The Remaining Voice Read Free

her staring into the flames, until she dozed off to the fizz of the dying embers. I found no radio, no books or music of any kind, and definitely no record player or television. What did she do with herself? She had not always been an old lady. She had been a child once; a child that had enjoyed singing and dancing. What had happened that she should live out her life in this silent entombment?
    I wandered into her bedroom. The curtains were closed and I opened them, flooding the room with light, perhaps for the first time since her death. Her bed was covered with a pink camberwick bedspread, like Grandmother used to have on hers, only in turquoise. Opening drawers, I found silk underwear, still wrapped in tissue paper and as fresh as the day it had been bought. On her dressing table lay a hair brush and a silver-backed hand mirror with a relief pattern and slight tarnishing. I touched it lightly and felt the delicate hairs on the nape of my neck tingle. There was no make-up, no talcum powder, no creams or lotions. What did an old lady need with make-up anyway? Or silk underwear, come to think of it.
    I rummaged through the wardrobe. Her clothes were functional, her shoes, most of which looked to be unworn, were lined up in a row. I stared at them disconsolately. In the kitchen not a spoon was out of place, not a teacup unwashed, and not a single plate left out. The sink shone, the bowl propped up against the draining board, the taps turned off so hard I could not budge them. The refrigerator had been cleared; probably by the carer. The stained ring from the bottom of a milk bottle was all there was to show that it had once held more than air. I thought it probable that the same person who had cleared the refrigerator had gone through the rest of the apartment, sanitising it for my inspection.
    I found a file of bank statements, in date order, in a cupboard, and sat for an hour or more going through Berthe’s finances. The nurse was paid for via an agency. I wrote their name down in a notepad, newly acquired for the job at hand. I would telephone them later. Perhaps I could talk to the nurse.
    Further into the file I discovered that Berthe had paid a maintenance fee on the Paris apartment each month, but save for that her spending had been frugal. Her home here in Hampstead was owned outright and she had various bank accounts, and a few shares. None were worth a huge amount of money – that, as Fletcher had said, was all tied up in the properties. I glanced up from my task and noticed it had started to rain. I hadn’t brought an umbrella. I would get wet. I picked up the photograph Mrs Nichols so kindly said I could keep. I had found no other pictures, no letters from family or friends, and no old Christmas or birthday cards. There had to be more to the woman than a sterile apartment and a solitary life.
    The rain obscured the view from the kitchen window, but I knew that out beyond the trees, which pressed in close to the back of the apartment block, lay street after street of beautiful and expensive properties. This was a lovely part of London, but as much as it was a wonderful apartment in a good location, I couldn’t see myself living here. I wasn’t sure I wanted to live in Paris either, but at least after the sale, I could afford buy something more suitable for my needs in New York.
    A noise, like someone crying softly, brought me out of my reverie. I followed the sound down the hall, stopping to look in on the bathroom (cold, white, charmless), and the spare room (the one I thought the nurse stayed in overnight sometimes – bed made, yellow curtains, bedside table and beige-shaded lamp). Nothing. I re-entered Berthe’s bedroom. It was as I had left it earlier. The drawer with the silk underwear was still slightly ajar. I closed it, noticing how the wood caught slightly as I pushed it home. As I did so the air grew close, and a wash of sadness came over me so strongly that for a moment I almost burst into tears. I