Marble Heart. Gretta Mulrooney
She had worn her hair long until she was twenty-eight; then she had it cut and layered and people remarked that she looked eighteen again. Mrs Rawle’s needed a good styling and a colour, one with a touch of bronze or mahogany to give her a lift.
Joan sipped her strong tea and asked her client if she had a garden. She replied that yes, the garden was hers, it went with this flat. She’d only moved in a month ago, that was why things were still disorganised.
‘I overestimated what I could do,’ she explained. ‘That’s partly why I’ve had to call you in. This is new to me, having paid help. What do your clients usually tell you on the first visit?’
‘Well, a bit about themselves and what they want me to do. If they’ve got a medical condition, they let me know if there’s anything I should be aware of.’ Joan preferred to say ‘medical condition’ rather than illness, especially with someone younger like Mrs Rawle. She thought it added a touch of dignity.
Mrs Rawle propped her chin on one hand. ‘I haven’t always looked like this, I didn’t have a collection of tracksuits because they’re easy to put on until fairly recently. I became ill three years ago; my tissues started fighting each other. I’ve got worse in the past six months. Most days I can do very little. That about sums it up. I want you to come in the mornings and get me some breakfast and any shopping I need, then again in the evenings to prepare supper. I need you to help me unpack all this stuff, get organised. I might like to go out once a week if I feel up to it. Does that sound negotiable?’
The way she listed it all, fast and crisp, she might have been asking Joan to be her secretary. She was a cool customer all right. Her big hazel eyes were very direct, almost uncomfortably so. It was only her body that was frail, Joan decided; there was a firm will inside that thin frame.
‘What about lunchtimes?’
She shook her head. ‘I want to have to fend for myself some of the day; can’t be going soft.’
Joan wondered where her family were. Maybe she’s like me, she thought, pretty much alone. There was no wedding ring on her finger but Joan could see a faint white strip there, as if she’d removed one in the recent past. She and her husband must be separated or divorced, Joan decided, unless he’d died. But widows didn’t usually get rid of their wedding rings, they clung to them. Mrs Waverley had been distraught because she couldn’t find her ring when her Harry dropped dead. Joan had searched high and low for it to no avail and in the end had lent her an ordinary signet ring she had been wearing.
‘That all sounds fine,’ Joan said. ‘I can’t do Sundays.’
‘Weekends are covered, this is a Monday-to-Friday arrangement.’
‘Have you had breakfast today?’ It was just on eleven.
Nina Rawle hesitated, then said no. She smiled at Joan, the first smile she’d given, as if she could relax now they had agreed terms. She’d like an egg, she said, and toast.
Joan got her what she wanted, wondering what her talk about her tissues amounted to; maybe she had cancer but couldn’t say it. People came out with all kinds of expressions to disguise illness; a man she had helped who had lung cancer always referred to his dodgy chest. She wiped things over as she waited for the egg to boil and made the toast nice, cutting off the crusts and slicing it into triangular shapes. When you’re ill, she thought, the little touches make a difference. She had noticed a patio rose planted in a tub in the conservatory, a bushy variety with orange-red blossoms. She nipped out and cut a single flower, putting it beside Mrs Rawle’s plate on the tray.
‘Oh,’ she said when she saw it, ‘how lovely! I’m not used to this kind of luxury.’
‘When I’m helping someone I like to attend to the details,’ Joan told her. ‘Now, tuck in before it cools down. Something tasty and hot is just the ticket when you’re not feeling too chipper.’
Mrs Rawle looked taken aback but she laughed. ‘Thank you, I will. Have you been doing this kind of work long?’
‘Six years, just on.’ Joan moved a plant which had tilted over on top of another.
‘And do you like it?’
‘Oh, yes, I love it. There’s always something new and I like meeting people.’
‘Some of them must be difficult, though – demanding.’
‘Well, sometimes. But I try to see the best side of people. You have to, and most clients are decent when you get to know them.’
‘Do you live near here?’
Joan chuckled. ‘Oh, I couldn’t afford this area. I’ve got a place in Leyton.’
‘Leyton.’ Mrs Rawle looked puzzled. ‘I don’t think I’ve been there.’
‘It’s okay, the only drawback is there’s no tube near but I’ve got Bessie – that’s what I call my car – so I’m not dependent on public transport. Now, shall I pop and tidy the kitchen while you’re eating?’
‘Please do. And could you see to the bathroom, too? I make quite a mess when I’m showering.’
There was an archway at the end of the kitchen, leading to a small tiled hallway. The bedroom was to the right, the bathroom on the left. It had a shower unit with a fitted seat, a bath, bidet and washbasin, all in the green of mint-flavoured chewing gum.
Quite a mess was an understatement. The floor was greasy with water and hair, toothpaste and soap clogged the basin. There was a perfume in the air that Joan recognised immediately. She lifted a bar of creamy soap and sniffed. Lily of the Valley. She could see that Nina Rawle had talc, deodorant and an atomiser, all from Selfridges. She used to buy Gran a tin of Lily of the Valley talcum powder from the Co-op for every birthday and Christmas. On the front of the yellow tin was a spray of dark green leaves with drooping delicate white flowers. Joan had thought it was the height of classiness. Gran’s name was Lily and she used to pull the front of her dress forward and shake the talc down her chest, saying, ‘Lily by name and Lily by smell!’ Then she’d tell Joan that she would be the most perfumed lady at the opera which would set her granddaughter giggling as Gran never went anywhere except to the whist drive. When Gran died and Joan was sorting her clothes, drifts of the snowy powder crept from the seams of her dresses and the perfume was all around her. Inhaling the scent of the soap took her right back to their dark little bedroom in Bromley with the gentleman’s oak wardrobe and the commode disguised as a chair. If Joan thought that she detected any omens that day, finding the Lily of the Valley seemed a good one. Then she gave herself a shake; she wasn’t being paid to stand and daydream.
She spent a good hour cleaning without even touching the conservatory. By then it was getting near the time she had to be at Mr Warren’s, so she washed up Mrs Rawle’s dishes and arranged to come back at six-thirty to cook supper.
‘There’s food in the fridge for tonight,’ Nina Rawle said. ‘I prefer light meals, soups and soufflés, snacks on toast, that kind of thing. I’d like some fruit. Could you possibly pick up a cantaloupe for this evening?’
Joan had never heard of a cantaloupe but she supposed they would have one in the supermarket. As Nina Rawle gave her the money she yawned, eyes watering. ‘Do excuse me,’ she said, ‘I don’t sleep well at night so I snatch naps during the day. I’m ready for one now.’
‘I sleep badly sometimes,’ Joan told her, ‘I have worrying dreams. Have you tried sleeping tablets?’
Nina looked uneasy. ‘Yes, but I don’t like taking them. Maybe I’m anxious that I won’t wake up.’
Joan didn’t believe in encouraging that kind of talk. ‘You’re just a bit down,’ she told Nina. ‘Try and get some rest and things will look brighter. Meeting someone new takes it out of you.’
Mrs Rawle gave another, fainter smile. ‘Oh, you haven’t tired me. I think we’ll get on, don’t you?’
Joan picked up her bag. ‘I speak as I find, and I think