Cath Staincliffe - Go Not Gently

As Dr Goulden claimed he was.

There was nothing else he could tell us. I drove Agnes home and she invited me in.

We sat in the front room, peaceful and homely. It still had the original fireplace with its ceramic tiles showing dog roses and rosehips, and a picture rail ran round the room. Agnes had decorated in warm colours, gold and peach and a spicy brown. She lit the coal-effect gas fire and we pulled our chairs up close. From somewhere else in the house a clock chimed, a sound from the days before time was measured in bleeps and digital displays.

‘Is that it, then?’ She looked into the fire.

‘You can always get a second opinion – about Lily’s condition now. I think you should consider that. Or a transfer. See about her changing back to Dr Chattaway, perhaps? Talk to Charles about it, he might need to make the request.’

She nodded then turned to look at me. ‘And you. What do you think?’

‘I’m not a doctor,’ I objected.

‘But you have an opinion?’ Her dark eyes glittered.

‘I don’t know. I don’t like Dr Goulden but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know his job. I can’t make a medical judgement, and the whole thing seems to hinge on that. Maybe it just happened more quickly for Lily, maybe the drugs do need looking at again like Dr Chattaway suggested. Either way there’s not much I can usefully do at the moment. You need more medical help, not a private investigator.’

Agnes turned away, looked back at the flames. ‘I can’t believe I was wrong,’ she murmured. ‘Stubborn. How much do I owe you?’

‘I can send you a bill.’

‘I’d rather settle it now.’

‘There’s only really the doctors’ visits, a bit of research. Fifty pounds will cover it.’

She left the room. Came back with the cash. I took the bills and folded them into my bag. ‘Thank you.’ I wanted to apologise but I didn’t know what for.

On the doorstep she laid her hand on my arm. ‘Thank you. For listening. It didn’t turn out as I hoped but it helped to have someone taking it seriously.’

‘Take care,’ I said. ‘If anything else crops up you know where I am.’

As I walked away disappointment tightened my throat. If only it could’ve turned out differently. I thought it was all over then.

And we all know what thought did.

It was only ten forty-five and Tuesday was one of the days that Jimmy Achebe had asked me to watch Tina. I drove back to the office, checked my answerphone and mail and collected the camera. I’d invested in a powerful zoom lens which meant I could get shots of people without being under their noses. Nevertheless I still felt completely exposed whenever I used it. It was beyond me how anyone could fail to spot the strange woman parked in the car snapping away with a funny-looking camera. But to date no one had come up and knocked on the window to ask me my business. The zoom meant I could furnish my clients with the proof they wanted of lies told and trust betrayed.

Before leaving I rang Jimmy Achebe’s home number. No point in staking out an empty house. Tina answered the phone.

‘Hello,’ I said, ‘is that the travel agent’s?’

‘You’ve got the wrong number.’

‘Oh, sorry.’

I stopped to buy a trendy sandwich and a drink on the way across to the Achebes’. Levenshulme – where the biscuit factory sweetens the air. I drove past the address Jimmy had given me. An ordinary terrace. Door leading straight on to the street. A quiet road. One where a strange car parked too long would have the nets twitching. I parked up on the main road where I could see down the length of their street if Tina appeared.

I’d finished my posh butties (avocado, cream cheese and chives) and my drink. I was parked near the Antique Hypermarket, full of stalls dealing in furniture, fixtures and fittings. The sort of place you could get original fireplaces like Agnes’ among the Victorian hatstands and chaise longues. I’d tagged along when my friend Diana had got old chimney pots there for her back yard. I divided my attention between Tina’s street and the comings and goings of the antique dealers.

It was one thirty when she came out. The photo I had was a good likeness. She was short and slight. She walked down to the main road and turned left towards the shops. Once she’d passed the bus stop I slipped my camera in my bag, left the car and followed her at a safe distance.

Tina bought fresh milk and bread, a chicken, vegetables. She called in the hardware shop and browsed and did the same in a cheap and cheerful clothes shop. Then she walked back home.

Some you win, some you lose.

Sheila was on the phone, the woman about the room. I told her what we’d got available and what it cost, a bit about the setup (two adults – not involved with each other – each with a child, one dog, shared kitchen and bathroom, no smoking). She was still interested but would be away for a few days on a field trip. I told her I’d check when Ray was in and fix a time for her to come and meet us. I took her number.

I rang Swift Deliveries and left a message for Jimmy Achebe to ring Kilkenny’s after ten the following morning.

Moira’s books were still in their carrier bag in the corner so I stuck them in the car ready to drop off the next time I passed her house or the surgery.

Over tea I got some times from Ray when we could both be in to see Sheila. I rang her back while he was washing up and fixed for her to call Wednesday next week after tea. We wanted her to meet the kids but not until they’d been fed. Maddie in particular was capable of horrendous behaviour. I thought of it as attention-seeking in my better moments, and I didn’t want to give her a chance to display it with food at hand.

That evening it was my turn to get the children to bed, a long process that included baths and books and stories. I also had to arbitrate in the many disputes that arose between the pair of them. Maddie and Tom were virtual opposites in looks as well as temperament. Tom had inherited Ray’s dark curls, brown eyes and olive skin, while Maddie was dirty blonde, blue-eyed and pallid. Tom had a cheerful lust for life and experience, a sensuality that led him to wallow in mud and chuck himself all over the place. Maddie found the world an unnerving place, was cautious, suspicious of the new, and a borderline hypochondriac. She could be infuriating but I loved her with a passion that continued to startle me.

Once I’d got them in pyjamas and persuaded them to their beds, I had to check under beds, in drawers and behind curtains for scary things. Maddie was in an anxious phase and every shadow and sound had her gasping. When I’d done my atheistic version of casting out the devils and blessing the bedroom I sat in the old rocking chair in the corner of the room and began a story. They were both still awake when I finished.

‘Will you stay, Mummy?’ Maddie asked.

‘Yes,’ I sighed.

‘Till I’m asleep?’

‘Yes. Now be quiet.’

I closed my eyes and let my mind flow around the day’s work. Images floated into my thoughts and away: Agnes’ fireplace, Tina shopping, Dr Chattaway rolling his pen…

I jerked awake, a sour taste in my mouth. I could hear steady breathing from Maddie. I got up and bent over Tom, no sound at all. I touched his chin, he shuffled and sighed. I let my breath out and left them to it.

In the lounge with a fresh cup of tea I dug out my gardening books and spent an hour gazing at glossy pictures and looking up various species. In the depths of February it was hard to recall the scents and colours of the summer, to remember exactly how it felt when the sun went down four hours later and washing dried on the line. Of course, living in Manchester summer could often feel like February but we did have glimpses of the seasonal changes the rest of the country took as read.