Then there was that growing nagging doubt in her mind about…
Suddenly the bus stopped. Maddie gathered her plastic bags and got off the bus as a welcome breeze lifted up the corners of her scarf in the hot wind. Maybank View was only a few minutes’ walk from the bus stop.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the reflection of the bus shelter: brown hair with hints of auburn, a kind face, a lived-in face some would say. Motherly clothes, sensible footwear – no FM shoes in her wardrobe anymore – and shopping bags cutting into her hand. She looked every inch the wife. The sort of person the Salvation Army would expect to donate as the choir sung, wasn’t she? Bugger that, said this new little voice in her head, which was growing louder by the day.
5
Maddie pressed the button in the lift for the third floor with her left hand; in her right she clutched a small posy of dahlias she’d bought at the flower shop – bright yellow, cerise, and red. She knew they’d cheer Olive up. She studied the posters in the lift. ‘Crafternoon sessions’, ‘Giant word search’ or ‘Namaste for beginners – finding your inner religion’. Imagine living here where your world has closed in. Imagine how that must be. What must Olive feel? A woman who had been vibrant, lived on her own terms, in that blissful cottage by the sea. She’d known how to enjoy herself. Had Olive ever worn FM shoes? Maddie stifled a giggle.
She remembered Olive at Ed’s christening. Bright mandarin-orange two-piece suit, chunky beads, dark-rimmed glasses and a pout of pink lipstick. In a certain light she’d reminded Maddie of Dame Edna, had she not been so petite with it. Olive had arranged the whole christening including the reception at the Rose Hotel, a Victorian hotel in Brightwater Bay, a village on the Isle of Wight where she lived, overlooking a spectacular crescent of sand with shimmering seas. Olive had sort of taken over as the matriarch in her world.
Maddie had insisted that Olive go to Maybank View, knowing it was a caring place from her dad’s experience there. I want her near us, Tim. In the end, her father hadn’t known if Maddie was his daughter or a nurse. His dementia had come on quickly. The thought of Olive suffering the same fate terrified her.
And now this for fun-loving Olive. Your social life mapped out for you in the confines of a lift – press three for a bit of peace, four for a quiz and five if you want to go up to the roof and jump off. Maddie shook her head and looked at the woman staring back at her in the smoky lift mirrors, inhaling that ever-present aroma of boiled cabbage. It seemed to follow Maddie wherever she went, at the dinner hall at school, in Olive’s nursing home. Bleuch.
Oh, but they didn’t call it a ‘nursing home’, did they? No, this was Maybank View House, a tranquil-sounding place, as if it was in the middle of the Yorkshire bloody Dales. Actually, it was in the middle of a busy high street and the only view was of the small garden to one side with begonias that really needed to come in for the winter, or, if you craned your neck, of the local fish and chip shop. Maddie sighed, and wondered if these mood swings of hers were due to hormones, empty nest syndrome, age – or all three?
The lift bell pinged, then the doors opened onto the third floor. The carpet in the hall was tartan here, burgundy and green stripes over a blue background. It was threadbare in parts. The whole place was infused with the markings of an institution. Not like Olive’s cosy cottage by the sea. The memories came flooding back: carefree summer days and nights with Ed staying up too late to look at the stars, ferries, fish and chips and the smell of vinegar on her fingertips.
Olive had lived on the Isle of Wight for most of her life. Stan’s sister, Emily, Tim’s mother, had died young, and his father went through a series of new wives. Tim had been brought up by one stepmother after another. Olive didn’t have much in common with Tim’s father once Emily had died, so they’d drifted apart, but she’d kept in touch with Tim, feeling sorry for the little boy with all those different women in his life. She would invite Tim to Maris Cottage, but Tim’s dad would always find it too much bother to take him.
Olive loved her cottage. She still thought she was going back there. It was a little bungalow with two bedrooms at the back, whitewashed walls outside, and a red-tiled roof. It had a sunny garden at the back where Olive used to put up a paddling pool for Ed and he’d happily play in that garden for hours, whilst Maddie and Olive had cups of tea, watched the blue tits feed on the bird feeder and marvelled at how hot the summer was, moving on to rose wine, woolly blankets and stories from Olive’s past when the air grew chillier.
Maddie pressed the buzzer on the door and waited. She knew it might take a while. Olive kept the TV on very loud, and ever since her condition had been diagnosed, she was very touchy if you mentioned the TV volume.
The door opened slowly and Olive stood there, holding on to the door handle. Maddie caught sight of her holding on to the railing by the door with her other hand, something she had never done before. She was in a straight red skirt, which was slightly baggy on her, and a black jumper. She wore a loop of silver beads round her neck, glinting in the artificial light. Her black-rimmed reading glasses were on top her head.
‘Hello, dear, have you come to visit?’
‘No, Olive, I’m here to read the gas meter!’ She leant in and gave Olive a gentle hug and held out the flowers.
‘Maddie Brown, very funny.’ Olive let out a laugh and hugged her close. Maddie was immediately taken back to the Isle of Wight, to Olive’s ‘front room’, to the huge window that overlooked Brightwater Bay. She breathed in the sweet smell of powder and lavender mixed together – the smell of Olive. Maddie let go of her; she felt even frailer than usual.
‘These are lovely, darling.’ Olive touched the dahlia petals with her bony finger and smiled.
Maddie walked past her and cast her eyes around the small yellow-painted room. Maybank View House liked its residents not to feel they were in an institution; they each had a doorbell (although all the staff had master keys) and there were personal touches about the room, as well as furniture from home and a small ‘kitchen’. But the place reeked of institution, from the faded carpets to the big medical notices in the toilets about removal of sharps and disposal of waste products. It was a far cry from ‘homely’ – but at least it was near and Maddie trusted them. She’ll be near us, Maddie; we can visit.
We. When was the last time Tim had visited?
‘Shall I put the kettle on?’ Maddie glanced at Olive who was standing near her chair. ‘And I’ve brought us some of these!’ She held up a paper bag. Inside were two eclairs, Olive’s favourites. She’d told Maddie that she liked the food at the nursing home, but that she missed her eclairs from the Shore Café at Brightwater, her village on the Isle of Wight.
‘Oh, super, young lady. And I hope they have fresh cream in them, not that synthetic nonsense. I’ll just have a little sit-down. There’s Earl Grey in the tin. Pop these in water for me, there’s a dear. There’s a pan in the kitchen.’
A pan? Maddie took the flowers from Olive and smiled, then filled up the kettle and watched as Olive slowly lowered herself onto her favourite chair. There was an embroidered cream antimacassar on the back of the chair, one of the few things Olive had kept from her old house. Maddie had made a point of buying some new cushions and a blanket for her chair when she’d moved in. To make you feel at home. ‘I won’t ever feel at home in this place, Maddie, not without Stan.’ Stan had died five years before Olive had moved. In fact, if you’d asked Maddie, the day after he died was when Olive started to decline, just a little every day.