Go Not Gently

CHAPTER THREE

I rang Rachel, my social work contact, at ten a.m. She was busy for the rest of the day: visits, case conference, court reports, the lot. After further prodding and a promise to foot the bill I persuaded her to meet me for lunch the following day. Her office is in Longsight, mine in Withington. We agreed on a friendly Greek restaurant in Fallowfield, midway between us.

I stuck some washing in the machine, then sat in the kitchen and browsed through the books that Moira had left. It became clear that dementia wouldn’t have resulted from either Lily’s fall or from leaving her home. But both the books listed two types of dementia, Alzheimer’s and something called acute confusional disorder. The latter could result from physical illness, like a severe infection or as a reaction to drugs. So it could be treated and would stop, unlike actual senile dementia.

Agnes had described Lily’s decline as rapid, the books said Alzheimer’s developed slowly over several months. But Mrs Valley-Brown had told Agnes that Lily had Alzheimer’s disease, the commonest form of dementia. Presumably the GP knew how to tell the two states apart and for some reason they’d discounted acute confusion. I understood Agnes’ disquiet: at first glance the facts didn’t appear to add up.

I opened my notepad and listed the questions we needed answers to. The more I thought about it the more likely it seemed that there’d been a misdiagnosis. That an untreated illness or an adverse reaction to medication had led to Lily Palmer becoming troubled, confused, unlike her usual self. If we could establish the cause and treat it then Lily would get better and Agnes would have her old friend back. It wasn’t right: Agnes had been anxious enough to come to a private investigator when the Homelea staff dismissed her concerns. They should have been on to it straight away.

I switched the washing to the tumble dryer in the cellar, then made a quick foray to the shops on my bicycle. Withington is a real mix of taste and tack. Discount shops selling brightly coloured, semi-disposable goods made in China and the Philippines nestle cheek by jowl with more upmarket outlets: delicatessens, health food shop, designer clothes boutiques.

I bought pasta, cheese and milk from the small supermarket, then negotiated my way to the greengrocer’s. The pavements were narrow and crowded with shoppers. I wheeled my bike along the gutter to avoid colliding with anyone.

I was tempted by gleaming displays of avocados, imported beef tomatoes, limes and grapes, by bright bunches of hothouse herbs, but I resisted. Our budget rarely ran to the exotic end of the stall. If it was in season or on offer we ate it. Cabbage, carrots, turnips, onions. Fruit was the exception as the mainstay of the battle against tooth decay: ‘No you can’t, have some fruit.’

It had actually stopped raining but the cold, grey fug lingered as though the drizzle had been freeze-framed. Back home I had cheese on toast, pulled on another sweater and gathered things up to take round to the office.

The crocuses that dotted gardens along the way had taken a battering from the recent gales. The purple and yellow flowers lay sprawled and broken. I’d never bothered with crocuses, they were just too feeble for the season. I stuck to polyanthus and primroses, snowdrops and winter pansies – lovely gaudy colours for murky winter days.

I picked up my business mail from the table in the hall and went down to the cellar. The answerphone light blinked three times and paused. I hung my coat on the back of the door and made ready to take notes. The first message was from Wondawindow Systems, from Michelle, no less, who would call again later to discuss with me the new range of low-maintenance, high-quality, fully guaranteed, top-security, bonus-offer uPVC double-glazed windows currently available. I glanced at the narrow basement window with its broken blind. Shrugged.

The second caller had rung off without leaving a message. The third was the man who’d rung me the previous afternoon. I recognised the nervous laugh.

‘Hello…’ laugh. ‘Yeah, it’s about something I want you to investigate. Can you ring me at work?’ He reeled off the number. ‘And, erm…’ laugh, ‘if I’m out on a job then leave a message for me and I’ll ring you when I get back. Right.’ Pause. ‘Thanks.’

Well, I’d have done so gladly but he hadn’t left his name. I did try the number on the off chance it was a direct line. A woman answered. ‘Hello, Swift Deliveries.’

I explained that I wanted to get in touch with one of the younger men whose name I’d forgotten. She couldn’t help.

‘We’ve fifteen drivers, love. All over the region. I need a name.’

I gave up. With luck, he’d try again.

My mail consisted of bumf from the bank trying to get me to take out a loan and a letter from the accountants asking for my detailed income and expenditure so they could prepare my year-end accounts.

I spent the rest of the afternoon preparing my accounts. It would have been easier if I’d entered things on a more regular basis but I shoved all my invoices and receipts into a box file marked ‘Finance’ and left it till the dreaded letter arrived. It wasn’t even all that complicated. The thought of doing it was always worse than the reality.

By the time I’d finished I reckoned I’d have to pay about £500 tax in a couple of instalments over the next year. I couldn’t believe that I could earn so little and still have to pay tax. I certainly didn’t have a spare £500 sloshing round in the bank. Oh, well. It wasn’t due yet and maybe by the time that bill came in I’d have found a nice little earner.

The phone interrupted my musing.

‘Hello, is that Miss Kilkenny?’

‘Yes. Miss Donlan?’

‘That’s right. I was wondering how you were getting along.’ She spoke tentatively, she didn’t want to bother me but she was worrying herself sick.

‘Fine. I’ve been doing a bit of background reading and talking to people. I didn’t want to visit Mrs Palmer until I’d a little more information. But we could fix that up now.’

‘Yes.’

‘How about Friday?’

‘Oh.’ A note of disappointment.

Did she want to go tomorrow? I was meeting Rachel for lunch but that left gaps either end of the day. And I couldn’t see it mattered which order I did things in. ‘Unless you want to go tomorrow.’

‘I’d like that.’

‘Does it matter when? Are there visiting times?’

‘Oh no. We can visit whenever we like. I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong impression. It’s quite a nice place really, comfortable.’

‘How about half-past ten? I could come and pick you up.’

‘I’ll get the bus.’

‘I think it’ll look better if we arrive together. If it’s no trouble.’

‘Of course, yes.’

I checked her address and arranged to pick her up a little before ten thirty the following morning.

No sooner had I put the phone down than it rang again.

‘Hello. This is Michelle from Wondawindow Systems. We have some very attractive special offers on at the moment. I’d like to arrange a convenient time for our rep to call on you, at your own convenience, without any obligation, to discuss options with you.’ Her voice was brisk, cheery and full of laboured reassurance.

‘No thanks.’ I got it in quickly, but she hardly drew breath.

‘The Wondawindows System not only improves security and reduces maintenance but can dramatically cut heating costs and increase the value of your property.’

‘No.’

‘Have you thought about window improvements?’

‘No. I-’

‘There’d be no obligation.’

‘I’m not interested.’ I put the phone down before she had a chance to carry on. The things some people do for a living.

Ray was working on a conversion job (old houses to new sheltered flats). He was doing all the woodwork: floors, window and door frames, built-in cupboards. Several weeks’ work. It would supplement the money he made on the furniture he created in our cellar. One consequence was he’d be better off for a while, another was that I had to take on more of the domestic jobs. He’d do the same if I got very busy. To date we’d never both been inundated at the same time.

I got Maddie and Tom from school and walked them back. I bunged potatoes in to bake, whizzed up coleslaw in the processor and grated cheese.

While the spuds cooked I sorted the clean clothes and put them in the kids’ drawers, left Ray’s pile on his bed, put mine away. I joined the children, who were watching a bizarre cartoon. I was completely baffled, unable to follow the plot or even tell what type of creatures the characters were meant to be.

‘Why’s she doing that?’ I asked.

‘Shush,’ Maddie complained.

‘She’s saving him,’ Tom explained.

‘Shush.’ Maddie rounded on Tom.

‘Who’s the blue one?’ I said.

‘Mummy,’ Maddie said sharply, ‘go away. You’re ruining it.’

I went.

Agnes lived in a small redbrick terrace in Ladybarn. The house had colourful stained-glass panels at the sides of the front door. The woodwork was painted a deep jade green, an old-fashioned flavour. It was the sort of place that the estate agents describe as full of original features.

The creamy lace curtain moved when I drew up. Agnes looked out and waved. She was ready and waiting. Her white hair was carefully styled and she wore the same navy coat. I got out and opened the passenger door for her. She was nervous. She got the seat belt tangled up with her handbag and the more she struggled the worse it got.

‘Here, let me sort that out.’ I leant across and unwound everything, buckled the seat belt. Set off.

‘Have you told Mrs Palmer we’re coming?’

‘Yes. I popped in on Tuesday after I’d been to see you. I don’t know whether she took it in really. I said I’d be back later in the week, that I’d be bringing a friend. She didn’t ask who.’

‘We’d better agree on who I am, in case anyone asks. Perhaps we should pass me off as your niece or something like that.’

‘No.’ She was shocked. ‘No, I’d rather a friend of the family.’ Her hand worked away at the jet brooch on her coat. I’d obviously touched a nerve. A niece she preferred to forget? I couldn’t ask about it. The colour had drained from her face and I needed to put her at ease before we reached Homelea.

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘A friend of the family. Call me Sal – it sounds better than Miss Kilkenny. I prefer it anyway.’

‘Yes, and you had better call me Agnes.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. I know a lot of my generation like to keep to the formalities but it really doesn’t matter any more. There’s hardly anyone left to call me Agnes now, you know.’

‘OK. How was Mrs Palmer on Tuesday?’

‘Very restless. Other times she just dozes off.’

‘That could be the side effects of the medicine. Anyway, I just want to meet her today and get a look at the place. I’ve had a word with a GP I know and she’s suggested we find out from Mrs Palmer’s doctor exactly how the trouble started and what drugs she’s on. It’s possible that there’s been a wrong diagnosis and that she hasn’t got Alzheimer’s at all. I was reading this book…’

‘Acute confusional disorder,’ said Agnes.

‘Yes.’ My surprise showed.

‘I’ve been reading too,’ she smiled. ‘I got some books from the library.’ She pointed. ‘It’s left here.’

We turned into a gravelled driveway between large stone gateposts. I parked in front of the house. It was a huge place with outbuildings beyond and a conservatory along one wall of the house. Homelea was probably built by one of the Manchester merchants, a visible statement of his wealth and success. It even boasted a small turret on one corner.

I let Agnes lead the way. There was a ramp as well as steps up to the front porch. Agnes rang the bell. The door was opened promptly by a young woman who recognised her and invited us in. She disappeared. My first impression was of warmth and tasteful decoration, everything in cream, pale green and rose. The aroma of fresh coffee. The broad entrance hall had a large room off to each side, stairs ahead and more doorways at the bottom. Those led to the kitchen and dining room, I assumed. The door to our right was closed; I could hear the murmur of television. But Agnes went through to the room on our left.

This was a corner room with two bay windows. In the recess of the one at the front there was a table with high-backed chairs. A woman sat writing. In the other bay two women, deep in conversation, sat on a chintz-covered sofa. Each held a cat on her lap.

Around the rest of the large room were three clusters of high-backed easy chairs and side tables. People were sitting in some of these, reading papers and books, sewing and playing chess. The atmosphere was relaxed, quietly busy.

‘She must be in the other room,’ said Agnes.

We crossed the hall and opened the door. The room had the same decor but a semicircle of chairs faced us, arranged to focus on the television set, which was blaring out. There were six people there. A couple looked up as we went in. Agnes moved over to the woman sitting nearest to us, on the outside of the group.

‘Lily, hello. How are you?’

The woman turned to face her. She stared blankly, unwavering, at Agnes for two or three seconds then turned back to the television set. I heard Agnes sigh. I put my hand on her arm. The poor woman. Her closest friend had no idea who she was.