Doctor Who_ Relative Dementias - Mark Michalowski [14]
He glanced around the room as he left.
‘Tracy Emin would be proud of you.’
‘That’s lovely,’ said Mrs Wesley, leaning back in her chair to admire Mrs Denning’s cross-stitch kittens-in-a-basket (cruelly described by Megan as sounding more like something off a menu). Mrs Denning had run out of blue thread when she’d reached one of the kittens’ eyes, and had used yellow, giving the poor creature a rather sinister appearance.
Mrs Denning smiled appreciatively, and laid her week’s work on her lap, smoothing it out lovingly.
‘I’ll turn it into a cushion for my daughter, Wendy,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘She loved the puppies-at-play that I gave her for Christmas.’
‘I’m sure she did,’ said Mrs Wesley, with just the hint of a raised eyebrow. ‘When’s she coming up?’ She set down her knitting, strangely bored and frustrated with it, and picked up a book.
Mrs Denning’s mouth puckered in thought. ‘Saturday, as usual, I expect.’
‘That’s nice.’ Mrs Wesley opened the book at the silk-tassled bookmark, remembering that she’d put it down a couple of weeks ago when the realisation dawned on her that she’d read the same page at least twice.
‘I expect she’ll bring the grandchildren with her this time.’
‘I expect so.’ She started reading, one ear still tuned to her companion’s gentle meanderings.
‘Did I tell you that one of them’s starting at university soon
– Justine, I think. Something with computers. She’s very clever, is Justine. Very clever.’
Mrs Wesley nodded and glanced up, through the picture window: across the slope of the lawn and the sprawling flowerbeds she could see Megan, struggling with the handbrake on Mr Eccles’ wheelchair. In frustration, the gangly girl kicked at it, and it must have come free, for moments later she set off at a leggy gait in pursuit of the liberated, freewheeling Mr Eccles.
‘She doesn’t care, you know,’ muttered Mrs Denning. The two of them watched as Megan pursued the runaway vehicle, catching up with it just in time to prevent Mr Eccles from meeting a watery fate in the loch.
‘Who doesn’t care?’ asked Mrs Wesley, only now registering that Mrs Denning had been addressing her.
‘Megan. I don’t think she’s really cut out for this.’
‘For what?’
‘Looking after us lot.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Mrs Wesley. ‘She does a lovely impersonation of Shirley Bassey, you know, on cabaret nights.’
Mrs Denning turned sharply. She was trying to disentangle a knotted ball of embroidery silks. ‘What?’ she snapped, totally confused.
‘Megan,’ said Mrs Wesley, not looking up, flipping the page backwards and forwards and wondering if there was one missing. ‘Shirley Bassey.’
‘Where?’
Mrs Wesley finally looked up from her book. ‘I think it’s time for your medication, dear. I’d better call her.’
‘Who?’
With a sigh born of several weeks in close captivity with Mrs Denning, Mrs Wesley closed her book, placing the bookmark precisely up against the gutter of the page. ‘Shirley Bassey, dear.
Shirley Bassey.’
Alexander leaned over the railing at the edge of the boat, relieved that he could still see the bubbles from John’s scuba equipment.
He’d argued with his brother about doing a dive so late in the day, but after the first week John hadn’t wanted to waste any more time. Moby, the cable-operated floating camera that John had built, had failed almost as soon as it had been dropped into the water – some sort of static discharge that also meant the boat’s handrail was a frequent source of electric shocks. They had accumulated so little data on the marine species in the area that John was dreading returning to Professor Quail with nothing to show for the not-inconsiderable sums that had been spent on this trip. Alexander was less concerned. He hadn’t really wanted to come anyway: it had only been because his mother kept going on and on about it that he’d agreed to accompany