Page 7 of A Midlife Gamble

‘I’m Kay,’ Kay said calmly.

Her mother shook her head, a film of spittle leaking from her lips. ‘She took the children. I drove her to the station. We didn’t have time to pack the kiddies’ wellies.’

Bumping her chair closer, Kay took her mother’s hand and pressed it between her own. ‘I’m Kay,’ she repeated, but again her mother shook her head.

‘She won’t come back this time. I told her not to come back.’

’No? I don’t think she will then.’

‘I hope she’s going to be ok.’

‘She’ll be fine,’ Kay said and squeezed her mother’s hand with a conviction made strong by hindsight. Back in 1974, Kay’s mother had driven their next-door-neighbour, Marion, to the railway station, Marion’s two tiny children alongside. There hadn’t indeed been time to pack the kids’ wellies and Marion never did go back. Not to the house next door, or the abusive husband with whom she had lived. So yes, she was fine. Living in Dorset and a grandmother of five. Her mother had all the details of the story correct. It was just the characters she mixed up.

She released her mother’s hand and leaned back in her chair. Out of the window she could see the garden. The lawn that sloped upward to open farmland and the twiggy shrub border, bare now save for the glossy evergreen of rhododendrons. It was a beautiful garden. Her mother had arrived in August, just in time for the late summer bloom, and they had already spent many hours sitting on the patio, surrounded by rich golden dahlias and slender lupins. Ashdown House was a lovely place and after the difficulties of the summer, it had become very clear, very quickly, that with her mother settled into full-time care everyone’s quality of life had improved. Her father visited every day, reassured to see his wife in such kind and compassionate hands and quietly accepting of the new empty spaces in his house. And a huge slab of responsibility had fallen off Kay’s shoulders. So it was ironic, beyond ironic really, that just as she had successfully negotiated her way across this bleak territory, as she should have been coming out of the woods and into the sunlight, the thunderbolt of cancer had struck, pinning her as sure as a butterfly to a collector’s board, checkmating her every move.

She let the thought float away, over the grass, disappearing into the darkly furrowed soil of the farmland beyond. ‘So mum,’ she sighed and turned back to the bed. ‘Can you hear that?’ Behind the door, the sound of singing, faint and tremulous, could be heard. It was coming from the lounge.

But the bird-like creature in the bed had closed her eyes, and already a whistle of sleepy breath escaped her lips. Kay stood. She eased her mother’s pillows out, and cradling her head, laid her down to sleep.

‘See you next week,’ she whispered as she stood in the doorway. ‘I can’t come for a few days. I’m having a little operation.’ And she eased the door shut.

Outside in the corridor the singing felt both closer and further away, and for a moment Kay felt marooned between worlds. Ahead, the large drawing room called to her with the clatter of teacups and the chatter of voices; behind, on the other side of the door which she now leaned against, lay a silence akin to death.

And where then did she belong?

Taking a rag of tissue from her pocket she blew her nose, surprised to discover again the wetness of tears. Then she took a deep breath and steadying herself, followed the call of a world she was still a part of.

The drawing roomof Ashdown House had been built for another age. It was elegant and well proportioned, with detailed cornices and huge bay windows that overlooked a sweeping driveway. Positioned now, within the curve of the bay, stood a group of ladies, none of whom were a day under fifty and all of whom were dressed, head to toe, in shades of purple. From imperial magenta to pastel lilac. Two wore feather fascinators, another three had deely bobbers, all of them singing their hearts out. The Purple Iriseswere going through their well-practised routine. They were colourful and good natured, as enthusiastic as their headgear, that bounced and jiggled regardless, making no distinction between the upbeat rhythms of Frank Sinatra, or the mournful tones of The Carpenters. One of them wore a sequinned vest and it had Kay thinking of her Vegas jacket. She hadn’t been able to throw it away, and it was back in her wardrobe.

Across the room, her father waved. He was sitting in a winged armchair, close to the sideboard. Craig stood next to him, wearing – Kay squinted – a set of purple deely bobbers he’d obviously commandeered from one of the Irises. Next to Craig stood Hollie, the manager; both of them were scoffing cake and swaying to the music. Kay smiled. Craig and Hollie were peas in a pod. The kind of effortlessly cheerful people, whom it was as impossible to dislike as it was to emulate. Rare as hens’ teeth. So it was more than good fortune she’d managed to find two in her life, and thinking this gave her comfort. Because if the worst happened, if both her motherandher father outlived her, at least they would be in good and kind hands. Which of course, still left Alex.

Martin, Alex’s father and her ex, had just become a father for the third time. He had a whole new family, which in theory should also have given Alex a whole new family. Only it wasn’t working like that, and in a way Kay understood. Martin’s young wife had neither the time nor the energy to accommodate a six-foot man, with the emotional vocabulary of a child. And Martin? Men compartmentalised. That was a fact. And right now, the compartment Martin had popped his first son in seemed so far out of his view that Kay sometimes wondered if he’d forgotten about it completely. Closing down an avenue of thought that led nowhere satisfactory, she made her way across and sat down next to her father. The day had drained her, she needed the bonhomie of fruitcake and tea and Barry Manilow’s ‘Can’t Smile Without You’.

‘How was she?’ Hollie mouthed.

Kay shook her head.

‘I’ll get you a cup of tea.’ Code for,I understand. I’ll make it as right as I can.

Kay mouthed a thank you, leaned her head back in her chair, closed her eyes and allowed the music to wash over her. She didn’t actually notice it had come to an end until she felt a hand on her arm. Dazed, she opened her eyes to see her father. She must have dozed off. One of those micro-sleeps that are supposed to be so beneficial. The Irises, she saw, were taking a break.

‘Are you getting enough sleep?’ her father frowned.

‘I’m fine.’

‘You need another holiday,’ he said. ‘You should get yourself back to Cyprus.’

‘That would be nice.’ Cyprus? Kay smiled. That week at the beginning of the summer when the itch at her neck had been just an itch, when her teaching career remained unblemished… It felt as far out of reach to her now as the moon.

‘I’ll just pop along and look in at your mum,’ her father said, easing himself out of his chair.

Kay nodded. She watched as he walked across the room. He was still spritely, still steady on his feet. How on earth was she going to tell him?

Telling Alex today had made the total number of people who now knew the real extent of her diagnosis, six. Nick her headteacher had been obvious, explanations were necessary, practicalities had to be addressed. Ditto with Martin. Marianne, whom she had met at the hotel in Cyprus, not so much obvious as completely unexpected. She hadn’t intended it this way, but exchanging emails with her, which they had been doing since the holiday ended, had become an exercise in self-care for Kay. Alone, in front of her laptop, she’d found herself spilling the kinds of hopes and fears and dreams that once she would have shared with Caro and Helen.

Craig slid into the now vacant chair beside her, his deely bobbers bouncing wildly. ‘I’m going to join them for the next one,’ he grinned. ‘I can sing you know.’

Her smile was too weak, she knew this by the way his face changed.

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