The Buried Circle - Jenni Mills [127]
‘Well, Michael will want to get the curator involved, and English Heritage, and God knows who else,’ says Martin. ‘But I’ll make the point we should apply for a licence to dig, and soon, though almost certainly too late to be part of Ibby’s TV programme…What’s the matter, petal?’
‘Oh, God.’ I scramble up the slope to where I left the camera bag. ‘I didn’t film any of it.’
When I return home, John’s battered pickup is parked outside the house. The front door opens before I’m halfway up the path. ‘It’s OK,’ he says. ‘I wanted to reassure you she–’
‘Reassure me about what’
‘Sssh. She’s asleep.’
It’s a quarter past four. ‘How long’s she been home? She shouldn’t have been back until five. And why are you here?’
‘Come into the kitchen. Adele did try to reach you but your phone was off.’
‘I was filming, most of the day’ I follow him through the hallway past Frannie’s closed door. ‘Why didn’t she leave a message? What’s been going on?’
John shuts the kitchen door behind us. There’s a bottle of wine open on the table. He pours us both a glass.
‘She was…difficult at the day centre. They called me to fetch her home.’
‘What do you mean?’ It sounds like the title of a song–Geriatric Punk, ‘Difficult At The Day Centre’. But in all fairness, I could see the portents this morning through the car window.
‘Someone seems to have thought it was a good idea to get her to cut out paper tulips. Frannie couldn’t see the point.’
‘Frankly, neither can I.’
‘According to the wally I met, it’s a normal part of the assessment procedure.’
‘Assessing what, for Christ’s sake? She’s arthritic in her right wrist, it’s almost impossible for her to use scissors with any degree of dexterity–’
‘Indy, don’t get angry with me. Sit down.’
‘I’m not angry with you, I–’ I am angry with myself, though, for letting them take her to the day centre and allow her to be humiliated. I glare out of the window, over a pile of breakfast plates, still in the sink. Feel like I betrayed her. The garden’s a mess too. There are more molehills. Ought to have mown the lawn weeks ago.
‘She told them she wanted to go home. They said there was no one free to take her. Then they left her to her own devices while they were getting ready to serve lunch, and she wandered off. Somehow they lost track of her until she started screaming the place down, according to the wally. Not sure I entirely believe his version. She seemed perfectly calm when I got there.’
Hysteria isn’t Frannie’s style. ‘I’m going to ring Adele,’ I say.
‘She’ll have gone home by now.’ Having worked briefly in social care, John doesn’t have a high opinion of the system; according to my watch, it’s only twenty-five past four. The pipes start to rumble as the downstairs loo flushes.
‘Uh-oh,’ says John. ‘Frannie’s up and about. Maybe you should ask for her version first.’
‘Didn’t she tell you anything on the way home?’
‘Not a word, apart from how buggerin’ stupid it was having to cut out paper tulips.’
I open the kitchen door at the same time as the cloakroom door opens. Frannie spots me, tries to retreat.
‘Hey,’ I say, before she can. ‘What’ve you been up to?’
‘Forgot to pull the chain.’
‘You didn’t–I heard the flush go. What happened at the day centre?’
‘Buggerin’ tulips. Like we was at nursery school. What’s the point of that? I’m not a basket case.’
‘Was that it?’
‘In’t that enough?’
‘I thought something else must have upset you. They told John you were screaming.’
‘Social workers are bloody liars. Might’ve got a bit heated, tellin’ em to take me home. Didn’t scream, as such.’
‘And that was it, then? You wanted to go home because of the tulips?’
‘Nothin’ there for me. All old people. Load of old men with dribble down their jumpers playing cards, old women staring into space. Not even a decent newspaper to read, only the Star, and somebody’d filled in the quick crossword with a load of gobbledegook words.’ Her eyes are sliding away from mine towards the half-open bedroom door. ‘I’m tired, India. Let me go back to bed.’ There’s a plaintive crack