‘Bad.’
Marion, despite being white and dressing only (as far as Hortensia could make out) in khaki pencil-skirts and peach-coloured shirts, despite being fleshier and a fervent dyer to blonde of her grey hair, reminded Hortensia of her mother. Here were two women Hortensia knew who asked only questions with bad-news answers. Marion, for instance, would never ask how House of Braithwaite was doing, because she knew it would be good news. Marion didn’t ask how the shoot with Vintage Magazine went, when they came to interview her and photograph the interior spaces of her home. Marion never asked what Hortensia’s bank account looked like or where she’d put her trophy for Best Christmas Lights from last year’s neighbourhood contest.
Hortensia popped the key back into her pocket and climbed the steps. She stopped and, using her good leg, shoved one of her garden pots into position. Her mood was spoiled. Spoiled so that no ottoman or mug of hot chocolate could repair it. She’d have to sleep, wake up into another day.
As for her mother, Hortensia thought, now savouring the bitterness on her tongue, liking the way it curled right there on the very tip – that woman, while she lived, had only one question to ask Hortensia, year after year of her marriage to Peter: when are you bringing me babies?
Hortensia let herself in. The nurses hadn’t bothered to turn any of the downstairs lights on. She slammed the door, which saved her having to announce her presence with words, and meant by the time she’d shrugged her jacket off and put on her house-slippers, the women would be stepping down the stairs with their bags and nurse-things. A few words of instruction for the night and they’d be gone, giving her, Hortensia, some peace and allowing Peter to progress towards his death unhindered. So much dignity had been sucked out of death, Hortensia thought, now looking forward to hot chocolate again, her ears attuned to the unmistakable sound of nurse-shoe on stair tread.
‘Mrs James, that you?’
They’d become a part of the house. Since he’d stopped talking and all movement was an act of persuasion, the hospital had dispatched two nurses daily. Hortensia had resisted when a night-nurse was suggested. Not the nights too, she’d said. She’d even said please.
‘In here.’ She preferred not to talk to them but they insisted. In general, people like to talk to old folk.
‘Nice walk?’ One nurse – their names came in and out, like breathing – stood at the doorway of the coat-room.
Hortensia chose to ignore her question.
‘Anything I need to know?’ she asked instead, balling her socks into a squat brown basket.
‘He’s fine, sleeping. Medicated for the night. Nothing to worry about. We’ll be back bright and early.’
Hortensia watched the pep in this woman bounce her down the hallway; her colleague joined her and out they went.
Bassey knew to leave the tin of hot chocolate out before he left for the day, as well as her favourite mug, blank of image or text, a chalky sea-urchin white. Hortensia stirred, liking the feel of the grooves on the 1942 miniature silver spoon. She remembered a long-ago friend and his anecdote about his uncle, who was a chef. The man was known for eating a cut tomato and being able to tell whether it had been sliced with his silverware or just some normal run-of-the-mill knife – he could taste it. Hortensia took a sip, flipped the light and headed for the ottoman. Her life was burdened. An expert appreciation for beautiful things, right and proper things, was her only remaining comfort.
When Marion realised she was staring bankruptcy in the face her first thought had been: how do I get out of this? Max had been the one with the loopholes. Look where that got him. But then she’d thought of the painting.
Marion gave Agnes the morning off, ignoring the look of shock on the woman’s face. She wanted to search through the house without Agnes watching, being suspicious and asking questions. The first wave of debt collectors would come within the next few weeks, Marion’s lawyer had told her. He’d staved them off for as long as he could.
Marion climbed the stairs to the attic, holding onto the banister, not liking the strain in her Achilles heel. They’d want the house. She cracked open the swollen door. Swollen because of the leak – the rains in ’98 that weekend they’d gone away and come back to ruined carpets. Cobwebs stuck to her cheeks and she tried and failed to get them all off.