loved it in Dubai – the sunshine and the beaches and the souks and everything, and those amazingly tall skyscrapers and …’
Maria gave an inaudible sigh. Even four years ago, her mother had been severely confused – and an agitated, panicky confusion, almost worse than her present slumped passivity. She could no more have jetted off to Dubai than boarded a rocket to the moon. That one weekend in London last October had taxed
her
as much as Deidre: the continual guilt and worry; the fear that something would happen the minute she wasn’t on hand to help.
‘I love Grandma to bits – you know that, Mum – but I still think it’s time you put yourself first, for a change. Or, if you won’t do that, put
me
first. I’m dying for you to see the house. And we’ve invited some super people for Christmas Day lunch. I’d really like you to meet them.’
Amy’s ‘super’ people were bound to be stylish and sophisticated. Maria glanced at her shapeless slacks, her stained and baggy top. Coping with a messy eater, who also happened to be incontinent, didn’t exactly encourage dapper dressing. And even a trip to the local hair salon required careful advance planning and the kind cooperation of a neighbour. Besides, she would hardly be a scintillating guest, with her mind constantly on Hanna.
‘Mum, if it’s a question of expense, I’ll gladly pay for Grandma to have a week in the snazziest care home you can find.’
Care homes by their very nature were unlikely to be snazzy. Old folk made smells and mess, and all the money in the world couldn’t overcome that fact. ‘It’s sweet of you, darling, but—’
‘No buts, Mum! I want you to promise, this time, that you’ll really, truly investigate what’s available. I mean, if there’s nothing local, go further afield.’
‘She can’t travel, Amy. I told you.’
‘Well, maybe not in your midget of a car, but she could in a nice big limousine. I’ll hire one for her, there and back – make it her Christmas present, if she wants.’
Hanna wouldn’t want
any
car, however grand, to whisk her away from her only place of security and the one person in the world she trusted. Maybe the only thing she wanted, in the jumbled, scrambled chaos of her mind, was an end to her undignified state – a truly horrifying thought.
‘Mum, are you still there?’
‘Yes, ’course.’
‘Well, I haven’t heard you promise.’
‘OK. I promise,’ she said, weakly. Amy had always been persuasive, even as a child. ‘But, look, tell me more about the house.’
‘Sorry – can’t! Must fly. I’m due at a meeting – overdue, in fact. But you’ll see it for yourself in less than six weeks’ time. Oh, Mum, I just can’t wait! I miss you terribly.’
‘Miss you, too.’ She had grown used to missing Amy, whose visits had become less frequent since she’d moved to London and started building her career. Even long ago, when Hanna was still her efficient, coping, cheerful self, it had been difficult for Amy to make the long, time-consuming journey. And her marriage to a husband equally clever and high-powered had only compounded the problem.
Returning to Hanna, she explained patiently (for at least the fifth time this month) that Amy and Hugo had moved from their rented London flat and bought their own house near Victoria. Did her mother even remember who Amy and Hugo were, or have any idea where Victoria might be? Nonetheless, it was important to communicate – just in case, just in case.
Besides, the fact that Hanna had spoken a coherent sentence was a definite advance, however pessimistic its content. Her mother needed distraction from the horror of things ‘falling apart’, so she picked out a letter from the bundle in the Treasure Box and, sitting companionably close, read it aloud, slowly, phrase by phrase.
She scanned her mother’s face for any sign of recognition of a letter she knew off by heart – in fact, her favourite of the entire 207. But
The Other Log of Phileas Fogg