jean?’

‘Jean hit her. Jean hit her over the head and she fell to the ground.’

I hold my breath, not wanting to interrupt her flow. I can sense the tension radiating from Mum.

Could it be possible that Gran does know something about the bodies after all?

We wait … one beat, two … Next to me Mum opens her mouth and I shake my head at her. No, I plead silently at her. Don’t speak.

‘I didn’t know what to do. Everyone said she was wicked. Everyone said she was bad for what she did. Victor was trying to hurt us.’

I lean forward carefully so as not to put her off her stride. ‘Gran … are you saying someone called Jean killed the woman at Skelton Place?’ I turn to glance at Mum, horrified.

‘Victor … Sheila …’

I rub my temples. I can feel a headache coming on. Gran is confused and so am I. It’s just the dementia talking, I tell myself. Before my last visit I’d never heard her mention these names.

Thankfully Joy walks over to us at that moment. ‘The police are here,’ she whispers, looking around to make sure the other residents haven’t heard. ‘I think you should all come with me.’





13


Lorna





They follow Joy into a room just off the hallway, which has a fireplace and flocked wallpaper in duck-egg blue. Saffy is holding her gran’s arm and Lorna’s heart is silently breaking. Breaking not only at the sight of her mother looking so much older than the last time she’d visited six months ago, but the shock that she doesn’t recognize her. She knows she hasn’t been to visit as much as she should. It’s been hard from Spain. That’s what she’s always told herself, anyway. Yet deep down she acknowledges she could have done it more often if she’d really wanted to. It’s only a ninety-minute journey by plane. But it had been easier not to think about her mother, fading away in the care home, her brain scrambled. It had been easier instead to focus on ridiculously buffed and unsuitable toy-boys. Now the guilt eats her up. She’s been a terrible daughter.