Chapter 3

Give sorrow words, the grief that does not speak.

Macbeth Act 4, Scene 3

Ninety-three days, that is all it took from the first diagnosis that her cancer had returned until Phoebe took her last, painful breath. I left my home ninety days before to be her companion. My husband had told me he had found someone to replace me, and my job was disintegrating beneath my typist’s chair, but I hardly had time to consider either of those life-changing problems. Today is the funeral when, no doubt, the vicar will tell us that poor, dear Phoebe is in a better place. I, on the other hand, will be left untangling my business and personal affairs.

I am sitting on my marital bed feeling sorry for myself. It is only the second time that I have been in the house since the Sunday after my return from the fateful cruise. The last time was for a formal meeting with my husband which ended in me storming out. This visit is the result of an olive branch being offered, probably at the suggestion of my daughter. Geoff phoned me the day the funeral notice appeared in the newspapers to invite me to come to the house to get my black skirt, blazer and black court shoes that were my stand-by for funerals.

It seemed strange to enter the master bedroom after more than three months. He has been living in the house with his new ‘friend’ Jen although it is clear that they are not using this room. The bedcover is still wrinkled from when I sat on it after I had packed to leave. They have left me alone in the house, tempting me to snoop but it is lack of interest rather than delicacy that keeps me sitting brooding on my old bed. I could have bought a new outfit for the funeral, I suppose; put it down to Scottish thriftiness if you will.

Lost in thought, I might have sat there for another hour, but I was interrupted by Sinead calling me. She is my next-door neighbour and she reminded me that her husband and my lawyer, Quentin was waiting to talk to me. I must sign a power of attorney for him. He has been patient with me during the ninety days when I have refused to discuss the terms of my separation. Lawrence, our old family lawyer, is representing Geoff and they seem to be in no greater hurry than I am.

“I wish you would postpone your departure until we have at least heads of agreement, Beth.” I understand Quentin’s impatience. It must be frustrating to have a client who shows no interest in the end of her marriage.

“I don’t care about the money, you know. I’ve saved a bit, and I’ve already got a job lined up.”

“There is a principle at stake here. You are the injured party, and he shouldn’t escape scot free.”

“It all seems so unimportant compared with watching a friend die, Quentin. Please give me a little time to get my thoughts collected.”

Poor Quentin, he was totally abashed, spending the next ten minutes apologising for being an insensitive clod. Sinead heaped further coals on his balding head. I assured them both that I understood that he was doing everything on my behalf, leaving them to continue their long-running domestic battle. It is true that the state of my marriage seemed trivial in comparison with what Phoebe was enduring. Even now she was gone, there was the problem of her husband, swiftly sinking into dementia, that mattered more than how exactly Geoff and I had drifted apart after thirty years.

We are healthy and in full command of our faculties even though it is hard to believe that he was stupid enough to fall for Jen of all people. I had always worried that he would find someone with the same high intelligence as he had. ‘All brains and no common sense,’ my Mum says, describing the frequent bad choices of folk who should know better. My children cannot understand why Geoff and I have parted and both hint at reconciliation once we have recovered from our sulks, as they describe them. It was all too complicated for me to deal with when I was sharing a home with a dying friend.

Not that I was the ideal person to fill that role. The first few days were humbling. I was an honoured guest, given a suite of rooms, and expected to contribute nothing more than companionship to Phoebe. I began by getting her upset which probably made her feel even worse. It was Peggy, the housekeeper, who showed me how a true friend should behave. She had left her husband temporarily to care for her employer, living in a tiny room off the kitchen. Fortunately, some of her sound common sense rubbed off on me in time.

We would still have failed if it had not been for Connie. Peggy and I discussed our failings that first day I moved in, deciding that we needed help with the nursing care. I spent some time trying to contact Phoebe’s consultant to ask his advice. I knew him as Faisal, but I did not know if that was his family name or his given name. Hospital secretaries and receptionists have mastered the art of sounding polite but being totally unhelpful. I was on the second, frustrating day of calls and at the end of my self-control when I rang off after another repulse. Ten seconds later my phone rang.

“This is Faisal. I apologise for not getting in touch sooner. I have arranged for a nurse to visit you. Her name is Conzuella. She is a first-rate nurse. I will visit Phoebe in a couple of days. Goodbye.” His delivery was brusque – like bullets fired at me from a revolver.

Conzuella was at the door less than ten minutes later, dressed in a uniform and carrying a briefcase. She introduced herself and asked if we had a safe or secure gun cabinet. I still had my mind on Faisal’s phone call, and I almost giggled at the thought that Conzuella perhaps intended to shoot the patient if she did not respond to more conventional medication. She held up the briefcase:

“I need a secure place to store my supplies. All of them are lethal and most of them are highly sought after by addicts.”

I got the keys to the safe from Phoebe when I took Conzuella in to meet her. It turned out that they were old friends from the chemotherapy sessions. The women clearly liked and respected each other, I was relieved to see. After dosing her patient with stronger painkillers than we had available, the nurse came to Mark’s study to put the remaining pills into the safe, next to family papers and Phoebe’s collection of jewellery. Conzuella was satisfied with the security but pointed out that she would need all the space when Phoebe’s condition deteriorated.

The following day on my way into the office, I called by arrangement on Mr. Greenstaff, Mark and Phoebe’s solicitor, taking the jewellery and a covering letter from Phoebe. I had met him before, a sturdy, grey man in his early sixties and he welcomed me politely enough but without noticeable warmth. He had on his desk an annex to her will listing the jewellery and we went through the collection together. Everything was accounted for except her wedding and engagement rings and a pair of diamond earrings, which she was still wearing.

Mr. Greenstaff opened the letter, remarking that it listed the recipients of the various pieces after her death. Phoebe did not have a great deal of jewellery but what she had was of high quality; I was looking at it rather enviously when a catch in the solicitor’s voice made me look at him. He was reaching for a tissue, dabbing tears forming in his eyes.

“She wants to be buried with her rings and earrings,” he sobbed. There was a long pause while he collected himself. “I was twenty-four years old when I first met Phoebe. I thought then and still think now that she is the most beautiful woman – the most beautiful person – I have ever met.”

By this time, I was reaching for the tissues and he and I sat for several minutes sobbing quietly, our thoughts in harmony. Who could have guessed that the dull old lawyer had carried such passion in his soul for so many years?

“Of course, she was almost ten years older than me and already married to Mark so there was no place in her life for an ungainly, uninteresting lawyer. I had to settle for worshipping her from afar, but I have been faithful in my way.”

He heaved a great sigh and began collecting the baubles lying on his desk. I rose, walked round to where he stood behind it and kissed him on the cheek. Then I left without either of us speaking or even offering a handshake. I think that was the first time that I understood just how far the ripples caused by Phoebe’s departure from life might extend. Over the years she had touched so many people, and almost all of these contacts had been kindly and supportive; I was deeply conscious of the privilege of being her chosen confidante. My mood of introspection was shattered when I returned to the house and was called to attention by Conzuella.

In those early days, the nurse was calling twice a day to administer medicine and to check the condition of her patient. Phoebe had warned Peggy and me that Conzuella was kindly but did not tolerate fools. My first impression was that the woman lacked compassion although I was ready to accept that she was a fine nurse. It was only much later that I fully appreciated her methods. Peggy and I were all compassion, but our feelings insinuated themselves between us and our duty. Too often our emotions paralysed us when we should have been taking action; Conzuella never deviated from her duty.

Phoebe told us something of Conzuella’s history although she did not reveal secrets about her past. She had trained in Madrid and came to England to improve the life of her family. The idea was for her to earn enough to bring her husband and children to this country. By the time she had earned the money, her husband had changed his mind opting to remain in Spain. Her daughter, also a nurse, did join her mother. Conzuella was somewhat aloof at first except when she was with Phoebe.

It was perhaps a week after we first met her that she began to join Peggy and me in the kitchen after she had attended to her patient. The new pills tended to knock Phoebe out, so Connie, as she asked us to call her, would join us for a cup of tea until she was satisfied that Phoebe was comfortably sleeping. It was about the same time that her visits increased from two to three a day. Quietly and unobtrusively, Connie instructed Peggy and me on the best way to care for our friend. We never mastered the subject, but we did stop freezing when poor Phoebe was suffering the most.

Connie became the pillar that held up the roof we tried to hold over Phoebe to shelter her from the world. Peggy and I became her willing acolytes, learning to soothe bedsores and to clean our friend when she soiled herself. It was Connie who pulled us through when the sight of Phoebe suffering agonies became too much for us. She would send us out of the sickroom on some errand when it became too much to bear.

As Phoebe’s life ebbed away, Connie moved in, supervising the other nurses who joined her to give succour every hour of the day and night. For the final two weeks, Connie slept in the single bed in the sickroom that Mark had occupied in the early days. She always claimed that she was doing no more than her duty, the job she was paid for, but she went far beyond that. She certainly made me a better person.

If there was some justification in Connie’s claim to be doing her duty, there could have been no such expectation of the other pillar that helped shelter Phoebe. Mark’s memory had been getting worse even before the cancer returned but it now went into a nosedive. I had some suspicions about the cause of the sudden deterioration, but we all had to accept that he quickly became more of a liability than an asset. He became querulous and demanding of attention.

Peggy’s husband Rob is a dustman, poorly educated and unambitious, as his wife was only too ready to admit. He stepped up and took over the care of Mark. The two men had known each other for years, sometimes exchanging views about the composition of English sporting teams or their performance on the world stage. ‘Mr. A. was a bit superior, like’ as Peggy described it. As Phoebe lay dying, Rob developed this slender link, seeking out Mark and chatting to him about golf and rugby. It started with the two sitting together watching sport on television but, in the last days, Rob was caring for Mark day and night.

Being close to someone in the final days of their lives is a searching examination of your very soul. Rob, Connie and Peggy came through the fire, finer people than at the outset. They hauled me with them, supporting me when I would have given in. On almost every one of the ninety days I was with Phoebe, I learned some new weaknesses in my character; Peggy and Connie helped me to face and overcome my failings. If I had known on day one how things would be on day thirty, I would have declined Phoebe’s invitation to stay and would have been an occasional visitor instead. And if I had known on day thirty how my life would be on day sixty, I would have run away and hidden. The final thirty days I survived without conscious thought.

When Phoebe drew her last breath, my first feeling was of relief for the burden that had been lifted from my shoulders. Later, I would claim that the relief was for her sake, that she had suffered enough, but inside I knew that all my sympathy was for myself. I can only admit those feelings now because the two wonderful women who were with me had the same response.

“Like all nurses, I try to interact with my patients,” Connie told me, as I was wallowing in a mixture of emotions centred on shame. “But there comes a point where I must treat them as an object, a duty to be performed. And every time, I feel the failure, the sense of loss that my best efforts can do nothing to stop the progress of the disease.

“I was brought up a Catholic and I still attend mass, but there are times when I hate God.”

Rob helped too, by bluntly reminding us that while Phoebe no longer needed us, Mark was still there, and it was time for us to plan his future. The primary responsibility would be mine: I was the family friend, and I had been his PA for almost ten years. There had already been some discussion on the subject with Phillip, the Chairman of the company Mark had worked for. He had continued to pay all of Mark’s salary as well as providing the hospital bed for Phoebe’s sickroom. They were paying for the funeral including catering for the many guests expected to attend. Since I moved into the house, Phillip had been avoiding me, but I had one brief discussion where he responded to my reminder that Mark would need help by assuring me that he had things arranged.

I had some serious doubts about Mark and, for once, Peggy and Connie could not help me since neither knew him well. Phoebe’s prolonged decline had removed most of the trappings of civilisation from us revealing our true natures; in Mark’s case the outcome was not admirable. Connie argued that it was unfair to judge him since he was clearly suffering from some form of dementia, but I had an uneasy feeling that he was using that as a shield. I had no doubt that his memory loss was genuine, it was just that the rapid development after the cancer returned made me wonder if he was simply dodging his responsibilities.

Peggy and Rob would entertain no criticism of him so I could not discuss my fears with them. Left to myself, I tried to recall everything I knew about Mark from the first time we met, at the tennis club, through my spell as his assistant at work to the final ninety days. He had impressed me when we met socially as a handsome, worldly man, attentive to his wife. It was only after I became his PA that I came to admire him. The way he talked out his discussions with clients and then dictated a literate summary impressed me.

Indeed, it was his mastery of his subject that drew me into becoming more involved in my work than I had ever been in any other job. Now that I had time to review what had happened there were some obvious conclusions that I had missed in the excitement generated at the time. The attention I devoted to Mark and the job diverted me from the situation at home, resulting in the failure of my marriage. I did not see the connection at the time, but Mark did make a pass at me, although he quickly backed off when I mentioned tennis, implying that I would report his advances to his wife.

That prompted another worrying thought: I was not qualified for the job of PA when it was handed to me on a plate. In my newly suspicious state of mind, I began to wonder if Phoebe knew or suspected that her husband tried to seduce his secretaries and if she pushed me into the post as a safe option. Perhaps she felt that she could trust my loyalty, but in that case, she would surely have said something. I was forced to conclude that she had chosen me because I was too old and too unattractive to be a threat to her.

That, the lowest point in my life, occurred two days after Phoebe’s death. I lay on my lonely bed in her guest room, devastated because I had lost a good husband and a happy marriage not as part of some grand plan but as a pawn in a sordid game between a husband and wife. My only consolation was that Phoebe, my best friend, had underrated me: Mark did make a pass, old and ugly as she thought me.

For a wonder, I fell asleep at once and only woke when Peggy brought me a cup of tea.

“You might as well stay there. Rob and his cronies are moving the furniture back this morning. Swearing and cursing, they’ll be. You’re better off out of it.”

“But you’ll have to clean the rooms before you put them back in order. I must help.”

“Tell you what,” she grinned. “You leave my mops alone and I’ll promise not to play with your typewriter.”

I sat up in bed, drinking my tea, realising that I felt a good deal better than I had before I fell asleep. Connie came in carrying a tray with toast and marmalade before I could work out what had changed. Peggy had brought a couple of pals in to help with the deep clean, banishing Connie as cavalierly as she had me. We chatted about practical things while we ate. Faisal had arranged for the hospital bed to be sent to a local hospice and all the dangerous drugs had been collected the day before; and the funeral director had everything in hand.

“Are you still blaming yourself?” Connie surprised me by asking.

“Sort off,” I admitted. “You and Peggy and Rob have been giants. I’m puny, scared and mostly useless.”

“Join the club! Did you ever hear about my husband?” I shook my head, unwilling to repeat what Phoebe had told me since I no longer quite trusted my dead friend.

“I qualified as a nurse in Spain, coming here because the wages were better. The idea was that I would earn enough to bring my family over. Pedro, my man, is an electrician and he had worked on contract for an English firm so he could have got work here. He stayed to see our two kids through school. It was tough for both of us but worth it, we thought, for the children.

“Maria was in nursing school, and I had saved enough to buy a small house. We were just waiting for Riccardo to finish school. Pedro was working the night shift and was out on the balcony of our third floor flat having a smoke before he went to work – Maria wouldn’t let him smoke in the house. Ricci was playing football in the street with his friends.

“Then a car came hurtling round the corner and drove straight at the kids. Pedro heard the crash and looked down, but he couldn’t see Ricci amongst his friends. He dashed downstairs but our son died before he got to him.”

We were both weeping, clutching each other while Connie told her heartbreaking story.

“I can’t even begin to imagine how that must feel. I know my anguish when our Robert had his first epileptic fit. I thought I was losing him, but we got him back.”

We were silent for a long time. Finally, Connie sighed: “Pedro couldn’t leave his son. Maria came here once she qualified – she’s married now with two kids of her own – but my husband had to stay close to our boy. He visits his grave every week.”

“You are such an amazing woman, Connie.”

“I didn’t tell you the story to shock you or to get your sympathy, Beth. I just wanted you to understand that the only possible direction is forward.”

Rob and his pals were in the kitchen when we went downstairs, finishing the cans of beer that Peggy had provided. I gave them three twenties and we sent them off to the pub with our thanks while Peggy prepared lunch. We ate in the newly restored dining room which had been Phoebe’s day room during her illness. I think we were all more relaxed at this sign that normality was returning but it was not long before I was reminded that there were loose ends.

“What are you going to do about Mark, Beth?” Peggy wanted to know.

“I have an idea, but I have to talk to Phillip, if I can ever pin him down.”

What I really wanted to say was that it had nothing to do with me. Mark, probably with the active participation of his wife, had conned me. I wanted nothing more to do with him, but if I did not act, the responsibility would be left to Rob. Phillip would throw money at the problem, his answer to all life’s injustices, when what was needed was compassion and love. I could offer neither. The question was whether or not I could fix things before I left to begin my own new life.

It was as I slept that the full extent of my naivety had become clear to me. When Mark marched up and down behind his desk articulating his memory of his latest meeting, it was an act. I was impressed by his grasp of his subject, as I was meant to be. When he sat at his desk, hands braced on the surface and dictated his summary, I was in awe. Just as he expected, I tried harder than before to understand the business we were in so I could increase my contribution. I did not even notice that I was working much harder without any increase in my reward.

Things would have continued that way if Mark had not lost his memory. My involvement increased still further until, eventually, I was effectively doing his job. The fact is, that by the time I left to cruise the Mediterranean, I could do the work as well as he ever did. All his posturing simply disguised the fact that he was not especially gifted: to be brutally frank, even a middle-aged typist could do the job.

Having reached this peak of deduction, I could see a good deal further. Before I could survey this new-found vista, I was brought back to the present by Sinead’s voice calling to ask if I was all right. With a sigh, I got off what had been my marital bed and picked up the garment bag with my funeral finery. I could afford a smile as I went downstairs: just another few hours and my new life would begin. Apart from Peggy, Sinead’s husband, who is my solicitor, is the only person who knows my plan. I must sign some papers he has prepared before I can be free.

I put the clothes in my car before I went next door to sign Quentin’s sheaf of papers while Sinead made coffee. After he left to go back to his office, she wanted to ask all the details of the funeral service.

“Q was disappointed that it was to be a private interment, but there’s the memorial service in the cathedral to look forward to – I’ve seen such a wonderful hat, if Q will take the padlock off his purse for once!”

Sinead seemed to get everything her heart desired, but she constantly commented on Quentin being tight-fisted. On the face of things, they appear less well suited to each other than Geoff and me, so why are they still sniping at each other when my husband has given up on me?

Half-listening to my friend chatting excitedly I thought was a useful preparation for what I would have to endure over the remainder of the day. Then as now, I would need to do no more than nod when Phoebe’s life was described as caring and wonderful and fulfilled, while her death was a blessed relief. It is a good deal more complicated than that, but where do you find the thread to start unravelling a whole life well, if too briefly, lived.

Damn! My brief illusion of freedom was melting away. I had neither legal nor moral duty to Mark, but my conscience was not letting me off the hook that easily. I excused myself to Sinead and telephoned Mark’s solicitor before I started the engine of my car. Mr. Chesters has left several messages urging me to call him since Phoebe died. He asked me now to drive straight to his office although he became evasive when I wanted to know why a meeting was so urgently required. I am uneasy because Chesters represents the company as well as the family interest; there are too many threads interwoven for my liking.

During the early stages of the final illness, I spent a good deal of time in the office, much of it without Mark. At first, I was doing no more than fulfilling an obligation to make the handover to my successor as smooth as possible. I was swiftly made aware that I was not being considered as Mark’s replacement; Phoebe was not the only person to show astonishment that I had any ambitions of that sort, although she was blunter than most.

Mohammed was not much more subtle, copying out some of my briefing memos in his own handwriting to try to fool people into believing he was responsible for the content. It paid off for him, it appears, since he now has a little office with a door announcing that he is Assistant Manager. Dot is still out on the open floor, but she seems to have developed a crush on the new managing director, ‘Call-me John’ Rembrandt, so she is happy enough. There is a new girl sitting at my old desk. No one seems to have noticed yet that it is taking three people to do the job I was doing on my own.

As Phoebe’s illness progressed, I had less and less time to bother about what was happening in the company. On the face of things, they were both generous and understanding. Mark and I were granted compassionate leave on full pay for the final six weeks when neither of us went to the office; not that we had done very much in the six weeks before that. They supplied the special bed and paid for forty hours a week of Connie’s time. Phillip, the Chairman and a family friend, visited Phoebe four times in her final weeks. I was visiting the office on three of those occasions and he barely acknowledged me the only time I was present.

Even after I stopped going to the office, there were telephone calls asking for my advice. I was too distraught to notice at the time but, looking back, I can see a clear pattern to these calls. At first almost half of them were from Dot and a substantial number of the remainder were from Mohammed. His tailed off in the first few weeks but her calls ended abruptly once Rembrandt had moved in. There was a flurry of calls from his new secretary, chiefly about the filing system.

For the final six or seven weeks all the calls came from junior members of staff seeking clarification of orders they had received. Mark always gave a comprehensive briefing to staff when he gave them an assignment and I had carried on doing the same when I took over. It was clear that the new managing director was less punctilious. In the course of the conversations, it also became obvious that some of the customers were less than delighted with the new regime. The calls from junior staff had increased since Phoebe’s death.

I sat in my car, parked outside Mr. Chesters’ office, reviewing all of this in the light of the new insights I had gained while sitting in my old bedroom. Phillip and Mark had started in the company on the same day. Phillip, as a relative of the founder, was destined for the chairmanship, leaving the post of managing director for his long-time friend. Phoebe had made a point of Mark’s experience in different branches of the business and how that qualified him for the top job. Now that I knew that a typist without a university degree could do the job, I had to wonder whether nepotism, the old-boy network, played a part in Mark’s rise to the giddy heights.

It was as clear as the air on a spring morning that the whole house of cards would collapse if the company accepted the fact of my success in covering for Mark’s failings. No wonder Phillip could not bring himself to face me. The stupid thing is that I had no real interest in the job. I liked it well enough, taking great pleasure in satisfying customers’ needs but it was always secondary to my life with Geoff. It is ironic that my success in replacing my boss cost me both the job and my marriage. It was easy enough to forget it all while I was attending Phoebe but now the reality is stark.

This afternoon, after my poor friend is committed to the ground, I will turn my back on all of them and begin a new life just for me. There is merely that final niggling guilt that I am leaving a task uncompleted. That is the reason I am sitting in my car, steeling myself for an interview with Mr. Chesters. I hope he can give me the assurance I seek that Mark will be properly cared for as his dementia tightens its grip on him.

He fussed me as soon as I was announced, ensuring that I was comfortably seated and offering me coffee or tea.

“I must thank you for arranging to have the hospital bed delivered to the hospice,” he began.

“I had nothing to do with that. It was all arranged and executed by Rob.”

He gave a friendly laugh, almost a chortle. “That is so typical of you Beth – I may call you Beth, mayn’t I? Giving the credit to others seems to be your forte.”