Me, smiling, at least one whole hour ahead.
Fresh flowers in my hand, I rang the doorbell of the Hartley Nursing Home.
I had never taken flowers to St James.
Never taken my father a single stem.
The building, looking like an old stately home or a hotel,
I wondered when my mother had stopped taking flowers for my father.
A red-faced middle-aged woman in a white coat opened the door.
“Can I help you?”
“I do hope so. I’m here to see my Aunty Marjorie. Mrs Mar-jorie Dawson?”
“Really? I see. Please come this way,” said the lady, holding the door open for me.
I couldn’t remember the last time I had visited my father, whether it had been the Monday or the Tuesday.
“How is she?”
“Well, we’ve had to give her something for her nerves. Just to quieten her down.” She led me into a large hall dominated by a larger staircase.
I said, “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Well, I heard she was in a bit of a state when they brought her back.”
“When did you last see your Aunt, Mr…?”
“Dunston. Eric Dunston,” I said, extending my hand with a smile.
“Mrs White,” said Mrs White, taking my hand. “The Hartleys are away this week.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I said, genuinely thankful not to be meeting the Hartleys.
“She’s upstairs. Room 102. Private room of course.”
My father had ended up in a private room, the flowers all gone, a pile of bones inside a brown hide bag.
Mrs White, in her tight white coat, led the way up the stairs.
The heating was on full and there was the low hum of a television or radio. The smell of institution cooking followed us up the stairs, like it had tailed me all the way from the St James Hospital, Leeds.
At the top of the stairs we walked down a sweating corridor filled with big iron radiators and came to room 102.
My heart beating loud and fast, I said, “It’s OK. I’ve kept you long enough, Mrs White.”
“Oh, don’t be daft,” smiled Mrs White, knocking on the door and opening it. “It’s no trouble.”
It was a beautiful room, drenched in winter sunlight and filled with flowers, Radio 2 quietly playing something light.
Mrs Marjorie Dawson was lying with her eyes closed atop two full pillows, the collar of her dressing gown poking out from under all the bedding. A faint film of sweat covered her face and flattened her perm, actually making her appear younger than she probably was.
She looked like my mother.
I stared at the bottles of Lucozade and Robinson’s Barley Water, glimpsing my father’s gaunt face in the glass.
Mrs White went to the pillows, gently touching Mrs Dawson on the arm.
“Marjorie, dear. You have a visitor.”
Mrs Dawson slowly opened her eyes and looked about the room.
“Would you like some tea bringing?” Mrs White asked me as she primped the flowers on the bedside table.
“No, thank you,” I said, my eyes on Mrs Dawson.
Mrs White seized my flowers and went over to the sink in the corner. “Well then, I’ll just put these in some water for you and then I’ll be out of your way.”
“Thanks,” I said, thinking fuck.
Mrs Dawson was staring straight at me, through me.
Mrs White finished filling the vase full of water.
“It’s Eric, dear. Your nephew,” she said, turning to me and whispering, “Don’t worry. It sometimes takes her a little while to come round. She was the same with your uncle and his friends last night.”
Mrs White put the vase of fresh flowers on the bedside table. “Well, that’s me finished. I’ll be in the conservatory if you need anything. Bye-bye for now,” she smiled, giving me a wink as she closed the door.
The room was suddenly unbearably full of Radio 2.
Unbearably hot.
My father gone.
I walked over to the window. The catch had been painted over. I ran a finger along the paintwork.
“It’s locked.”
I turned around. Mrs Dawson was sitting upright in her bed.
“I see,” I said.
I stood there by the window, my whole body wet beneath my clothes.
Mrs Dawson reached over to the bedside table and switched off the radio.
“Who are you?”
“Edward Dunford.”
“And why are you here, Mr Edward Dunford?”
“I’m a journalist.”
“So you’ve been telling dear Mrs White more lies?”
“Privilege of the profession.”
“How did you know I was here?”
“I received an anonymous tip.”
“I suppose I should feel flattered, to be the subject of an anonymous tip,” said Mrs Dawson, pushing her hair back behind her ears. “It sounds so very glamorous, don’t you think?”
“Like a racehorse,” I said, thinking of BJ.
Mrs Marjorie Dawson smiled and said, “So why are you interested in an old nag like me, Mr Edward Dunford?”
“My colleague, Barry Gannon, came to see you last Sunday. Do you remember?”
“I remember.”
“You said his life was in danger.”
“Did I really? I say so many things.” Mrs Dawson leant over and smelt the flowers I had brought her.
“He was killed on Sunday night.”
Mrs Dawson looked up from the flowers, her eyes wet and fading.
“And you came to tell me this?”
“You didn’t know?”
“Who can tell what I’m supposed to know these days?”
I looked out across the grounds at the bare trees, their cold shadows waning with the sunshine.
“Why did you tell him his life was in danger?”
“He was asking reckless things about reckless men.”
“What kind of things? About your husband?”
Mrs Dawson smiled sadly. “Mr Dunford, my husband may be many things but reckless isn’t one of them.”
“What did you talk about then?”
“Mutual friends, architecture, sport, that kind of thing.” A tear slid down her cheek on to her neck.
“Sport?”
“Rugby League, would you believe?”
“What about it?”
“Well, I’m not a fan so it was all a bit one-sided.”
