The Emerald Comb. Kathleen McGurl

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СКАЧАТЬ to cancer twelve years ago, and now he was losing his mother to dementia. All that was left of her was these occasional snippets of old memories, washed up like flotsam. We’d had to move her into a nursing home eighteen months earlier, when she’d stopped letting her carers into her home, thinking they’d come to rob her. A year ago she stopped recognising me and the children. Five months ago she didn’t know who Simon was, and he’d come home that day and sobbed on my shoulder like a little boy.

      He still visited her every fortnight, making the long drive down to the Dorset coast, spending ten minutes or three hours with her depending on whether his presence upset her or not. We’d explained her illness to the older children, who’d taken it in their stride, the way children do. Little Thomas didn’t even remember her when we showed him a photo of himself as a baby, sitting on her lap. Simon had pressed his lips together and turned his face away. The idea that our youngest would grow up knowing only one set of grandparents pained him, I knew.

      He refilled his wine glass, took a sip, then a deep breath, and looked at me. ‘She also talked about how she’d never been able to have children, how she and Dad decided on adoption. And about the day they collected me from the children’s home. She still thought I was Dad, and went through the whole story, saying do you remember, Peter? do you remember? And of course I do remember it, but from an entirely different point of view.’

      ‘But you’ve heard her talk about that day before, love,’ I said.

      ‘Yes, but on those occasions she knew I was there. Today she thought I was Dad, and was talking as though I, Simon, her adopted son, wasn’t present.’

      I scanned Simon’s face for clues as to what she’d said, how he’d taken it. He looked drawn, the way he always looks after visiting Veronica. But was he more upset by her stories this time? Had she said something distressing? Before she was ill she’d always talked about that day with warmth and affection. The chubby blond four-year-old running full pelt into the hallway of the children’s home in pursuit of the resident cat, and stopping abruptly when he saw her and Peter standing there in their coats and hats. His formal greeting, parroting what he’d been taught: Good afternoon, Mr and Mrs Smiff. His shy smile when Veronica told him he could now call her Mummy, and Peter, Daddy. The wondrous moment when he first slid his warm, sticky hand into hers, as they led him outside to their car and his new life.

      ‘What did she say that was different?’ I asked, as gently as if he was still that shy little four-year-old.

      ‘She spoke about her fears that it wouldn’t work out, that I might change their relationship and not for the better, that despite all the visits they’d had with me before it became official she might find it all too much and have to send me back. I never heard her say anything like that before. I’d always grown up being told that I was special because they chose me. That their life wasn’t complete until I joined the family.’

      He took another gulp of his wine. His eyes sparkled. My big strong rugby-playing husband, close to tears. We might have had our ups and downs lately, but seeing him like this broke my heart.

      ‘Katie, it hurt, you know? To hear that she’d thought they might have to send me back. Even now, after all these years.’

      ‘She didn’t know what she was saying.’

      ‘She did. She just didn’t know who she was saying it to.’

      I rubbed his shoulder. I didn’t know what I could say to comfort him. ‘Perhaps you should stop visiting her. It wouldn’t hurt her, she wouldn’t even realise anything had changed.’

      ‘It’s my duty. She’s got no one else.’

      ‘But it just upsets you. I hate to see you like this. And it’s not even as if she’s your real m—’

      Whoops. Wrong thing to say, or nearly say. Simon glared at me. ‘She’s my mum, Katie. She, and no one else.’ He knocked back the rest of his wine and stood up decisively. ‘Well. Enough of that. Where are our gorgeous children?’

      ‘Sitting room, watching Jungle Book.’

      ‘Great, I love that film! Mind if I join them while you’re making dinner?’ He didn’t wait for an answer, but sashayed off across the hallway, singing something about the bare necessities of life. I heard Thomas squeal ‘Daddy, Daddy!’, ticklish giggles from Lauren, and the clap of a high-five, ‘Yo, Dad!’ from Lewis.

      The next day, Sunday, was grey and rainy. There was no hope of going out anywhere, so we decided to get on with the unpacking. There were still piles of boxes in the corners of rooms, waiting to be sorted out. Some boxes contained things like photo albums, outgrown toys and old school books. Those would go in the loft above Lauren’s room as soon as we’d installed a loft ladder. That was the only part of the house we’d not yet explored. The hatch was sealed shut and Simon didn’t want to open it up yet. ‘Time enough,’ he’d said. ‘Plenty to sort out down here before we venture up there. Right then, what shall we tackle today?’

      ‘The study,’ I said. ‘Let’s unpack the books and files, and fill up those shelves. I’ll give them a dust and polish first while you get the kids settled doing something.’ I hoped my family tree research folders would turn up somewhere amongst the books.

      I made us a cup of tea, then went back to the study armed with a damp cloth, dusters and polish. The shelves and cupboards needed a thorough clean before we could put anything onto them. The wood was dark with age, with a deep patina from centuries of beeswax. Walnut, perhaps, I thought. I pulled open the fold-down desk where Veronica had put the tea tray on my first visit, and reached deep inside with my damp cloth to get the dirt out of the corners.

      ‘That’s funny,’ I said.

      Simon looked up from the box he was opening. ‘What?’

      ‘The panel at the back inside the desk is loose. Oh!’

      I’d pushed on one side, and the panel had opened up. I bent down and peered inside. There was a small drawer behind, made of the same walnut wood but looking less aged. It had a tiny metal ring as a handle. I gently pulled on it but it didn’t move.

      ‘It’s stuck.’

      ‘Let me look,’ said Simon, and I moved out of the way. He gave a tug, and then joggled the drawer from side to side to free it up. Gradually he eased it out of its slot.

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