Chương 2
“It is the question you prefer.”
Claire looked toward the van. Her face had lost color. She tucked a strand of blonde hair behind one ear, then immediately pulled it loose again.
The receptionist opened the burgundy file. On top lay a letter bearing the name of a solicitor’s firm in Oxford, a copy of Eleanor’s handwritten revocation, and a document marked for urgent review. Beneath those were pages Beatrice had arranged with colored tabs.
Daniel stared at them.
“You had all this ready?”
“I began at six thirty.”
“How did you even know?”
Beatrice looked at Eleanor.
Eleanor looked down at the form.
She had called her sister from the bathroom at Graymere before breakfast. She had taken the mobile telephone in with her because it was the only door in her room that locked. The radiator had clicked and hissed while Beatrice listened. Eleanor had whispered that Daniel wanted her to sign something. She had not yet admitted that she already had.
At seven twenty, a care assistant brought tea and found Eleanor sitting on the closed toilet lid with the phone against her chest.
At seven forty, Beatrice called back with a solicitor on the line.
At eight fifteen, a courier collected the first signed statement from Graymere’s front desk.
At nine twelve, Eleanor signed the formal revocation in the presence of two staff members, one of whom was the receptionist now seated behind the black monitor.
Eleanor had not known about the rest of the file.
She had only known her sister was coming.
“I rang her,” Eleanor said.
Daniel’s expression changed. The anger did not disappear, but hurt entered it.
“You rang Aunt Bea before you rang me?”
“You were here.”
“I was trying to help you.”
“You brought the form.”
“I brought what Graymere required.”
The receptionist glanced at the monitor. “The form came from Hawthorn Lodge, Mr. Whitcombe. Graymere did not prepare it.”
Daniel turned toward her. “You told me this room wasn’t suitable for long-term care.”
“I said Graymere is licensed for convalescent stays, and that if your mother wanted residential care, other options could be discussed.”
“That is what we discussed.”
“With you,” the receptionist said. “Not with Mrs. Whitcombe until yesterday.”
Her badge read SAMIRA NAQVI. Eleanor saw it now.
Daniel’s jaw tightened. “She asked me to manage it.”
“I asked you to help,” Eleanor said.
Silence followed.
The distinction had always been difficult between them.
When Daniel was eight, helping had meant carrying coal from the shed after his father’s back operation. At fourteen, it had meant answering the telephone when debt collectors called about the hardware shop. At twenty-six, it had meant sitting beside Eleanor through the first night after his father died. Over time, Daniel had become the person who opened jars, compared insurance policies, changed passwords, spoke to tradesmen, and told her which letters could be ignored.
Eleanor had allowed competence to gather around him until it began to resemble authority.
Beatrice slid the transfer form from Eleanor’s hands.
The sudden absence of paper left Eleanor’s fingers curled around nothing.
“When was this signed?” Beatrice asked.
“Yesterday afternoon,” Daniel said.
Beatrice continued looking at Eleanor.
“After lunch,” Eleanor said.
“Who was present?”
“Daniel. A woman from Hawthorn Lodge.”
“Her name?”
“I don’t remember.”
Daniel exhaled. “There. That’s exactly the problem.”
Claire flinched.
Eleanor felt the words strike the part of her that had been bruised by every forgotten name, every misplaced key, every moment of standing in a room without knowing why she had entered.
Beatrice’s face remained still.
“Not remembering the name of a stranger does not establish an inability to decide where one lives.”
“You haven’t seen the house,” Daniel said. “You haven’t seen the state of it.”
“I was there on Sunday.”
That silenced him.
Eleanor turned to her sister. “You went into my house?”
“I used the key you gave me.”
“Eight years ago.”
“You did not attach an expiry date.”
“What were you doing there?”
“Looking for your red address book.”
“You could have asked.”
“I did. You said it was in the kitchen drawer. It was.”
Eleanor disliked the answer because it was reasonable. She disliked even more the thought of Beatrice walking through the empty rooms, seeing the dust on the sitting-room mantel and the bowl where three soft apples had collapsed into each other.
Daniel recovered first. “Then you saw the cooker.”
“Yes.”
“And the stairs.”
“Yes.”
“The bathroom.”
“Yes.”
Beatrice closed the transfer file. “I also saw an estate agent’s valuation on the dining table.”
Claire shut her eyes.
Eleanor heard the soft ceiling lights hum.
Daniel’s face became rigid. “That was preliminary.”
“For what?”
“Planning.”
“Whose?”
“Mum’s.”
“No,” Eleanor said.
The word surprised her.
Daniel stared at her.
Eleanor pressed her fingertips against the counter to steady them. “Not mine.”
“It was to understand the options.”
“You said the man was from the insurance company.”
“I said he was looking at the property.”
“You said the roof.”
“The roof is part of the property.”
Claire made a small, defeated sound. “Daniel.”
“Not now.”
“It has to be now.”
He rounded on her. “Whose side are you on?”
Claire’s hand returned to his forearm, but this time not to hold him. She pushed his arm away from her.
“I didn’t know the form said permanent.”
Daniel’s face changed again.
Beatrice opened the file.
Samira looked down at her keyboard, though she did not type.
Eleanor felt the room separating into lines of allegiance. Her sister beside the file. Her son near the door. Claire between them. The receptionist behind the counter. Outside, two attendants waited in a van for instructions from people they would never know.
“I told you,” Daniel said to Claire, “that Hawthorn was residential.”
“You told me it was an extension while the house was made safe.”
“It can be both.”
“No. It can’t.”
Eleanor’s knees weakened. She reached for the counter and missed the edge.
May you like
Beatrice caught her elbow.
The gesture was immediate, almost rough. Eleanor allowed herself to be guided to one of the upholstered chairs. Her black shoes made a faint scraping sound on the floor. Beatrice lowered herself into the other chair with more care than dignity, resting the cane across her knees.
