Wednesday March 8th
I arrived at Isla Bennett’s
but paused before leaving the van. Opening the glove box, I took out the
unopened jar of honey, looked at it and put it back. She was my friend, but
not a friend I had known very long, only since she moved into the area and
qualified for meals-on-wheels, which was three months ago. She certainly was
not worth getting into more trouble over.
I walked into the house and
placed her meal on the foot stool. Isla looked grey, ill and weak. Her eyes
had dark rings around them and her face looked grubby with saliva crusted
around her lips and chin.
“Isla, you look poorly. What’s
up?”
It took a moment for her to
respond. “Just tired, my dear.”
“Do you want me to ring for a
doctor?”
“I already have a helper.”
All of a sudden there were
footsteps above us. Someone was walking about in the front bedroom with
footsteps that were slow, heavy and erratic as if the person was unsure
where to put their feet. Who walks like that I thought looking at the
ceiling. “Is that your nurse?”
“Sort of,” replied Isla. I
looked back at her and helped her sit more comfortably and put the meal on
her lap.
“Sit with me,” she said,
pathetically. “How was your weekend with the kids?”
“Good,” I replied, glad of the
distraction from the slightly unnerving sounds coming from upstairs. “We
went to the park, ate ice-cream.” All of sudden, the footsteps became more
trudging, heavier. “Maybe I should go up. They may need my help.”
“How old are they?”
Isla had distracted my
thoughts about her ‘other’ visitor. “Jess is nine and Natasha is thirteen.”
“And what are you up to
tonight?” Her eyes were suddenly cold; her face was a little greyer than a
moment ago.
“The usual,” I said shrugging
my shoulders. “Meal for one, feet up, watching the television.”
“No friends?”
“I don’t have that many.
There’s only my ex-wife, Beth, and her brother, Nathan, who comes round less
often than I would like him to.”
“Did you get any more honey?”
“I’m not allowed. I got
reprimanded.”
Isla looked puzzled. “I didn’t
tell a soul, honestly.”
I gave a brief smile and stood
up. The footsteps were coming down the stairs. They took a couple of quick
but heavy steps, paused, and then carried on. I frowned as I walked into the
kitchen to pick up yesterday’s probably dirty plates and cutlery. I was
expecting to see the owner of the footsteps exit the stairwell but no one
emerged. Walking over to the foot of the stairs, I looked up towards the
landing. There was no one. “Hello?” I said, and waited for a response. I was
about to ascend when suddenly there was that voice again. It was coming from
the front room.
The voice sounded nasty. “What’s he
doing here? Always coming here.”
“He lives alone.” That was
definitely Isla’s voice.
“No one to disturb us, no one.”
There was definitely someone
in the front room with her. I strode through the door to see Isla still
tackling her roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. Stepping back, I felt a chill
flow through me. I turned, the kitchen had been cleaned and the company’s
plates were ready for me to take, a rare occurrence.
After picking them up, I
walked back into the front room. Isla suddenly looked slightly better, more
colourful which pleased me, and, as I was about to open the front door, she
asked me about another jar of honey.
I opened the van door and took
the honey from the glove box. I caught the label on the hinge and tore a
thin strip away, but the glass was not damaged.
“If you ever tell anyone about
this, I will get into so much trouble,” I remarked. “If you need to tell
someone, say that one of your friends bought you a jar.”
“I don’t have any friends
either, only you.”
It seemed sad that this frail
old lady only had one friend, me. How could I not give her the honey? As I
leaned over and handed her the jar, she placed her cold, clammy palm onto
mine and thanked me over and over, but as she let go I could see the colour
drain from her face, from pale pink back to grey. The tips of her fingers
wrinkled and her arms fell to their sides, she looked weak.
As I left, I considered
informing Mr Wright about her condition but if the social services find the
jar of honey then it might cost me my job.