A Human Condition Read online

  A

  HUMAN

  CONDITION

  Lyn Miller

  Copyright © 2019 Lyn Miller

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is unintended and entirely coincidental.

  Matador

  9 Priory Business Park,

  Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,

  Leicestershire. LE8 0RX

  Tel: 0116 279 2299

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  Twitter: @matadorbooks

  ISBN 9781789019940

  Illustrated by Dave Hill

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  This story is largely about family, so I want to dedicate it to my family.

  To my parents, Bob and Morag McLarty, and my brother Russell.

  Dad loves to entertain by recounting stories of his childhood and young adulthood. I’ve heard him say that perhaps he should have put his anecdotes down in writing. Mum can spin an elaborate tale from any small every-day occurrence, and is famous for her accompanying expressive gesticulation. Russell embraced the tradition of oral storytelling and has travelled to festivals in the UK, Eire and the USA. And so I’ve come to realise that by writing books I’m continuing in the family tradition of telling a yarn.

  Also to my children, Andrew and Shona, who’ve always been enthusiastic and encouraging about my writing and to my husband, Dave, my constant support.

  Contents

  1.Marion

  2.Nyaga

  3.Marion

  4.Rose

  5.Marion

  6.Nyaga

  7.Marion

  8.Rose

  9.Marion

  10.Nyaga

  11.Marion

  12.Rose

  13.Marion

  14.Nyaga

  15.Marion

  16.Rose

  17.Marion

  18.Nyaga

  19.Marion

  20.Rose

  21.Marion

  22.Nyaga

  23.Marion

  24.Rose

  25.Marion

  26.Nyaga

  27.Marion

  28.Rose

  29.Marion

  30.Nyaga

  31.Marion

  Acknowledgements

  Marion

  The ringing phone sounded very loud in the middle of the night. Marion was catapulted awake from a deep sleep, sitting bolt upright in bed before she was fully conscious. Years of being on call at nights had produced this Pavlovian reflex to the sound. She shuffled into her slippers and grabbed her dressing gown from a hook on the back of the bedroom door, shrugging it on as she stumbled into the hall. The ring was louder here and wasn’t stopping. She felt slightly sick and dizzy, having been woken from her deepest sleep. Turning on the light in the doorway of her study caused her to squint against the brightness as she entered the room. A glance at the wall clock told her that it was two thirty-six. She tossed a mental coin, Rose or Mum, and lifted the receiver.

  “Is that Marion?” a voice asked.

  “Yes.” Her voice produced a dry croak.

  “It’s Rita Hutchison here, I’m sorry to wake you. I’ve got your mum here with me, I found her wandering in my garden. She’s not making much sense and I don’t want to just put her back next door in case she doesn’t settle.”

  “No, no, I understand. Can you keep her with you till I get over?”

  “Yes, of course, I’m just about to make her a cup of tea.”

  “OK, I should be there in half an hour, maybe less at this time of night.”

  She put the phone down and headed back through to her bedroom. Maybe she should get over her stubbornness about having a phone situated next to her bed. She had banished it gleefully several years ago with the advent of the out-of-hours co-op which meant that she no longer had to be on call from home at nights. She pulled on fresh underwear and grabbed jeans and a favourite red jumper from her wardrobe. Rummaging in her bottom drawer she found a pair of socks and then forced a brush through her thick, unruly hair, clipping it with a large clasp at the nape of her neck to keep it back from her face. What would she need? She retrieved her handbag from the bottom of her bedside cabinet and checked that her mum’s house keys were in the side pocket. Maybe she should take her work case. Might as well have the equipment to carry out a basic examination, it might save on having to call out her mum’s GP. She went through to her study, picked up the case and then set off downstairs to don her shoes and a thick tweed jacket. She stuck her right hand into the jacket pocket and jangled two sets of keys for her car and her front door which she’d left there when she came home earlier, then stepped out into the cold night air.

  She’d always enjoyed driving through the city in the middle of the night. There were hardly any other cars on the streets, and traffic lights, if red, responded at her approach changing to green immediately, facilitating her journey. Her route, via Ferry Road then all along Seafield to Portobello, would be congested and have multiple hold-ups by day. She hummed along to a Sarah McLachlan CD and arrived in front of her mum’s bungalow in Joppa by ten past three. All was quiet when she got out of the car; the sharp slamming of the door seemed too loud. She could see a light shining dimly through the curtained side window of Rita’s house. In contrast her mum’s house was fully illuminated, with all lights blazing and all the curtains fully opened. Rita must have heard the car. She appeared at her front door.

  “Come in and have a cuppa,” she invited.

  “Thanks. Has she settled down a bit?” Marion asked, as she trailed after Rita into the kitchen. Her mum was sitting at Rita’s kitchen table nursing a mug between her hands. She was wearing an odd selection of clothes: a black and white knee-length hound’s tooth tweed skirt with what looked like a frilly nightie hanging down underneath almost to her ankles. The top part could have been mistaken for a blouse but the bluebird and butterfly fabric betrayed its origins from the lingerie department. She had a red, white and blue silk scarf tied jauntily at her neck and a green velvet beret perched on top of her tightly permed, ‘black from a bottle’ hair. Her legs under the nightie were bare and the skin was white, dry and flaky. On her feet was a pair of warm sheepskin slippers that Marion didn’t recognise.

  “Hi Mum,” she greeted her, slipping off her jacket and leaning in to kiss her mother’s cheek.

  “Oh no, dear, you shouldn’t wear red with your hair,” her mum replied.

  Marion was tempted to laugh. Her mum had always been a well-turned-out woman, interested in fashion. As the manageress of a small boutique in Portobello, she loved to give customers guidance on their purchases. Despite her own strange ensemble of clothes tonight
, she still had the instinct to advise. She’d always been firm that redheads couldn’t wear red clothes. However, Marion’s hair was copper rather than carrot and through time she’d developed her own ideas about which colours suited her best.

  “How are you, Mum? Did something waken you up tonight?”

  “I’m perfectly fine and enjoying a cup of tea,” was the reply.

  “The slippers are mine,” Rita informed, as she placed a mug of tea on the table for Marion. “Sit down. Do you want a biscuit? Or some toast?”

  “A biscuit would be nice, thanks. So was she wandering outside in her bare feet?”

  “Yes. I heard noises that woke me up, like rummaging around my wheelie bins. I thought it was maybe a fox but then I got up and looked out of the window and saw Betty. When I went out and asked her what was wrong she kept mumbling about seeing someone off, and not wanting Peter to see the man. It didn’t make much sense.”

  “Did she seem frightened?”

  “No, not really, but she was whispering as if it was all a secret or a conspiracy.”

  “Mum, did you think you heard someone outside?” Marion asked.

  “I’m not sure… I don’t always remember.” Betty sounded hesitant, and then added, “But I didn’t want him to be disturbing Peter.” Marion’s dad, Peter, had died five years ago but sometimes her mum forgot this.

  “Mum, if you’d thought someone was outside you should have phoned me or called the police. It wasn’t sensible to go out by yourself to deal with it.”

  “Oh, he’d never have hurt me, dear,” her mum assured her.

  Marion sighed. It didn’t sound as if there had been a real intruder, but it was hard to gauge what had been going on. Although Betty’s mind was compromised her hearing was still sharp. Could there have been a potential thief who knew that a vulnerable old lady was in the house alone? But such a person might also intuit that the house wouldn’t be likely to contain any electronic gadgets or much else that would be of value.

  “All the lights are on in the house. It looks as if she’d been up for a while,” she told Rita. “Anyway, we should go and let you get back to sleep. Thank you so much for helping out, I’ll take Mum home now. I’m sorry you’ve had a disturbed night.”

  “You can give me the slippers back tomorrow, or I suppose it’s going to be later today. What will you do? Do you have work?”

  “No, luckily I don’t work on Wednesdays. I’ll get something sorted out. Thanks again.”

  “Bye dear.” Rita patted Betty on the shoulder as Marion shepherded her out.

  Next door Marion found that both doors were locked and had to use her key to gain access. Her mum had locked herself out. She decided to try and regain a night-time routine, so began to turn off some of the lights. She guided her mum towards the bathroom and suggested she might like to go to the toilet before bed. Meanwhile she closed the bedroom curtains and remade her mum’s rumpled-up bed. The bedclothes seemed dry but there was a distinct whiff of stale urine in the room. When she returned from the toilet she helped her mum to take off her extraneous clothes, leaving only the nightie, then tucked her into bed. She noticed that her mum’s face was flushed and thought she felt a bit clammy and hot.

  “I think you might have a temperature, Mum,” she said. “We’ll check it in the morning. Night night.”

  She kissed her mum and left the room quietly, leaving the door ajar so that the light from the hall could shine in a little. She hoped that the childlike routine would be soothing and lull Betty back to sleep. It seemed to work as she didn’t hear any sounds from the bedroom while she made up the bed in the spare room. This had been her own room many years ago. Before trying to settle in for what remained of the night she went back and peeped in to check. Her mum was sleeping soundly, lying on her back, snoring gently. She wondered if maybe a urinary tract infection could be making Betty more confused than usual. She’d make a proper assessment in the morning.

  *

  Marion emerged from the shower and had only just completed dressing when the doorbell shrilled next morning. The young woman on the doorstep was wearing a short-sleeved lilac uniform top above navy trousers. She looked surprised to see Marion.

  “Hello, I’m Rachel, one of Betty’s carers. Is everything alright?”

  “I’m Marion, Betty’s daughter. Come in. We had a bit of excitement in the night, but at the moment I think she’s still asleep.” Marion filled Rachel in on the details of the nocturnal disturbance as they went through to the kitchen. Rachel filled the kettle and switched it on.

  “I’m here to make sure she has some breakfast and takes her pills. She’s usually up, washed and dressed already by the time I arrive,” Rachel explained. “I’ll have a look in the report book for yesterday to see if she was out of sorts at all. Mmmm, it looks as if she’d had a bit of an accident in the afternoon. When Carolyn came in at teatime she was upset and she’d wet herself. That’s unusual. Carolyn had to help her to wash and change.”

  “I think she’s maybe got a urine infection.”

  “Let me pop through and see if she’s awake.” Marion could hear an exchange of conversation from her mum’s bedroom then Rachel reappeared.

  “She’s just woken up. I sent her to the loo and suggested she just comes through in her dressing gown for breakfast.”

  “Oh, before she wees can we try to get a sample? What could we use?”

  “Betty, hang on a minute,” Rachel called. Marion went to the cupboard where mixing bowls and containers were kept and selected a Tupperware bowl that she thought would sit inside the toilet without capsizing. She managed to arrive with it in the bathroom just before her mum sat on the toilet. Betty wasn’t too sure about weeing into the bowl.

  “Whatever do you want me to do that for?” she asked, irritably.

  “It’s so we can check out your urine in case you’ve got an infection,” Marion explained.

  “Infected? I’m perfectly clean.”

  “I know, Mum, but this can sometimes happen to people. Can you try, just for me?”

  “Oh, alright.” Eventually she capitulated and Marion was able to collect the sample. She helped her mum to wash her hands and then to put on her dressing gown. She sent her through to Rachel in the kitchen, still muttering about being perfectly clean. Marion collected her work bag from the hall where she’d left it last night and selected a tube of urine test strips from it. When she dipped the stick into the urine the indicators for white blood cells and nitrates changed colour almost immediately. She decanted a small volume of the urine into a sample bottle, flushed the rest away, then rinsed out the bowl and washed her hands. The sample looked dark and cloudy.

  “Looks like a definite infection,” she reported to Rachel on her return to the kitchen. “I’ll contact Mum’s GP surgery and get the sample to them; hopefully they’ll give me a prescription for her today.”

  “Oh well, that’s good. It kind of explains why she’s gone off a bit. Are you not hungry today, Betty?” Marion’s mum was stirring porridge slowly around in her bowl, slopping the milk over the sides, but none had gone in her mouth so far. Her posture was droopy and slumped, her head bent and nodding.

  “It’s too hot,” she complained, continuing to stir.

  “Try and drink some of your tea then, and look, here’s some toast and jam. That won’t be hot,” Rachel coaxed. “I’m not sure she’ll be able to manage on her own the way she is today,” she commented to Marion.

  “Yes, I agree. I’ll try to get someone to come and stay for a few days. My auntie could maybe come. I’ve got to work tomorrow, but after that I could take over.”

  “You a nurse then?”

  “No, I’m a GP, but I think it’s best if I don’t treat my own relatives if possible.”

  “I think we’ll maybe just have to put her back to bed. Look, she’s nodding off. Come on, Betty, let’s get your t
ablets down and then I’ll tuck you back into bed.” Betty cooperated meekly with Rachel’s plan.

  “You might want to think of getting one of those key safes installed,” Rachel suggested to Marion as she tidied up the remains of Betty’s breakfast in the kitchen. “It would make it easier for us to get in if Betty’s not well or if she’s still in bed. She wouldn’t have to get up to answer the door.”

  “Yes, I’ll think about it. But maybe I’m going to have to change things more radically than that. I have to face it that Mum’s getting more vulnerable living here, and it’s not that handy for me to drop everything and come rushing over when things go wrong. And it’ll only get worse with time.”

  “Yes, it’s hard to know what’s best. I’ll probably see you later, then. Have to go now but I’ll be back at lunchtime.”

  Marion made herself some breakfast once Rachel had gone. As she ate she considered what she needed to do this morning and began to write a list. ‘Contact the GP, phone Auntie Peggy, email Douglas.’ Maybe she’d need to try getting a reserve for curling this afternoon in case Auntie Peggy couldn’t get here in time to let her play. It would be hard at such short notice. Perhaps Rita would help out if it was only for a short gap. She’d phone Auntie Peggy first, see what she could manage. Peggy was Betty’s younger sister by two years. She lived in Kirkcaldy and joked that if she had a boat she would visit Betty more often. As the crow flies her house was only about twelve miles away but the drive to the Forth Bridge and then around the city bypass and into Joppa usually took well over an hour. When Marion explained the situation Peggy agreed that she could come and stay until Friday morning.

  “I’ve a few things I’d need to organise before setting out. I could probably be there about three.”

  “That’s great, Auntie Peggy. I’ve got a curling match at two thirty, so I might ask Rita to fill in for an hour or so, but I’ll let you know.”

  “OK, dear. I’ll speak to you later.”

  Next she spoke to the duty doctor at the Portobello practice. On hearing the details she agreed to leave a prescription for collection that morning and asked Marion to bring the urine sample she’d taken so that they could send it to the lab for testing.