‘Wait here for a second,’ I tell Ed, turning the key in the lock.
It’s 11am but the living-room curtains are still drawn which is very unlike Gubba. She’s one of those people who wakes up at half-five in the morning and considers this a perfectly reasonable time to get up. The living room and kitchen are open plan, which means Gubba has less of a distance to travel but also no kitchen table to sit at. I know she misses that. Her kitchen at home was the hub of the house. The place where she’d share meals with my grandpa, where my mother would finish homework after school, where I’d sit and colour in while she made her famous pressure-cooked potatoes with butter and chives. Now she’s resigned to eating in a recliner chair in front of the television.
I place the flowers and the shopping in the kitchen before tiptoeing through to the bedroom. I crack the door open, just enough to see she’s in bed. Her room here is much smaller than the one in her old house. I used to love her old bedroom. It was the brightest room in the house, with dark oak furniture and a recliner beside the window that she’d sit and read in during the summer. It’s nice enough here, but everything reminds me that she’s no longer as capable as she once was. And my god, she was capable.
‘Gubba?’ I say softly. ‘Are you awake?’
No response. I move a little closer.
‘Gubba?’
Again, no response. No movement. I watch the bedcovers. Is she even breathing?
My heart races as I make my way to the far side of the bed. She looks so peaceful. So still. Oh, Gubba. My hand slowly reaches down to touch her face. It feels. . .
‘JESUS BLOODY NORA! GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!’
I scream and jump backwards as Gubba shoots upright in bed and throws a teacup at me.
‘Gubba, it’s me!’ I yell, as the matching saucer whizzes past me. ‘Stop throwing stuff!’
‘Kate?’ Ed rushes in, almost knocking the door off its hinges. ‘You OK?’ he asks, his eyes darting between me and Gubba, who’s now scrambling for her glasses.
‘In the name of God, Kate,’ she says. ‘You scared the life out of me! What are you doing, slinking around here in the middle of the night like creeping Jesus?’
‘Middle of the night? It’s eleven in the morning!’ I exclaim. ‘And I called your name. Twice! I thought you’d bloody died on me.’
‘Eleven?’ she questions. ‘My goodness. Those tablets the doctor gave me must have knocked me out. Hello, Ed, dear.’
‘Younearly knockedmeout with that cup,’ I mutter, my heart rate slowly returning to normal. ‘Thank god your aim sucks.’
Ed starts to snigger.
‘I forgot Paula said you’d be round,’ Gubba says, throwing back her covers. ‘Did you bring me my tea? The home help brought that supermarket stuff that tastes like dishwater.’
I hear Ed give a little ‘yikes’ as he quickly spins around and makes his way into the hall. I dash to help Gubba pull down her nightdress. She might be wearing underwear, but she still seems a little out of it.
‘I brought bread, tea, milk and some other bits and pieces,’ I tell her. ‘We just wanted to visit before we drive back to London. See how you are.’
‘That’s nice, love. Go and put the kettle on, while I have a wee.’
‘Do you want your dressing gown?’
‘Thanks, love.’
I return to the kitchen where Ed’s making himself useful, putting the shopping away and opening the window to let some fresh air in. At least it doesn’t smell of smoke– that I’m grateful for.
‘Text your mum to bring more salt,’ Ed says, holding acontainer of table salt. ‘I’m going to chuck this on the path.’
He vanishes outside and I put the kettle on before popping some bread in the toaster. I can at least make sure she eats something before I go. I feel like all I’ve done lately is worry. About Gubba, about Mum, about Tom, about Ed and me. . . Christ– I was even worried that Luther, the dog from the café, might have got sick from eating that muffin. As hard as it’s been, Gubba being ill has put things into perspective. All the needless concern I have over the future, over my career, doesn’t seem so important anymore. If I’ve learned anything over the past few days, it’s that everything can change in the blink of an eye.
Gubba strolls in and takes her seat in the living room, all wrapped up in her dark blue dressing gown and matching slippers.
‘I’ll just bring your tea,’ I tell her, grabbing the toast as it shoots up. ‘What do you want on your toast?’
‘Nutella,’ she replies. ‘There should be a jar in the cupboard above the toaster.’
Gubba’s sweet tooth is legendary but sometimes she really does have the taste buds of a ten-year-old. Just like me.
