The O’Hara Affair. Kate Thompson
it wasn’t necessary, that they’d be bound to find someone to cover. However, their efforts to find a replacement carer had been unsuccessful. The local girl who stood in for Nemia on her weekends off was employed elsewhere during the week, and so far only one person had responded to the ad they’d put up in the local shop. Christian and Dervla had agreed that it would not be appropriate to have a twenty-something youth in a Radiohead T-shirt looking after his mother, and had decided to do the caring themselves, with Christian taking time off work and allowing his assistant Lisa to run the shop.
‘Look – don’t worry about it, Christian,’ Dervla told him. ‘We’ll work something out. I’ll do some homework on the internet – we can always get professionals in for a couple of weeks. Or…’ She allowed a silence to fall.
Christian picked up on his cue. ‘I know what you’re going to say, love. You’re going to say that we could put Mum in a home.’
‘Christian – it’s just for two weeks!’
‘I couldn’t do it to her, Dervla. I just couldn’t.’
‘They say some of them are really nice now—’
‘Dervla. This is my mother we’re talking about.’
‘Oh, Christian, please let’s not row about this. Please let’s just have a look.’
On the other end of the phone, she heard him sigh. ‘OK. Have a look online and if we can’t find someone to move in we’ll pay a couple of them a visit.’
‘I’ll do that. What time do you want me down there?’
‘Around four o’clock?’
‘Four o’clock’s fine. I might head into Lissamore afterwards and persuade Fleur to go for a drink.’
‘Or a walk. It’s a beautiful day.’
‘Good idea. A walk, then a drink. I’ll see you at four, love.’
‘Thanks, Dervla.’
Dervla felt a little shaky as she put the phone down. Maybe she should ask Nemia if she could postpone her holiday? But she had booked a fortnight in Malta with a crowd of girlfriends, and it wouldn’t be fair to ask. And as for cancelling the wine-tasting tour? That would be disastrous. Christian was right: aside from the monetary loss, it would mean that people might decide to take their custom elsewhere. Bacchante Wines had a loyal clientele, many of whom looked on the annual French tour as a kind of pilgrimage. They’d be deeply disappointed if it were cancelled. And, anyway, what if—
Aiiee! Here she was, painting a worst-case scenario. Positive, positive – be positive! Emulate Fleur! They’d be bound to find somebody to take care of Daphne. Dervla took a couple of deep breaths to steady herself. Accessing her internet browser, she typed ‘professional care workers for elderly’ into the Google search bar.
The first few sites she visited extolled the virtues of their care givers, but were coy about their rates. There were, instead, lots of references to ‘dignity’, ‘individuals’, and ‘community’. Finally Dervla found an agency that boasted a tariff page. Sweet Jesus! Twenty-four/seven care started at €1250 per week (dementia and Alzheimer’s sufferers extra: to be negotiated on assessment). Nemia – at €650 – cost just under half that. Oh – this was barking. There had to be a cheaper alternative.
Maybe a home would be cheaper? If so, then surely Christian couldn’t object to his mother spending just two weeks in residential care. Rather than trawl through the internet, Dervla decided that the Golden Pages might be easier to pinpoint the likely-looking ones. She reached for the directory, and went to Nursing Homes.
There were hundreds listed. Some could have been holiday resorts, to go by the descriptions, with ‘Cuisine of High Standard’, ‘En Suite Luxury’, ‘Dedicated Activities Coordinators’, ‘Breathtaking Views’, ‘Hair Salons’, ‘Bespoke Furniture’, ‘Ayurvedic Massage’, ‘Hydrotherapy Pools’ and ‘Sun Lounges’. Dervla wouldn’t mind taking time off somewhere like that! But again, when she visited the relevant websites, price was an issue.
Money, money, money! How expensive it was to grow old. How scary, how stressful, how – Oh! – she couldn’t hack this right now. What she really wanted was a walk by the river, a blast of ozone-enriched air, a bucketload of endorphins, and someone to talk to. She ran down the stairs and called for Kitty.
The Dalmatian came lolloping from the kitchen, knocking into the umbrella stand. For such an ostensibly elegant dog, Kitty was incredibly clumsy. Dervla often wished that she had a videocam handy, so that she could send footage off to You’ve Been Framed – she had once seen the dog bang into a plate-glass window and apologize to her own reflection.
‘Come, Kit!’ she said now. ‘We’re off for a walk.’
They set off down the driveway of the Old Rectory, Kitty running ahead, checking to see that there was nothing sinister around the next bend, then coming back to report that all was well. And all was well – Christian had been right when he’d made the observation earlier that it was a beautiful day. How lucky was Dervla to be alive and well and living in the most beautiful corner of the west of Ireland! She should count her blessings! And yet, and yet…
‘The thing is, Kit,’ she told the dog, ‘that I love your master very, very much, but I don’t love my life right now. And of course I wouldn’t want to go back to my estate-agent days – even though I was a bloody good estate agent – because I’m not the person I used to be. But I’m not the person I thought I might become, living a Cath Kidston lifestyle in the Old Rectory, because let’s face it, nobody lives like that except in catalogues. And I’ve never had money worries before, and I’m frightened. And I wonder if everybody is frightened, or if – oh! Oh my God – Daphne, what are you doing?’
Daphne was sitting on the edge of the lawn, under a rhododendron bush. She had taken off her cardigan and blouse, and her vest was ruched up around her neck.
‘I was too hot,’ she told Dervla. ‘So I’m taking off my vest. Help me, will you?’
‘Oh – of course.’ Dervla went over to Daphne, and helped her pull her vest over her head, as if it were the most normal thing in the world to be doing on a sunny June afternoon, with a skylark singing madly overhead, and sheep baaing in the field next door. ‘It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?’ she remarked conversationally.
‘Yes,’ said Daphne, from under her vest. ‘And I shouldn’t be wearing a vest on a day like this. I wonder what made me put it on? What a silly old fool I am.’
Dervla tugged, and the vest came free. She rolled it up, and handed Daphne her blouse.
‘Would you mind helping me on with this?’ Daphne asked. ‘I seem to be all fingers and thumbs today.’
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