stop when they saw her and say, “Hop in, Lil, I’ll drop you home.” And if she was ready, she’d climb in and say, “I shan’t get any farther today. Not today. But I’ll try again tomorrow.” Same thing every time, without fail. They all said so. And they’d bring her back. In a way, I always thought it refreshing to know there’s still a sense of community, at least among the local workforce. They all knew your aunt Lillian.’
‘What about the flowers? There must be a thousand in that room.’
Stephen shrugged. ‘She never told me what they were for, or why she collected them. But she came home with them, for as long as I can remember. Roses every time. She was caught twice taking them from the front gardens of Chesterfield House in Mayfair. Fortunately, I know the head porter, so there wasn’t any trouble. But it could be awkward. She’d even get them out of bins, and walk out of florists and forget to pay.’
‘And how did she die? It says heart failure on the death certificate.’
Stephen wiped at his mouth. He was having difficulty meeting her eye. He tried twice and failed.
‘Please, Stephen. Tell me.’
‘She died in the back of a cab, Apryl. She’d had quite a fright out there. On one of her walks. A cabby saw her first. Really distressed. She had made it as far as Marble Arch too. The furthest I’d ever known her go, and that’s quite a distance for a woman of her age. But that day, she was different. You see, usually, when someone found her, she’d be talking to herself and striking at the air with her umbrella or cane. Nothing odd about that. We’d all seen her do it. Very involved in an argument with someone who wasn’t there. And usually this would happen, this agitation, just before she turned and headed for home. Or, as I said before, when she was picked up and escorted back here. But the morning she died, the driver said she looked ill. Really worn out. She was leaning against the railings of the park. Very pale and almost ready to keel over. She’d used up all her strength getting so upset about something. So he stopped and helped her into the cab. But she never broke out of the trance like she usually did. She seemed . . . to be in shock. Just wasn’t aware any longer of where she was, or where she was going. The driver put his foot down and phoned the main desk to tell us to call an ambulance. But she died on the way here. It looked to me like a massive stroke. That’s what I thought. And the oddest thing . . . well, she came out of her trance just before she died. As the cab entered the square. The driver saw her in the mirror. Upset. Really upset at the end. Well, afraid, you could say. Of something. Almost as if someone was sitting beside her.’
Apryl looked into the dregs of her tea. After a long, uncomfortable silence she spoke. ‘Wouldn’t a care home have been a better place for her?’
‘Yes, probably. But she did have a carer, and when she was here Lillian was fine. Eccentric, but capable and lucid and able to look after herself. She was quite a strong woman for her age. It was only when she went out – only when she left the building – that she . . . well, had a funny turn.’
Lillian could have been suffering from anything: Alzheimer’s, dementia. If only she and her mother had known. ‘Poor Aunty Lillian,’ she said.
But Stephen didn’t seem to be paying attention. He was preoccupied with his own thoughts. ‘But the strangest thing that day,’ he suddenly said, ‘was her bag.’ The head porter frowned at his shoes in puzzlement. ‘She had a plane ticket in there. To New York. Along with a passport that had been out of date for fifty years. It seemed she really was planning on leaving us for good that last time.’
After Stephen left, Apryl ate some pasta parcels with pesto she’d bought from the little store on Motcomb Street and then ran a bath. There was no shower, or even a shower attachment to fix to the cloudy steel faucet. So she sat
‘What about the flowers? There must be a thousand in that room.’
Stephen shrugged. ‘She never told me what they were for, or why she collected them. But she came home with them, for as long as I can remember. Roses every time. She was caught twice taking them from the front gardens of Chesterfield House in Mayfair. Fortunately, I know the head porter, so there wasn’t any trouble. But it could be awkward. She’d even get them out of bins, and walk out of florists and forget to pay.’
‘And how did she die? It says heart failure on the death certificate.’
Stephen wiped at his mouth. He was having difficulty meeting her eye. He tried twice and failed.
‘Please, Stephen. Tell me.’
‘She died in the back of a cab, Apryl. She’d had quite a fright out there. On one of her walks. A cabby saw her first. Really distressed. She had made it as far as Marble Arch too. The furthest I’d ever known her go, and that’s quite a distance for a woman of her age. But that day, she was different. You see, usually, when someone found her, she’d be talking to herself and striking at the air with her umbrella or cane. Nothing odd about that. We’d all seen her do it. Very involved in an argument with someone who wasn’t there. And usually this would happen, this agitation, just before she turned and headed for home. Or, as I said before, when she was picked up and escorted back here. But the morning she died, the driver said she looked ill. Really worn out. She was leaning against the railings of the park. Very pale and almost ready to keel over. She’d used up all her strength getting so upset about something. So he stopped and helped her into the cab. But she never broke out of the trance like she usually did. She seemed . . . to be in shock. Just wasn’t aware any longer of where she was, or where she was going. The driver put his foot down and phoned the main desk to tell us to call an ambulance. But she died on the way here. It looked to me like a massive stroke. That’s what I thought. And the oddest thing . . . well, she came out of her trance just before she died. As the cab entered the square. The driver saw her in the mirror. Upset. Really upset at the end. Well, afraid, you could say. Of something. Almost as if someone was sitting beside her.’
Apryl looked into the dregs of her tea. After a long, uncomfortable silence she spoke. ‘Wouldn’t a care home have been a better place for her?’
‘Yes, probably. But she did have a carer, and when she was here Lillian was fine. Eccentric, but capable and lucid and able to look after herself. She was quite a strong woman for her age. It was only when she went out – only when she left the building – that she . . . well, had a funny turn.’
Lillian could have been suffering from anything: Alzheimer’s, dementia. If only she and her mother had known. ‘Poor Aunty Lillian,’ she said.
But Stephen didn’t seem to be paying attention. He was preoccupied with his own thoughts. ‘But the strangest thing that day,’ he suddenly said, ‘was her bag.’ The head porter frowned at his shoes in puzzlement. ‘She had a plane ticket in there. To New York. Along with a passport that had been out of date for fifty years. It seemed she really was planning on leaving us for good that last time.’
After Stephen left, Apryl ate some pasta parcels with pesto she’d bought from the little store on Motcomb Street and then ran a bath. There was no shower, or even a shower attachment to fix to the cloudy steel faucet. So she sat
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