Читать книгу The Office of the Dead - Andrew Taylor, Andrew Taylor - Страница 19

It became increasingly obvious that something would have to be done about Mr Treevor.

He and I, a pair of emotional vampires, arrived on the same February afternoon and more than three weeks later we were still at the Dark Hostelry. I flattered myself there was a difference, that at least I did some of the housework and cooking. I sold my engagement ring, too. I’d never liked the beastly thing. It turned out to be worth much less than Henry had led me to expect, which shouldn’t have surprised me.

Mr Treevor did less and less. He took it for granted that we were there to supply his needs – regular meals, clean clothes, bed-making, warm rooms and a daily copy of The Times, which for some reason he liked to have ironed before he would open it.

‘He never used to be like that,’ Janet said to me on Thursday morning as we were snatching a cup of coffee. ‘He hardly ever read a paper, and as for this ironing business, I’ve no idea where that came from.’

‘Isn’t it the sort of thing they used to do in the homes of the aristocracy?’

‘He can’t have picked it up there.’

‘Perhaps he saw it in a film.’

‘It’s a bit of a nuisance, actually.’

‘A bit of a nuisance? It’s a bloody imposition. I think you should go on stroke.’

‘I think his memory’s improving. That’s something, isn’t it?’

I wondered whether it would ever improve to the point where he would be able to remember who I was from one day to the next.

‘He told me all about how he won a prize at school the other day,’ Janet went on, sounding as proud as she did when describing one of Rosie’s triumphs at St Tumwulf’s. ‘For Greek verses. He could even remember the name of the boy he beat.’

‘He’s getting old,’ I said, responding to her anxiety, not what she’d said. ‘That’s all. It’ll happen to us one day.’

Janet bit her lip. ‘Yesterday he asked me when Mummy was coming. He seems to think she’d gone away for the weekend or something.’

‘When’s he going home?’

‘On Saturday,’ Janet said brightly. ‘David’s offered to drive him back.’

Early on Friday morning all of us realized that this would have to be postponed. Even on the top floor I heard the shouting. By the time I got downstairs everyone else was in the kitchen. Even Rosie was huddled in the corner between the wall and the dresser, crouching to make herself as small as possible.

Mr Treevor was standing beside the table. He was in his pyjamas, but without his teeth, his slippers and his dressing gown. He was sobbing. Janet was patting his right arm with a tea towel. David, also in pyjamas, was frowning at them both. There was a puddle of water on the table, and the front of Janet’s nightdress was soaked. The room smelled of singed hair and burning cloth.

Afterwards we reconstructed what had happened. Mr Treevor had woken early and with a rare burst of initiative decided to make himself some tea. He went downstairs, lit the gas and put the kettle on the ring. It was unfortunate that he forgot you had to put water in the kettle as well. After a while, the kettle started to make uncharacteristically agitated noises so he lifted it off the ring. At this point he forgot two other things – to turn off the gas, and to cover the metal handle of the kettle with a cloth. The first scream must have been caused when the metal of the handle burnt into his fingers and the palm of his hand.

David stared at me. ‘We must have a first-aid box somewhere, mustn’t we?’

‘Phone the doctor,’ I said to him. ‘Quickly.’

‘But surely it’s not a –’

‘Quickly. Mr Treevor’s had a bad shock.’

He blinked, nodded and left the room.

I pulled a chair towards the sink, and with Janet’s help drew Mr Treevor down on to it. I turned on the tap and ran cold water over his hand and arm.

‘Janet, why don’t you take Rosie back to bed and fetch a blanket? Have you got any lint?’

‘Yes, it’s –’

‘You’d better bring that as well. And then what about some tea?’

There’s a side of me that derives huge pleasure from telling people what to do. No one seemed to mind. Gradually, Mr Treevor’s sobs subsided to whimpers and then to silence. By the time the doctor arrived, all four adults were huddled round the kitchen boiler drinking very sweet tea.

The doctor was Flaxman. I recognized his name from Janet’s letters – he had been helpful when she was pregnant. Later I came to know him quite well. He had a long, freckled face, flaking skin and red hair. He examined Mr Treevor, told us to put him to bed and said he would call later in the day.

In the afternoon, Flaxman returned. He spent twenty minutes alone with Mr Treevor and then came down and talked to us in the sitting room. David was still at the Theological College.

‘How is he?’ Janet asked.

‘Well, the burns aren’t a problem. He’ll get over those. It could have been worse if you hadn’t acted promptly.’

‘We’ve Mrs Appleyard to thank for that.’ Janet smiled at me.

Flaxman sat down. He didn’t look at me. He began to write a prescription.

‘Would you like a cup of tea? Or some sherry? It’s not too early for sherry, is it?’

‘No, thanks.’ He tore off the prescription and handed it to Janet. These will help Mr Treevor sleep, Mrs Byfield. Give him one at bedtime. If he complains of pain, give him a couple of aspirin. Tell me, where does he live?’

‘He has a flat in Cambridge.’

‘Does he live alone?’

‘There’s a landlady downstairs. She cooks for him.’

‘How long will he be staying with you?’

Janet wriggled slightly in her chair. ‘I don’t really know. My husband was going to take him back tomorrow but in the circumstances, I suppose –’

‘I’d advise you to keep him here a little longer. I’d like to see him again over the next few days. I think his condition needs assessment. Perhaps you’d let me have the address of his GP.’

‘He wasn’t properly awake this morning,’ Janet said, clutching at straws. ‘He’s not been sleeping well.’

‘The sleeping tablets will help that. But the point is, he needs looking after. I don’t mean he needs to be hospitalized, but he needs other people around to keep an eye on him.’

‘Is – is this going to get worse?’

‘It may well do. That’s one reason why we need to keep an eye on him, Mrs Byfield–to see if he is getting worse.’

‘And if he is?’

‘There are several residential homes in the area. Some private, some National Health.’

‘He’d hate that. He’d hate the loss of privacy.’

‘Yes, but his physical safety has to be the main concern. Could he live with you or some other relative?’

‘Permanently?’

‘If you don’t want him to go into a residential home, that would probably be the best solution, Mrs Byfield. At least until his condition deteriorates a good deal more.’

‘But – but what exactly’s wrong with him?’

‘At this stage it’s hard to be categorical.’ He glanced quickly at us both. ‘But I think he’s in the early stages of a form of dementia.’

There was a long silence. I wanted to say to Janet, You’ve got enough on your plate, but for once I kept my mouth shut.

Then she sighed. ‘I shall have to talk to my husband.’