‘Edith’s dead, Mum.’
She chose another chocolate, nodding in recollection. ‘I remember now,’ she said. ‘Never knew anyone die of flu before.’
‘Flu that became pneumonia,’ said Charlie. He was surprised she recalled the explanation he’d produced, instead of the numbing truth: that Edith had been blasted apart in mistake for him by a trigger-happy mob from the CIA avenging their Director he’d disgraced, along with his own, for being prepared to sacrifice him on a border crossing during the Berenkov pursuit. Charlie said: ‘Quite a while ago now.’
‘Liked Edith. Posh but she never had any side to her. Never looked down on me. Often wondered what she saw in a scruffy bugger like you.’
So had he, since she’d been dead, reflected Charlie. He knew a lot had in the department before that and certainly when they’d got married. Inconceivable, old boy. I mean, lovely girl like Edith! General’s daughter, would you believe! Double First at Cambridge, head of Research. And that threadbare little oik who shouldn’t have been allowed office space in the first place. I mean! Inconceivable! Charlie said, with deep feeling: ‘I miss her.’ He missed Natalia, too. Maybe more so because he believed Natalia was still alive in Moscow, although he didn’t know absolutely. And never would know.
‘The men asked about her,’ said the woman. ‘I tell you some thing! Edith wouldn’t have let you go around like that. Look at you! Bloody tramp. You never wore shoes like that when I was responsible for you. John wouldn’t have allowed it. Heart of gold, your dad. Very proud of you, John was. Good to me, too.’
Muddled about some things. What about others? He stroked her hand and said: ‘What men, Mum?’
‘Told you,’ she said with ancient belligerence. ‘Didn’t bring any chocolates. I didn’t like them. Kept asking me questions…’ She plucked out a chocolate shaped in a half moon and said: ‘I can’t find that on the chart that tells you what they are. Is it a hard or a soft one?’
‘It’s soft,’ said Charlie. ‘That square shape is a hard one.’ Charlie had the impression of a distant warning, a far-away bell almost too muted properly to distinguish. He smoothed his mother’s hand some more and said coaxingly: ‘These men: was that the new man who likes you? And a friend of his, perhaps?’
The woman splayed her hand with the wedding ring Charlie had noticed when he first arrived. ‘George gave me that,’ she said. ‘That is how I know he likes me. Calls me Judith. I don’t know why but that’s what he calls me. Judith.’ Her name was Mary.
‘Was it, Mum? Was George one of them?’
‘What are you talking about?’ she demanded suspiciously.
‘I want to know about these men who didn’t bring you chocolates or complain to matron about the cake with nuts.’
She looked suddenly, sharply, at him like a disturbed bird. ‘Course it wasn’t George, you silly sod. They were visitors, like you…’ She smiled, showing the real teeth she possessed. ‘No one’s had more visitors than me, not for weeks! Matron said, so there!’
‘Who were they?’ said Charlie. He didn’t look at her as he spoke, making it all sound casual.
‘Men were always fond of me,’ she said, drifting off. ‘Popular. That’s what I was. Always enjoyed a good laugh.’
‘Have they been before?’
‘Course not. They’re important. Official. Told me. From a Ministry…something like that…’
The bells were louder now, easier to hear. ‘What did they want?’
‘All sorts of things. Asked about Edith…you… lots of things I can’t think of now…’ She suddenly tightened her fingers upon his. ‘You haven’t done anything wrong, have you? Been up to thieving or something like that.’
‘No, Mum,’ said Charlie gently. ‘I haven’t been thieving. How many were there?’
‘Two,’ she said at once. ‘Dressed nice. Not like you, scruffy bugger. They wrote things down.’
The matron, Ms Hewlett, had written about pension changes in her letter. He was abruptly anxious to talk to the woman. He said: ‘How did they speak?’
She giggled, engulfing him in chocolate breath. ‘Like every else speaks, of course!’
‘I mean how did they sound? Did they sound English or foreign?’
She frowned and Charlie thought how unlined his mother’s face normally was, apart from this momentary effort at recall. ‘Properly,’ she decided. ‘Not foreign.’
There were always fantasies about men who liked her but he’d never known her maintain a pretence as consistently as this before. He said: ‘Did they tell you they’d come back again?’
The frown stayed. ‘You haven’t told me you like my hair.’
‘I was going to,’ said Charlie, irritated at forgetting. ‘It looks good. You’re very pretty.’
‘Went into Salisbury yesterday to get it done.’
‘On the bus?’ anticipated Charlie, deciding momentarily to break the single-track questions.
‘Don’t need to go by bus,’ she said. ‘George drives me, in his car. He’s got a car, you know? You can’t see it, though. It’s around the back of the house, in a garage. It’s green and it’s got a radio.’
‘Did they have a car, the men who came to see you?’
The old woman nodded. ‘Black. It had lots of things to make a radio work.’
Two aerials: would the second have been for a telephone or a two-way radio? ‘What about them coming back?’ repeated Charlie.
Once more there was the furrowed-brow effort at recollection, then a shrug. ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’
‘Try and help me, Mum,’ pleaded Charlie. ‘Try to think of something they said, the way they said it. Just one thing.’
‘Is this a hard centre?’
It was an oblong shape described on the chart as a praline surprise. ‘It should be,’ said Charlie.
‘You couldn’t get chocolate during the war, you know? I could, though. I knew this American army sergeant…’ Her face twisted. ‘…Can’t remember his name right now. Hershey bars, they were called. You remember all that chocolate when you were young?’
‘Yes, Mum,’ said Charlie, who didn’t. He looked around, trying to locate the matron.
‘Not bitter chocolate, though. I like bitter chocolate best,’ said the woman. She suddenly brightened. ‘I might get more money!’ she announced.
Charlie sighed at the new avenue to nowhere opening up in his mother’s confused mind. He said: ‘That’ll be useful.’
‘What’s it called, when you get extra because you need it?’ she demanded, looking directly at him.
‘Extra what, Mum?’
‘Pension,’ she said impatiently.
‘Is that what the men said, that you were going to get more pension money?’ seized Charlie.
‘I think that’s what they meant.’
‘Supplementary,’ suggested Charlie.
‘That was it!’ said the woman. ‘That was the word. It means extra money, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Charlie. ‘That’s what it means.’
‘That’s it then: what I’m going to get,’ she said, triumphantly. ‘Why didn’t Edith come with you?’
‘She’s dead, Mum.’
‘Dead? Edith? When?’
‘Quite a long time ago.’
‘Never knew. Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I meant to,’ said Charlie. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Shame.’ Her eyes closed. She made a tiny attempt to open them but it seemed too difficult. She tried again, even more feebly, and then stopped. Her held-away head went at last against the pillow: so lacquered was her hair that the tight waves flowed on undisturbed.
Charlie waited several minutes before easing his hand from hers, managing to stand without grating the chair. He checked as he walked, satisfying himself the matron was not in the grounds, relieved that she was in the office when he got there.