Home Truths with Lady Grey

By Katherine Blessan

‘Home Truths with Lady Grey’ is an evocative, moving story about the power of friendship to unlock new ways of seeing life and self.



‘My world is narrowing, constricting down to the thin end of a funnel.’ When normally capable, career-minded Jennifer crumbles under a debilitating disease, she struggles with no longer being in control of her life. In the meantime, Mona, a family-oriented mother of Iranian heritage, finds out that her husband is gambling and hiding the truth from her. Can she move beyond betrayal to action?



When Mona goes to work for Jennifer as a carer, Jennifer is initially defensive, but the two soon discover that despite their differences they have so much to learn from one another. Will Mona discover how to balance the conflicting loyalties of family and self? Will Jennifer learn to let others in? And most importantly, will they both survive?

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Conrad Press
• Release date: Apr 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781839784620

Book preview

Home Truths with Lady Grey

Katherine Blessan

Home Truths with Lady Grey

Published by The Conrad Press Ltd. in the United Kingdom 2022

Tel: [phone]

www.theconradpress.com

[e-mail]

ISBN 978-1-839784-62-0

Copyright © Katherine Blessan, 2022

The moral right of Katherine Blessan to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved.

Typesetting and Cover Design by The Book Typesetters

www.thebooktypesetters.com

The Conrad Press logo was designed by Maria Priestley.

By the same author

Fiction

Lydia’s Song:

The story of a child lost and a woman found

Contents

Part 1: Convergence

Chapter 1

Part 2: Home Truths

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Part 3: Unless a grain falls

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Part 1

Convergence

Chapter 1

Jennifer

October 2016

My world is narrowing, constricting down to the thin end of a funnel. There is a small hole at the bottom for a few grains of sand to trickle down, but that’s the extent of it. My bedroom walls are the playground for my mind. I allow my eyes to switch from the cream colour of the southern and eastern walls to the Chantilly lace of the northern and western walls (yes, I still remember the paint tones) and scenes from my life stream in technicolour. Sometimes I can’t work out whether the images are real or fantasy, then I wonder whether it matters.

My cousin Amelia’s recent words about coming with her family to look after me one weekend keep playing through my mind, but I am averse to it. It wouldn’t be like before. I would see their loving eyes trained pityingly on me, which would be worse than the dispassionate eyes of a professional. I refuse to return her voice messages, which have become increasingly agitated over the past few weeks.

As I’ve become weaker and more breathless, it has become impossible for me to continue with work. Since my first meeting with Nicole a few weeks ago, I managed two more weeks at the surgery, then had to admit defeat. I couldn’t bear to tell any of the GPs, Charis or Tina – even though they would have guessed – but made the fateful phone call on Thursday October 18th to my line manager, Marge, in the head office. When she heard me lisping on the phone, it must have been obvious who it was.

‘Jennifer?’

‘I… can’t… work… any… more. I want… to… but can’t.’

‘It’s ok, Jennifer. Don’t worry. Your health is more important than your job. I can ask one of the other staff to cover for you until we can get a replacement.’

And that was it. All the years I had put into my job as a practice manager had come to a swift end. I wondered if anyone would even notice my absence. Tina and Charis would have an easier time of it without me breathing down their necks.

I love my work, but my crumbling body will no longer allow me to continue.

October 25th – 9:02

My bladder is full. I am trying to pull myself out of my bed, but the muscles in my shoulder, back and torso won’t respond to my brain. I focus on the corner of the framed Monet print directly opposite my head and use every ounce of strength to will my body to move.

It’s no good.

Thankfully, a bedpan has been positioned near me and with limp hand movements, I somehow manoeuvre the bedpan under my bottom and release. Most of the urine goes into the bedpan but I’m aware that some of it has trickled onto my sheets. No bleeding way…

My heart is thumping hard. I have pushed myself to my maximum and am sliding deeper into helplessness. Using the voice recognition app on my mobile, I call Nicole.

‘I… need… a carer,’ I say, without wasting time and energy on niceties. ‘I… can’t… get… out… of… bed.’

‘Of course, Jennifer. Don’t worry. I’ve got everything ready to go with that one.’

‘Please. I… can’t… wait. I… need… someone to clean my sheets now. Sorry.’

‘Aah…’ Her voice trails off. ‘Look, I can sort you out this time around and I’ll call the agency and they’ll get someone out to you asap. Last time I spoke to them, they had someone in mind, but we were just waiting for your green light.’

Her words sting like a rebuke. Nicole is annoyed with me for not giving the go ahead sooner. It is inconvenient for her to be coming out now. She has other plans but is too polite to say so.

I lie there trying to ignore the rising smell of urine and use my new voice activation app to switch on the CD player. If I can immerse myself in the rousing tones of a long piece of music like Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, then time will drift more quickly.

***

It is all arranged. The new carer is arriving at 8am. I think I can control my bladder until then with no problems. She – it all happened so quickly, Nicole hasn’t told me her name – has been passed a set of my house keys, so she can get inside without me needing to come downstairs.

My senses are fuzzy, but I keep my ears pricked for the sound of the key turning in the door. It comes sooner than I anticipate. I half expected her to be late, but she’s five minutes early. I would have been too, if it were me, so that’s a good sign. Heavy breathing – she was in a hurry to get here – and the muffled rustle of outdoor clothing and shoes being removed.

‘Hello, Jennifer? It’s Mona, your new carer.’ Mona’s voice alerts me to her presence. Clearly, she didn’t just want to barge up here. I presume Nicole told her where my room was.

‘Hi,’ I call out weakly. ‘Come up, please.’

The stairs creak as she makes her way upstairs. A few seconds later, she has bustled into the room. I left it open last night – deliberately wanting to make things easier for my new carer. She has tied her long dark hair in a loose ponytail, and her face is reddened from exertion. She’s wearing a pale blue uniform, a bit like a nurse’s outfit. Giving me a somewhat startled look, she pauses then comes forward with a smile.

‘How are you doing? Do you need anything?’

‘Help me to the toilet, please,’ I say stiffly.

As Mona comes to one side of my bed and lifts me up under both my arms, déjà vu overwhelms me. This is the same young lady whose child floored me in Endcliffe Park a few months ago. Oh, my goodness! It can’t be. How humiliating. I take a deep shuddering breath.

Taking my weight, Mona slides me off the edge of the bed and hoists me onto the wheelchair. I feel like a sack of potatoes.

‘I know how to use the wheelchair,’ I say. Though aware that my manner is cold, I can’t be bothered with the effort of being friendly.

My mind races through ringing Nicole and asking her to get someone else as soon as Mona leaves for the day. I wanted someone who knew nothing about me. Instead I get a lady whose child knocked me down like a skittle and who has seen me go from my strongest – running – to my weakest. I wonder if she recognises me?

I press the power button and my machine whirrs along the corridor to the bathroom. ‘Once my wheelchair is near the toilet, I can manage for myself,’ I say curtly. My major struggle currently is with getting up from a horizontal position. From a sitting position, I can function to some extent.

‘No problem,’ she says, following close on my wheels. ‘I’ll just wait outside the door. Call me if you need anything.’

‘Can you help me get into the shower?’ I say soon after, my face flushing as I realise she’s going to see me naked. My discarded clothes lie in a pile on the floor.

I’ll have to get over this. Quickly.

Yet, it’s so tough. In all my days, I never expected to be such a helpless lump in my mid-fifties. I thought I’d be at least eighty at which time frailty is normal.

Mona moves behind me, holds my bare elbows and lifts me slowly into a standing position. Inadvertently, a shiver goes through me at the skin-to-skin contact. The shower and the toilet both have newly equipped handles – fitted just a week earlier and as Mona helps me into the shower, I grab hold of the shower handle as though hanging on for dear life. ‘You can leave me now,’ I insist. I’m just about able to stand and wash myself – for now – at least.

My head is throbbing from the emotional energy exerted in dealing with this disconcertingly familiar newcomer-cum-carer. As I finish my shower and stand there with the water dripping from me, I conclude I have to come clean with Mona. It might be excruciating at first, but it’ll be better all-round if she’ll be spending lots of time with me. Who am I kidding, thinking I can just snap my fingers and get a new carer?

Nevertheless, all that will have to wait until I’ve had my breakfast and can relax.

‘Do you have any family?’ she asks me, as she helps me towel my hair and pull my trousers on. I grunt. Such questions can wait.

I glance at my gaunt face in the mirror and see Mona behind me, her closed lips pulled wide in an awkward grimace.

Receiving nothing back to all her friendly questioning, Mona gives up and focuses on being useful.

Fifteen minutes later, we’re in the living room. My stomach has stopped grumbling and I’m ensconced in my favourite armchair – a reclinable one. Visualising my house through Mona’s fresh eyes, it strikes me I have too much furniture for one person in my home. Not only do I have two three-seater sofas but three armchairs. It’d make sense if I hosted frequently, but I don’t. Yes, I have the space for it, but still?

Mona’s impossibly long eyelashes – I’m sure they’re natural – flutter against her cheeks as she holds her cup of tea and then she looks up, blinks and glances out of the window with an imperceptible sigh.

Poor woman. I’m not being fair to her.

‘So,’ I say ponderously, bigging-up this moment and feeling a little bit like Miss Havisham in Great Expectations. ‘You’re a big fan of Lady Grey Tea – like me.’ I stretch my mouth into a smile. It screams affectation, but I’ve got to work my way into this.

Mona looks over at me, raising her eyebrows and swallowing. ‘Yes,’ she says, drawing out the ‘e’. ‘It’s my little treat – a way of feeling special about myself. It’s silly, I know.’

‘Not at all. I can totally relate. In answer to your earlier question, I have a cousin – Amelia and her family – but that’s the extent of it, I’m afraid.’ I smile again, allowing it to warm my eyes.

Here’s my inroad.

‘You have a daughter, right? Any other children?’

Mona’s eyes widen. ‘It is you, then!’ she says with a laugh. She does recognise me after all.

‘Me? I guess you remember me from Endcliffe Park then – crazy woman knocked down by toddler.’ I might as well make light of it.

‘Ah… er… yesf… of course,’ she says. ‘I wouldn’t say crazy though! Sorry about that – again.’

‘No need to apologise.’ I can afford to be magnanimous now. The worst is over.

‘And, no I don’t have any other children.’ She looks askance at me as though she wants to say more, then gives a half smile. ‘My bonkers little Za Za – she is the loopy one around here – is our only child. She recently turned three. She’s a delight really. Hard work at times, but can’t complain.’

I make a noise of understanding, then lean back in my chair. I don’t know what to say and talking is wearing me out, even though I’ve not talked much at all.

‘Do you see Amelia much?’

‘Not so much,’ I say. I haven’t the energy to speak but I don’t want Mona to think I’m being aloof again.

Amelia’s pretty, concerned face flashes in front of my mind’s eye all of a sudden, and remorse jabs me right where it hurts. I need to respond to her messages. Poor Amelia. She’s such a good, kind cousin. I love her very, very much. Against my will, tears prickle my eyes and I begin sobbing. I try to hold it in but can’t.

Mona turns her brown, doe-like eyes on me, comes over and rubs my shoulder gently.

‘Emotional lability, and …’ I gasp, ‘Tired.’

She looks at her watch. Of course, it’s still early. ‘Do you want me to help you upstairs to rest?’

‘No. Down is fine. Look…’ I signal to Mona, indicating the lever on the armchair. It’s a reclining one. That will be enough to help me have a few minutes doze. She presses the lever and the chair tilts backwards. Already my eyes are closing.

***

I wake up coughing and spluttering, choking on my saliva. Mona rushes over to me and lifts my head so that I’m in a more upright position, her foot on the lever of the armchair. The back retracts into a sitting position, and I gasp with relief as my choking subsides.

‘Thank you. I’m like a big… baby,’ I say trying to make a joke of it. I slept longer than I thought I would. It’s already 11:45, and my mouth is dry. Time for another cup of Lady Grey.

It is 7pm once Mona leaves me that first day. It’s a long day for her – I’m aware of that. But once my hospital bed arrives in a few days’ time she won’t have to work such long hours as I’ll be able to get in and out of bed on my own more easily. She left me a package of incontinence pads, which will be helpful for dealing with night-time urges. I’ll soon get used to the indignity of it. It’s better than wetting my bed at night.

I slide the laptop off my lap when I’ve finished typing an email to Amelia. I can’t face talking to her on the phone, not so much because of embarrassment, but because of the difficulty of making myself heard and getting out everything I want to say. Typing isn’t easy as my fingers feel buttery, but it’s still doable for me at least.

Dearest, darling Amelia,

I am so sorry for my radio silence. I don’t want you to think the worst. It’s not because I don’t care, but because I care too much. Or perhaps you could simply say it’s pride on my part. I can’t bear for you to see me in my weakened state. The truth is that my condition is getting progressively worse and I’ve had to stop working. As of today, I’ve now got a carer – a gentle young lady called Mona. I put her through the mill when she first arrived, as I recognised her from an unfortunate incident in the park a few months ago – don’t ask – but she’s lovely and will take good care of me.

My occupational therapist has been helping me get some adjustments made around the house such as a stair lift, disability handles in the bathroom and a hospital bed.

Talking is becoming harder and more tiring for me. You never know. I may end up having to use speech synthesizer software to help me speak, like Stephen Hawking! It depends on how long I last. I don’t want to be morbid, but we have to face the facts.

Much though I have such fond memories of your last visit, I can’t face letting you see me like this. It’s too painful for me. I love you and your handsome husband and don’t want to cause you distress. There – I’ve said it now!

(I had deleted this last bit and put it back a few times. In the end, I left it in. His being handsome didn’t mean anything. It just might make her feel better knowing I thought so well of him and it was a way of re-establishing the bond between us – perhaps?)

I hope you are all keeping well. Keep in touch.

Lots of love,

Jen xx

Part 2

Home Truths

Chapter 2

Jennifer

Six months earlier

The early morning light feels unusually heavy on my eyes, and I blink hard to shake the sensation. Putting on my jogging clothes, I slip into my Adidas high-balls, pick the key from the hook near the front door and begin my 7am run. The rhythmic pad pad of my feet pounding the pavements, and the stirring of the blood through my veins heightens my senses like a panther on the prowl. A fine drizzle cools my skin.

This is my favourite part of the day and always follows the same pattern, come wind or rain, of jogging up Stephen Hill, around Marsh Lane, down Lydgate Lane past the Crosspool Tavern and then back along green and leafy Manchester Road. It’s a short run, but its daily regularity keeps me fit, and I’ve had no serious health problems, touch wood. While running, I try to listen to motivational speakers such as John Maxwell, John Peck and Daniel Goleman on my MP3, or I listen to classical music – and match my pace to the play of strings and wind instruments.

The blood coursing through me soothes my jagged nerves, on edge after a disturbed night. I got rudely awoken at around 2am by two Slovakians (or at least Eastern European!) rummaging in the charity bins opposite my house calling out to one another and clattering lids. I can’t tell you what they were saying, but they were looking for clothes. A pile of purple, pink, grey and luminous assorted clothes lay crumpled on the floor near their feet. To make a point, I got out of bed to bang my window and tutted audibly. I don’t think they noticed. I’m not racist but honestly! Couldn’t they pick their time better? It took me a while to fall asleep again and I normally sleep right through with no problems.

‘Hiya, Jennifer!’ a girl in her twenties being walked by her dog calls out as I curve around the corner at the Crosspool.

‘Good morning, Charis,’ I smile and nod without slowing down my pace. She is wearing wellies with her pleated skirt… Really?

As I wind around the corner back up the crazy-paved pathway to my red front door, the smell of begonia from the hanging basket assails my nostrils. I feel a sudden tug in my calf muscles. Wincing, I unlock the door and hang up the key on the blue ceramic key tidy, with its tasteful (pre-Disney!) Christopher Robin detail. I rest my right foot on the chair near the door and massage my calf with the tips of my thumbs. Did I forget to warm up? Normally I don’t need to; since I’ve been running for so many years now, I simply begin with a slower bouncing sort of jog before moving into a steadier pace. Despite the massage, the cramp in my leg intensifies and I sit on the chair, extend my leg out and in, out and in, exhaling like a woman in labour. I’ve had cramps before, of course, but this is unlike any I’ve had before. All I can do is try to work the pain out of my body. I can’t even think about anything else.

Five minutes later the cramping has subsided enough for me to get out of the chair and begin making my breakfast – a single piece of wholemeal toast with margarine on it, half a grapefruit sprinkled with sugar and a steaming mug of Lady Grey tea. You could maroon me on a desert island and chain me to a post like a guard dog and I would still insist on having that breakfast if it were humanly possible. Before leaving the house, I wipe the barely dirty plate down with a moist dishcloth and place it straight in the drainer.

7.59am. I am pleased to see that Charis is welly free. She is one of the most delightful of my practice’s receptionists and is already at her desk ready for the phones to ring at 8am on the dot. Tina, on the other hand, is likely to waltz in five minutes late, murmuring some ditsy excuse about child-care dramas. I have spoken to her several times about her tardiness, trying to be as diplomatic as possible, but she always gives me that wide-eyed expression that makes me feel as though I’m the one in the wrong for challenging her. As predicted, the phones start ringing at 8am, and because Tina is not there, I need to stay near the phones and help Charis out. Picking up the first incoming call, I politely suppress my irritation.

‘Good morning, Brunswick Surgery. How can I help you?’

‘I’d like to book an appointment for my son, Luke, sometime today rather than tomorrow!’ a female voice demands.

I feel the urge to blurt out, ‘Calling first thing in the morning is the time to make an appointment for today,’ but worried that would offend her, I just say, ‘Certainly, Madam. What time would suit you?’

‘Well, Luke is running an ’igh temperature.’ A small child is crying in the background. ‘The sooner the better really…’

‘Ok. Would 9am with Dr Goddard suit you?’

‘Yes please.’

‘And what is Luke’s date of birth please?’

As I’m finishing off this first appointment and entering the details into our system, heavy breathing and the creaking of a body easing into a chair hovers on the edge of my consciousness. Tina. I glance at my watch – 8:03. Charis takes the next call and I swivel around on my chair and force a smile at Tina. ‘You’re late, again. You really must get here on time as this is the busiest time of the day. Just sit down, and begin work. We can talk later.’ Tears glisten in her deep brown eyes, but I can’t be dealing with this right now – the patients come first. What a wet blanket, honestly!

After an hour buried in paperwork, I put my head out of the office door, which backs out on the reception area, and call pleasantly to the two girls. ‘Anyone fancy a cuppa? This one is on me.’ A happy workplace produces contented hardworking employees and it’s my job to make it so. The weight of the atmosphere lifts like a thousand helium-filled balloons being released. ‘I’d love one thanks, Jennifer,’ says Charis sighing. ‘The first hour always does me in.’

‘No need to trouble yourself, I’ll get one myself,’ says Tina.

‘It’s no trouble at all!’ I say, refusing to be drawn in by her little