Early nineteenth century maps of Barnshead were the first ones to show an area, north of the town, called Northwood. Local historians feel this is a shortened version of Northern Wood but you need to go back many more years to see any evidence of the woods that gave rise to its name. The trees of Northwood had been mainly cleared by the local landowners to provide areas of grazing land and all that now remained are small copses and the name Northwood. The same map would also have shown a symbol indicating a building, close to one of these copses, called Northwood Hall reachable by a single-track lane from the town centre. Modern maps still show the Northwood area and the Hall, but the town has now expanded so only the ring-road, which circles the town like a moat, now separates the Hall from Barnshead. A sign for Northwood Hall on the ring road guides you to a gap in the stonewall boundary of the Hall, a gap that previously formed the gated entrance to the Northwood Hall estate, but now the only evidence of the gates are stone pillars where the ornate metal gates once hung. As the taxi drove between these stone sentries, Albert noticed a sign attached to one of the pillars with the words, “Northwood Hall, Residential Care for the Elderly”.
“I hope I can find a place like this when I get to that age,” the taxi driver exclaimed, “They say it’s like staying in a five star hotel.”
“I’m sure it costs as much as staying in a five star hotel,” Albert tutted as he handed over his fare to the driver.
“No I’ve heard it’s no more expensive than some of the other places that look a lot worse,” the driver responded, “you’ve got my number if you need picking up later, just give me a call.”
During breakfast at the Grenadier hotel Albert had asked the staff if they knew where A.J.’s mother, Mrs Waterson, lived. One of the older members of staff, who worked in the kitchen, gave him the details of the address. He had decided he wanted to visit his mother, but not with A.J. and after calling Northwood Hall to ensure he would be able to see her called a taxi, leaving the hotel half an hour before A.J. arrived to meet him.
Northwood Hall was a three-storey building constructed of red brick with light coloured stone surrounds to the windows and front door. An imposing building, portraying Victorian strength and power, welcomed the visitor. From the air it would be seen as “T” shaped with a tarmac car park at the front, a square lawn at the rear and a crescent of trees, the remains of the Northern Wood, framing the lawn and surrounding flower beds.
The door, its surround and two stone steps were original features, but a gently sloping ramp, giving wheelchair access, built at the side of the steps, was a more recent addition. A plump woman, wearing what appeared to be a pale blue nurses uniform, answered the doorbell. Albert announced himself, explained about the earlier phone call to arrange to meet Mrs Waterson. The plump woman showed him into a small reception area where he was asked to sign the visitor’s book and wait for assistance. Albert looked through the previous pages of the book looking for A.J.’s name but not unexpectedly, he thought to himself, could not find any evidence of A.J. having visited in recent weeks. The sound of someone entering the reception room interrupted his perusal of the book and he turned to see a woman dressed in a smart casual suit who introduced herself as Mrs Stokes, the manager of Northwood Hall. She explained it had been her, who Albert had spoken to on the phone earlier, and asked if Albert was a friend or relative of Mrs Waterson. Albert explained that he was a relative but had not seen Mrs Waterson for some years.
“I don’t live in the area and I was only recently informed that Mrs Waterson was staying at Northwood Hall.”
“Were you also informed that Mrs Waterson has severe dementia and it is unlikely that she will recognise or remember you?” Mrs Stokes asked.
Albert informed her that he was aware of her condition but as it was such a long time since they last met they both would have difficulty with recognition.
One of the exits from the reception room was a long hallway, heading towards the main body of the house, but rather than walking towards this hallway, Mrs Stokes directed Albert towards a door at the side of the reception room. Finding a key on the belt of her trousers, she unlocked the door and gestured for Albert to go through into a dimly lit vestibule. When they were both in the vestibule, she locked the door behind them and then proceeded to unlock a further door.
Albert recalled the conversation of the night before with Calder and the comment he made about his brother hiding his mother in a home, locked away out of sight. Well he had been right, she was locked away like a prisoner and Mrs Stokes was the goaler.
The second door opened onto a room that was so bright it was a few moments before Albert’s eyes adjusted to the light after the relative darkness of the vestibule. The room was furnished with upright easy chairs, a dining table large enough to seat four people, bookcases full of leather backed volumes, an open fireplace with solid wood mantelpiece and tiled surround, green velvet curtains hanging either side of a bay window; a room that said come in sit down, make yourself comfortable. In front of the bay window was a long console table and there stood a thin framed woman with hair the colour of fresh snow. A pure white apron, tied around her waist, covered the front of a floral dress, as bright as the room. Her facial features, although now consistent with her age, were obviously those of a woman who had been very beautiful in former years. On the table was a vase containing a few flowers with others lying on the table ready to be arranged.
“Mrs Waterson I have a visitor for you,” Mrs Stokes announced. “I did not tell her you were coming,” she whispered to Albert who was standing at her side looking at the woman at the window with sunlight shining through her hair and the blooms of the flowers giving the effect of a stained glass window, “She would not have remembered if I had told her,” Mrs Stokes concluded.
Mrs Waterson looked up from her flower arranging and in a surprisingly strong voice explained that she had picked the flowers from her garden that morning. Mrs Stokes turned to Albert, nodding her head from side to side, indicating that this was not correct and with a raise of her eyebrows explained without words that this was a figment of Mrs Waterson’s imagination; a consequence of the dementia.
“The blooms have been very good this year, we have not had the strong winds you see that so often destroys them just as they are about to be at their best,” Mrs Waterson continued not really talking to anyone in particular. Albert even wondered if she was aware there were other people in the room.
Mrs Waterson returned to her flower arranging and the remaining flowers were placed in the vase without further comments.
“Mrs Waterson come and sit over here and I’ll bring you some tea,” Mrs Stokes gestured to one of the upright chairs. “You sit there Mr Hughes, next to Mrs Waterson and I’ll be able to put the tea on the table between you and you can have a nice chat over a drink.”
Albert did not know if his mother would need assistance to walk between the table where she was standing and the chair indicted but his concern was unfounded as she walked with no difficulty and lowered herself into the chair with surprising ease.
“This is a very beautiful room and you have made the flowers look lovely,” Albert said unsure how to start the conversation.
His mother smiled in acknowledgement but did speak or turn towards him only continued to look forwards, not staring but not focusing on anything in particular. Albert wondered if she was hard of hearing and continued in a louder and deliberate voice.
“Do you sit outside in the garden if the weather is warm enough?”
“I go into the garden every morning to pick the flowers. I like to pick them when the dew is still on the petals. The grass is getting long I must ask father if he will arrange for it to be cut.”
Albert knew neither of these utterances was correct and realised that it would be impossible to have a realistic conversation. He decided to tell her about himself, where he lived, that he also had a garden but his was much bigger, about his meeting with A.J. but he did not tell her his true identity. Certain things he mentioned seemed to raise a smile, giving some indication that she was listening and understanding. However, any question he asked only received the same smile and he concluded the smile was a form of instinctive polite gesture.
Mrs Stokes returned with the tea on a tray and pouring the tea into two cups placed them on the table between them. She walked to the window and picked up the vase of flowers.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she said as she walked towards the door carrying the flowers and tea tray.
Albert decided to ask his mother some questions about her past but received the same blank looks and occasional polite smile. He also noticed that some questions caused what he perceived to be some discomfort as she furrowed her brow trying to make sense of his question or some distant memory. His mother was becoming increasingly agitated when Mrs Stokes returned carrying the flowers and an empty vase.
“Mrs Waterson I’ve got your flowers,” she said putting the flowers and vase on the table by the window. “I think the stems are the correct length if you want to arrange them in the vase when you’ve finished your tea.”
Without finishing her tea, she pushed herself out of the chair walked over to the window and started to arrange the flowers once again.
Albert looked over at Mrs Stokes quizzically. She gestured to him to join her at the opposite end of the room where she explained that sometimes Mrs Waterson became agitated or upset and flower arranging calmed her down; she doesn’t remember doing them already. It was something that she did in her childhood and obviously enjoyed and although she might not actually remember doing it, or the circumstances, there was some form of emotional memory that remained from those days. She believed she had picked the flowers from her childhood garden but in reality, she had not left this sitting room for the past four years.
“Why doesn’t A.J. take her out?” Albert snapped.
“This room is the only place she can make sense of. We are not sure where she thinks she is, but anywhere outside these four walls is like an alien world for her. Her senses seemed to be overpowered and the whole experience is so upsetting that it is kinder for her to stay in this room. For you and I it would seem like a prison but for her the torture begins out there.”
Albert was not sure he understood and was uncertain about his brother’s motives. Even if he did not take her out why did he not visit his mother?
Mrs Stokes was correct, the flower arranging had calmed his mother down and a serene glow had returned to her face. Albert watched her carefully placing the flowers in the vase, moving them around until the colours and lengths were just as she wanted them arranged. Her eyes were surprisingly clear, no evidence of milky cataracts. He suddenly had an image of a teddy bear with glass eyes. He saw himself stroking the fur of the teddy and then running the tips of his fingers over the smooth eyes. He felt the contrasting textures, the hard glassy smoothness and the furry fabric he could squeeze with his fingers or rub against his cheek. He saw the teddy sitting with bent legs and staring with the brown glass eyes. He could look into those eyes and see a reflection. It was a child. He tried to recognise the child's image, was it himself, and was he the one looking at the seated teddy bear?
“Are you alright Mr Hughes?” it was Mrs Stokes voice, “are you in pain, do you want another drink?”
Albert realised the effort to recollect and make sense of these images must have resulted him contorting his facial features to the concern of Mrs Stokes.
“No I’m fine thank you,” Albert replied feeling slightly embarrassed by the strange image he must have presented. “No honestly I’m fine now,” he reiterated as Mrs Stokes asked again after his health. “I don’t seem to be able to get through to her,” he continued trying to change the subject, “other than the odd smile she doesn’t respond to anything I’ve said to her. Do you think she understands anything that’s going on here?”
“She’s in a world that we can hardly begin to imagine. She looks out of that bay window and sees the garden of the house she lived in when she was a girl. The two gardens are completely different and to you and I it is impossible to understand how someone can rationalise these two different images and firmly believe this room is somewhere else in time and place. Her eyesight is near perfect for someone her age and yet the connections to her brain to make sense of what she sees are scrambled, or hard wired to an event or place on the past.”
“Is there no way of getting into that world, her world where she lives?”
“You have to accept and agree with everything she says. There is no point in trying to tell her that something is other than she believes. You cannot try to explain to her that the garden out there belongs to Northwood Hall it will just get her agitated, upset, and achieve nothing. If she starts to talk about her childhood garden and the flowerbeds in front of the orchard, you have to transport yourself into her world and see things through her eyes. Mr Waterson has some success sometimes, he can sometimes get through to her, but there is no way to truly bring her back.”
“Do you mean Mr Waterson, A.J. her son; I thought he never came here?” Albert asked wondering if there was another Mr Waterson.
“Yes I do mean her son, I would have thought you would have known.”
“Known what?” but if Albert was to ask further questions the door into the room opened and the entrance of A.J. Waterson interrupted him.
“So you’ve managed to track me down again,” fumed Albert, “don’t tell me you just happened to be visiting mother.”
“We need to continue this conversation elsewhere,” replied A.J. calmly, “Jane could you please take care of my mother, It’s her lunch time shortly, Albert follow me.”
A.J. closed the door he had used to enter the room and opened another one located on the opposite wall. He stood, holding the door, waiting for Albert to follow. Albert was reluctant to obey A.J.’s order to follow him but realised that the conversation was likely to get heated and he did not want this to be acted out in front of Mrs Stokes or his mother. The open door lead to a hallway with a number of doors and a staircase.
“That’s mother’s bedroom,” A.J. announced, his voice still calm, pointing to one of the doors, “Come this way,” and he started to ascend the stairs.
At the top of the stairs was another hallway, again with a number of doors. A.J. opened one of the doors and Albert found himself directed into a sitting room of a similar size and shape as the one his mother used on the floor below. A.J. walked over to the bay window, turned to face into the room and announced, “Welcome to my home, this is where I live, so you see I was not tracking you down or visiting mother, I was simply returning home.”
Albert felt sure his face had coloured because of embarrassment. He had completely misjudged his brother, rather than locking away his mother in a care home he had actually moved into the same home so he could be near her. From what he had seen of his mother’s condition it would be impossible for A.J. to care for her on his own, he had found the best alternative, the staff in the home delivered the care he was incapable of providing, but by living in the same building he could be near her. It seemed unlikely she really knew who he was and was unable to really appreciate the company of her son, but by being there he was able to play some part in the reality she occupied.
“I didn’t realise you had moved in with your mother,” Albert murmured rather sheepishly.
“But I didn’t,” A.J. replied, “she moved in with me. This is my home, Northwood Hall is my house, and in fact, it is the family house. Northwood Hall was owned by our grandfather.”
After suggesting they both sit A.J. went on to explain that their grandfather, on their father’s side, had previously owned the Hall. He reminded Albert that their grandfather had sold his house and land before committing suicide; the house he sold was Northwood Hall. As soon as A.J. had sufficient money, and could persuade the then owners to sell, he had bought the Hall and, in his mind, returned it to the rightful owners. He had hoped to raise his own family in this house but it had not worked out. Albert explained that Calder had told him about his wife and son.
“I thought an American woman would be thrilled to live in an old English hall,” A.J. revealed, “but she hated this place, probably more than she hated me. She called it dark, osteer, morbid, or is that what she called me?” he chuckled. “When mother became ill I persuaded her to move here and I arranged for cooks, cleaners, nurses, everything she needed. However, I also realised that with so many rooms in this place I could set up a care home for so many more people, people who needed the same level of care. So I carried out some alterations, some rooms made into bedrooms, others into sitting areas, I even installed a lift so we could use the upper floors. I’m sorry to say the front garden had to go to create the car park. We have 15 guests at the moment with 3 more moving in shortly.”
“A nice little earner as they say,” Albert sneered.
A.J. sighed.
Albert held up his hands as if surrendering. “Sorry, I should not have said that. I have an idea I will need to change my impression of you. Let’s call a truce.”
A.J. nodded. “Things have been wrong between us for so many years, my entire fault I admit that, and maybe our meeting hasn’t got off to the best start, but I hope in time we can become friends as well as brothers.”
A line seemed to have been drawn in the sand and the conversation continued in a lighter atmosphere. A.J. went on to explain about his other care facilities. He had hoped to open many more but financial difficulties in other areas of his business had impacted his ideas and he was working with his financial advisors to try to get his plans back on track. He produced some charts and graphs to illustrate what he was talking about but Albert found them incomprehensible and tried to appear knowledgeable rather than dampen A.J’s obvious enthusiasm for his projects. Albert, as a willing listener, only served to throw fuel on A.J.s fire. A.J. went on to outline other ideas he was working on, rarely pausing for breath, until he finally stopped and apologised,
“Sorry, I’m going on and on about this and that, I must sound like some sort of madman, it’s just that there are so many things I want to achieve, so little time, and I have to admit, so little money.”
If Albert did not already know, he now knew that his brother was a driven man with a single minded attitude to anything he wanted to achieve. There was no grey in his life; everything appeared as either black or white, for or against. He imagined everything and everyone cast aside in A.J.’s pursuit of any goal he set himself. He wondered how many people he had hurt or destroyed over the years, but despite his misgivings, he found himself warming to the man who stood in front of him. “Is this how he worked?” Albert questioned to himself, “like a spider luring his prey to the web by gentle persuasion and charm only to be devoured when their usefulness was exhausted. Had he an unknown part to play in A.J.’s grand plans?”
Albert looked at his watch, “I need to be going to catch my train, can I use the phone to call for a taxi?”
“There’s no need for a taxi, I can give you a lift, my car is outside. Let’s call and say goodbye to mother on the way out.”
The vase was once again full of flowers, carefully arranged and placed on the table to capture the light streaming in from the garden. Someone had cleared away the used lunch plates and their mother was now sitting at the dining table drinking tea.
“I’m going out now, I won't be long,” A.J. said as he kissed his mother on the forehead.
Albert picked up her hand and held it between his, “your flowers look beautiful, pretty as a picture just like you. I’ll try to come to see you again soon.”
Albert looked around the room to find his suitcase.
“Aren’t you staying for tea George, I bought some nice ham for you, the sort you like?”
Albert spun round to confirm it was his mother that had asked the question. His skin tingled with the thought that she had recognised him. She had not turned to look at him; her gaze was still directed towards the flowers and the garden beyond.
“Come on Albert, we had better be going so you do not miss your train,” A.J. had found Albert’s case and was holding it as he stood against the open door.
“Do you think?” Albert started to ask, but A.J. interrupted him.
“I’m sorry, I can see what you thought, she didn’t know you, she sometimes calls me George, and sometimes she thinks I’m her father.”
Albert sighed, he really should not have expected her to remember him, but just for that one moment he imagined they had been reunited.
As A.J. drove out of the car park he said, “If you don’t mind I would like to take a little detour on the way to the station, there is something I would like to show you, it will not take too long and we will still be in time for your train.”
Albert did not object and A.J. turned onto the ring road rather than heading directly towards the town centre. Albert watched the scenery flash past but rather than enquire where they were going he asked, “Did I have a teddy bear, when I was little, a young child, did I have a furry teddy bear?”
A.J. did not answer immediately; he seemed to know the answer but was considering the question, and how to phrase the reply.
“A strange question. Why do you ask?” A.J. replied, delaying his answer.
“When I was talking to mother I had this image come into my mind of a teddy bear, I was holding it close to my face and it had strange eyes like brown glass marbles.”
Albert often experienced these types of images of people and places. Sometimes they were in vivid dreams and others sparked for no obvious reason. He wondered if they were images from his past, memories locked away only released by some unknown key, or simply things or people he had seen in the gardens or working in the Inn. This image of the teddy bear had been so powerful and obviously not from a recent experience he could only assume it was a childhood memory that had been inexplicably released from its locked cage.
“You did have a teddy bear,” A.J. finally reluctantly replied, “it was given to you by father when you were only a baby. As you grew older you took it everywhere, Ted, as you called it, was never far from your side. You slept with it, took it outside when you were playing. You dragged the bear around the yard and the feet began to fray. One day, I think you had just started school, you announced that you were too old for a teddy bear and you decided to give it to me, your younger brother. You made a big announcement of it and presented it to me in front of mother and father, but father grabbed it from my hand and said that if you no longer wanted it then no one was to have it. He marched us out into the back yard and set fire to the bear. He did it slowly and carefully, no raised voices or signs of anger, he quietly and deliberately built a little pile of sticks, poured on some spirit and burned the bear like burning witches at the stake. You were horrified and screamed for him to stop, but it made no difference, I’m not sure he even heard you.”
Albert sat quietly deep in thought. He had often wondered about his childhood days. He imagined them to be wonderful, idyllic, full of happiness, parties, Christmas presents, and family holidays at the beach. However, this was a family life painted by Mrs Hughes, as she convinced him he was her son Albert; reality he now knew was likely to be much different, darker and sinister. Did he really want to know who he was and where had come from?
“Our father was an evil man,” A.J. continued as if answering the question Albert was afraid to ask, “he committed some depraved acts, it was as if he was infected by some unknown poison, never violent, he never physically hurt any of us, but the mental pain he dispensed was much worse. He made mine and mother’s life hell, he found more and more devious ways to ensure our unhappiness, but to everyone outside of the family he was so charming, no one would ever believe our stories if we ever dared to tell them.”
“You mentioned you and mother, what about me?” Albert asked, “How was he towards me?”
“Towards you, he was exactly opposite. You were definitely his favourite. At first you enjoyed it but as you grew older you could see and understand what he was doing to us and this upset you particularly as his favours to you were being used to punish us. It was as if he was trying to use you as his partner in crime. You tried to help us as best you could, but we all had to be so careful. If he had beaten us there would have been bruises, some form of physical evidence, but mental punishment only leaves scars that are invisible and long to heal. It’s strange talking about it now, the emotions are coming back as I describe how desperate life was like then, sometimes I envy you that memories of those days have been cleaned from your mind.”
The car pulled up in front of a two stone buildings, the one on the left a small house with a door and window on the ground floor and two windows above. The second building was a similar size but the wall was plain with no windows or doors. A stone archway, with a solid wooden gate below the arch, connected the two buildings. The building that looked like a house was previously part shop and part house, A.K. explained, the other building was used as a store and stable. The gate opened onto a paved yard and gave access to the store and stable for a horse and cart.
“This is where we were born, this is where we lived and worked,” A.J. explained as they got out of the car and walked across the road towards the buildings. “This window was the shop window and the door was the access to the shop, we lived at the back and upstairs.”
A.J. unlocked the door and lead them into a small sitting room.
“Who lives here now?” Albert asked.
“No one, it’s empty. Mother lived here until she moved to Northwood Hall. Of course, I changed it for her to make life more comfortable, put in heating, installed electricity, but for some reason I could not bring myself to sell it when she moved out. Before I installed these radiators, you can see around the rooms, the only heating was small open fireplaces in each room. Father never had them lit, he didn’t give a reason, the house was like an icebox in the winter it’s amazing we all survived. I always hoped that my son would return from America and live here. It’s a crazy notion I know, why would he want to do that, but I wanted this to be somewhere he could live if ever it should happen.”
A.J. showed Albert the dining room and the small kitchen with a door that lead out into the back yard. He described how he had converted the stable and store into an office which he used before he moved his operation into Waterson House. The yard lead down to a paddock bordered by a picket fence, there was no evidence of any horses having used it for many years.
“I’m surprised there isn’t a garden as mother seems to be so keen on gardening,” Albert observed as he looked around the area at the back of the buildings.
“There was a garden once. Father built it for mother when they first moved into the property, just after they were married, but one day he dug it up, I was very young at the time so I do not remember it. Mother told me she thought he was taking out the flowers and bushes to create a vegetable garden but he just left the bare soil, not a sign of a plant, weed or a blade of grass. He kept it like that for years; mother was heartbroken. She begged him to let her plant some flowers but he refused and the ground stayed as barren as if it was a patch in the desert.”
“This is where I found him,” A.J. said pointing to the base of the wall of what was previously the stable. “I had been away for most of the day and they say he had probably been dead for hours.”
“This is father you’re talking about?” Albert enquired.
“Yes, they say it was a heart attack. The doctor reckoned it was very quick, but I think he was saying that to comfort me. The way he was sitting, propped up against the wall, he must have crawled there across the yard. I like to think he stared death in the face for many hours, alone with his evil thoughts.”
“We had better be heading for the station,” A.J. said as he walked back towards the rear door. He stopped before the door as if an invisible force was blocking his way. Turning to look back at the yard he said, “One day father came through this door carrying an apple, he said there was a spare one and you were to have it. The store was full of boxes of apples, there was more than enough for one each but only you were to have the apple. You started to eat it but when father left the room, you got a knife, cut it in half, and gave the other half to me. Father saw me eating my part of the apple and snatched it from me; he fed it to the horse. Years later, when father died and they removed his body from the yard; the first thing I did was go into that store and helped myself to an apple.”
As they drove towards the station, A.J. explained how he had met Neville Conrad the day before at the country club. He quickly assured Albert again that Neville had not been part of any grand plan and their meeting at the club was purely coincidence. He hoped that Albert believed that and if he was to see Neville again he should remind him to call A.J. sometime about something they had talked about at the club. He did not explain what that something was and Albert did not enquire. They parted with a handshake and assurances they would both keep in contact.
“I hope I can find a place like this when I get to that age,” the taxi driver exclaimed, “They say it’s like staying in a five star hotel.”
“I’m sure it costs as much as staying in a five star hotel,” Albert tutted as he handed over his fare to the driver.
“No I’ve heard it’s no more expensive than some of the other places that look a lot worse,” the driver responded, “you’ve got my number if you need picking up later, just give me a call.”
During breakfast at the Grenadier hotel Albert had asked the staff if they knew where A.J.’s mother, Mrs Waterson, lived. One of the older members of staff, who worked in the kitchen, gave him the details of the address. He had decided he wanted to visit his mother, but not with A.J. and after calling Northwood Hall to ensure he would be able to see her called a taxi, leaving the hotel half an hour before A.J. arrived to meet him.
Northwood Hall was a three-storey building constructed of red brick with light coloured stone surrounds to the windows and front door. An imposing building, portraying Victorian strength and power, welcomed the visitor. From the air it would be seen as “T” shaped with a tarmac car park at the front, a square lawn at the rear and a crescent of trees, the remains of the Northern Wood, framing the lawn and surrounding flower beds.
The door, its surround and two stone steps were original features, but a gently sloping ramp, giving wheelchair access, built at the side of the steps, was a more recent addition. A plump woman, wearing what appeared to be a pale blue nurses uniform, answered the doorbell. Albert announced himself, explained about the earlier phone call to arrange to meet Mrs Waterson. The plump woman showed him into a small reception area where he was asked to sign the visitor’s book and wait for assistance. Albert looked through the previous pages of the book looking for A.J.’s name but not unexpectedly, he thought to himself, could not find any evidence of A.J. having visited in recent weeks. The sound of someone entering the reception room interrupted his perusal of the book and he turned to see a woman dressed in a smart casual suit who introduced herself as Mrs Stokes, the manager of Northwood Hall. She explained it had been her, who Albert had spoken to on the phone earlier, and asked if Albert was a friend or relative of Mrs Waterson. Albert explained that he was a relative but had not seen Mrs Waterson for some years.
“I don’t live in the area and I was only recently informed that Mrs Waterson was staying at Northwood Hall.”
“Were you also informed that Mrs Waterson has severe dementia and it is unlikely that she will recognise or remember you?” Mrs Stokes asked.
Albert informed her that he was aware of her condition but as it was such a long time since they last met they both would have difficulty with recognition.
One of the exits from the reception room was a long hallway, heading towards the main body of the house, but rather than walking towards this hallway, Mrs Stokes directed Albert towards a door at the side of the reception room. Finding a key on the belt of her trousers, she unlocked the door and gestured for Albert to go through into a dimly lit vestibule. When they were both in the vestibule, she locked the door behind them and then proceeded to unlock a further door.
Albert recalled the conversation of the night before with Calder and the comment he made about his brother hiding his mother in a home, locked away out of sight. Well he had been right, she was locked away like a prisoner and Mrs Stokes was the goaler.
The second door opened onto a room that was so bright it was a few moments before Albert’s eyes adjusted to the light after the relative darkness of the vestibule. The room was furnished with upright easy chairs, a dining table large enough to seat four people, bookcases full of leather backed volumes, an open fireplace with solid wood mantelpiece and tiled surround, green velvet curtains hanging either side of a bay window; a room that said come in sit down, make yourself comfortable. In front of the bay window was a long console table and there stood a thin framed woman with hair the colour of fresh snow. A pure white apron, tied around her waist, covered the front of a floral dress, as bright as the room. Her facial features, although now consistent with her age, were obviously those of a woman who had been very beautiful in former years. On the table was a vase containing a few flowers with others lying on the table ready to be arranged.
“Mrs Waterson I have a visitor for you,” Mrs Stokes announced. “I did not tell her you were coming,” she whispered to Albert who was standing at her side looking at the woman at the window with sunlight shining through her hair and the blooms of the flowers giving the effect of a stained glass window, “She would not have remembered if I had told her,” Mrs Stokes concluded.
Mrs Waterson looked up from her flower arranging and in a surprisingly strong voice explained that she had picked the flowers from her garden that morning. Mrs Stokes turned to Albert, nodding her head from side to side, indicating that this was not correct and with a raise of her eyebrows explained without words that this was a figment of Mrs Waterson’s imagination; a consequence of the dementia.
“The blooms have been very good this year, we have not had the strong winds you see that so often destroys them just as they are about to be at their best,” Mrs Waterson continued not really talking to anyone in particular. Albert even wondered if she was aware there were other people in the room.
Mrs Waterson returned to her flower arranging and the remaining flowers were placed in the vase without further comments.
“Mrs Waterson come and sit over here and I’ll bring you some tea,” Mrs Stokes gestured to one of the upright chairs. “You sit there Mr Hughes, next to Mrs Waterson and I’ll be able to put the tea on the table between you and you can have a nice chat over a drink.”
Albert did not know if his mother would need assistance to walk between the table where she was standing and the chair indicted but his concern was unfounded as she walked with no difficulty and lowered herself into the chair with surprising ease.
“This is a very beautiful room and you have made the flowers look lovely,” Albert said unsure how to start the conversation.
His mother smiled in acknowledgement but did speak or turn towards him only continued to look forwards, not staring but not focusing on anything in particular. Albert wondered if she was hard of hearing and continued in a louder and deliberate voice.
“Do you sit outside in the garden if the weather is warm enough?”
“I go into the garden every morning to pick the flowers. I like to pick them when the dew is still on the petals. The grass is getting long I must ask father if he will arrange for it to be cut.”
Albert knew neither of these utterances was correct and realised that it would be impossible to have a realistic conversation. He decided to tell her about himself, where he lived, that he also had a garden but his was much bigger, about his meeting with A.J. but he did not tell her his true identity. Certain things he mentioned seemed to raise a smile, giving some indication that she was listening and understanding. However, any question he asked only received the same smile and he concluded the smile was a form of instinctive polite gesture.
Mrs Stokes returned with the tea on a tray and pouring the tea into two cups placed them on the table between them. She walked to the window and picked up the vase of flowers.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she said as she walked towards the door carrying the flowers and tea tray.
Albert decided to ask his mother some questions about her past but received the same blank looks and occasional polite smile. He also noticed that some questions caused what he perceived to be some discomfort as she furrowed her brow trying to make sense of his question or some distant memory. His mother was becoming increasingly agitated when Mrs Stokes returned carrying the flowers and an empty vase.
“Mrs Waterson I’ve got your flowers,” she said putting the flowers and vase on the table by the window. “I think the stems are the correct length if you want to arrange them in the vase when you’ve finished your tea.”
Without finishing her tea, she pushed herself out of the chair walked over to the window and started to arrange the flowers once again.
Albert looked over at Mrs Stokes quizzically. She gestured to him to join her at the opposite end of the room where she explained that sometimes Mrs Waterson became agitated or upset and flower arranging calmed her down; she doesn’t remember doing them already. It was something that she did in her childhood and obviously enjoyed and although she might not actually remember doing it, or the circumstances, there was some form of emotional memory that remained from those days. She believed she had picked the flowers from her childhood garden but in reality, she had not left this sitting room for the past four years.
“Why doesn’t A.J. take her out?” Albert snapped.
“This room is the only place she can make sense of. We are not sure where she thinks she is, but anywhere outside these four walls is like an alien world for her. Her senses seemed to be overpowered and the whole experience is so upsetting that it is kinder for her to stay in this room. For you and I it would seem like a prison but for her the torture begins out there.”
Albert was not sure he understood and was uncertain about his brother’s motives. Even if he did not take her out why did he not visit his mother?
Mrs Stokes was correct, the flower arranging had calmed his mother down and a serene glow had returned to her face. Albert watched her carefully placing the flowers in the vase, moving them around until the colours and lengths were just as she wanted them arranged. Her eyes were surprisingly clear, no evidence of milky cataracts. He suddenly had an image of a teddy bear with glass eyes. He saw himself stroking the fur of the teddy and then running the tips of his fingers over the smooth eyes. He felt the contrasting textures, the hard glassy smoothness and the furry fabric he could squeeze with his fingers or rub against his cheek. He saw the teddy sitting with bent legs and staring with the brown glass eyes. He could look into those eyes and see a reflection. It was a child. He tried to recognise the child's image, was it himself, and was he the one looking at the seated teddy bear?
“Are you alright Mr Hughes?” it was Mrs Stokes voice, “are you in pain, do you want another drink?”
Albert realised the effort to recollect and make sense of these images must have resulted him contorting his facial features to the concern of Mrs Stokes.
“No I’m fine thank you,” Albert replied feeling slightly embarrassed by the strange image he must have presented. “No honestly I’m fine now,” he reiterated as Mrs Stokes asked again after his health. “I don’t seem to be able to get through to her,” he continued trying to change the subject, “other than the odd smile she doesn’t respond to anything I’ve said to her. Do you think she understands anything that’s going on here?”
“She’s in a world that we can hardly begin to imagine. She looks out of that bay window and sees the garden of the house she lived in when she was a girl. The two gardens are completely different and to you and I it is impossible to understand how someone can rationalise these two different images and firmly believe this room is somewhere else in time and place. Her eyesight is near perfect for someone her age and yet the connections to her brain to make sense of what she sees are scrambled, or hard wired to an event or place on the past.”
“Is there no way of getting into that world, her world where she lives?”
“You have to accept and agree with everything she says. There is no point in trying to tell her that something is other than she believes. You cannot try to explain to her that the garden out there belongs to Northwood Hall it will just get her agitated, upset, and achieve nothing. If she starts to talk about her childhood garden and the flowerbeds in front of the orchard, you have to transport yourself into her world and see things through her eyes. Mr Waterson has some success sometimes, he can sometimes get through to her, but there is no way to truly bring her back.”
“Do you mean Mr Waterson, A.J. her son; I thought he never came here?” Albert asked wondering if there was another Mr Waterson.
“Yes I do mean her son, I would have thought you would have known.”
“Known what?” but if Albert was to ask further questions the door into the room opened and the entrance of A.J. Waterson interrupted him.
“So you’ve managed to track me down again,” fumed Albert, “don’t tell me you just happened to be visiting mother.”
“We need to continue this conversation elsewhere,” replied A.J. calmly, “Jane could you please take care of my mother, It’s her lunch time shortly, Albert follow me.”
A.J. closed the door he had used to enter the room and opened another one located on the opposite wall. He stood, holding the door, waiting for Albert to follow. Albert was reluctant to obey A.J.’s order to follow him but realised that the conversation was likely to get heated and he did not want this to be acted out in front of Mrs Stokes or his mother. The open door lead to a hallway with a number of doors and a staircase.
“That’s mother’s bedroom,” A.J. announced, his voice still calm, pointing to one of the doors, “Come this way,” and he started to ascend the stairs.
At the top of the stairs was another hallway, again with a number of doors. A.J. opened one of the doors and Albert found himself directed into a sitting room of a similar size and shape as the one his mother used on the floor below. A.J. walked over to the bay window, turned to face into the room and announced, “Welcome to my home, this is where I live, so you see I was not tracking you down or visiting mother, I was simply returning home.”
Albert felt sure his face had coloured because of embarrassment. He had completely misjudged his brother, rather than locking away his mother in a care home he had actually moved into the same home so he could be near her. From what he had seen of his mother’s condition it would be impossible for A.J. to care for her on his own, he had found the best alternative, the staff in the home delivered the care he was incapable of providing, but by living in the same building he could be near her. It seemed unlikely she really knew who he was and was unable to really appreciate the company of her son, but by being there he was able to play some part in the reality she occupied.
“I didn’t realise you had moved in with your mother,” Albert murmured rather sheepishly.
“But I didn’t,” A.J. replied, “she moved in with me. This is my home, Northwood Hall is my house, and in fact, it is the family house. Northwood Hall was owned by our grandfather.”
After suggesting they both sit A.J. went on to explain that their grandfather, on their father’s side, had previously owned the Hall. He reminded Albert that their grandfather had sold his house and land before committing suicide; the house he sold was Northwood Hall. As soon as A.J. had sufficient money, and could persuade the then owners to sell, he had bought the Hall and, in his mind, returned it to the rightful owners. He had hoped to raise his own family in this house but it had not worked out. Albert explained that Calder had told him about his wife and son.
“I thought an American woman would be thrilled to live in an old English hall,” A.J. revealed, “but she hated this place, probably more than she hated me. She called it dark, osteer, morbid, or is that what she called me?” he chuckled. “When mother became ill I persuaded her to move here and I arranged for cooks, cleaners, nurses, everything she needed. However, I also realised that with so many rooms in this place I could set up a care home for so many more people, people who needed the same level of care. So I carried out some alterations, some rooms made into bedrooms, others into sitting areas, I even installed a lift so we could use the upper floors. I’m sorry to say the front garden had to go to create the car park. We have 15 guests at the moment with 3 more moving in shortly.”
“A nice little earner as they say,” Albert sneered.
A.J. sighed.
Albert held up his hands as if surrendering. “Sorry, I should not have said that. I have an idea I will need to change my impression of you. Let’s call a truce.”
A.J. nodded. “Things have been wrong between us for so many years, my entire fault I admit that, and maybe our meeting hasn’t got off to the best start, but I hope in time we can become friends as well as brothers.”
A line seemed to have been drawn in the sand and the conversation continued in a lighter atmosphere. A.J. went on to explain about his other care facilities. He had hoped to open many more but financial difficulties in other areas of his business had impacted his ideas and he was working with his financial advisors to try to get his plans back on track. He produced some charts and graphs to illustrate what he was talking about but Albert found them incomprehensible and tried to appear knowledgeable rather than dampen A.J’s obvious enthusiasm for his projects. Albert, as a willing listener, only served to throw fuel on A.J.s fire. A.J. went on to outline other ideas he was working on, rarely pausing for breath, until he finally stopped and apologised,
“Sorry, I’m going on and on about this and that, I must sound like some sort of madman, it’s just that there are so many things I want to achieve, so little time, and I have to admit, so little money.”
If Albert did not already know, he now knew that his brother was a driven man with a single minded attitude to anything he wanted to achieve. There was no grey in his life; everything appeared as either black or white, for or against. He imagined everything and everyone cast aside in A.J.’s pursuit of any goal he set himself. He wondered how many people he had hurt or destroyed over the years, but despite his misgivings, he found himself warming to the man who stood in front of him. “Is this how he worked?” Albert questioned to himself, “like a spider luring his prey to the web by gentle persuasion and charm only to be devoured when their usefulness was exhausted. Had he an unknown part to play in A.J.’s grand plans?”
Albert looked at his watch, “I need to be going to catch my train, can I use the phone to call for a taxi?”
“There’s no need for a taxi, I can give you a lift, my car is outside. Let’s call and say goodbye to mother on the way out.”
The vase was once again full of flowers, carefully arranged and placed on the table to capture the light streaming in from the garden. Someone had cleared away the used lunch plates and their mother was now sitting at the dining table drinking tea.
“I’m going out now, I won't be long,” A.J. said as he kissed his mother on the forehead.
Albert picked up her hand and held it between his, “your flowers look beautiful, pretty as a picture just like you. I’ll try to come to see you again soon.”
Albert looked around the room to find his suitcase.
“Aren’t you staying for tea George, I bought some nice ham for you, the sort you like?”
Albert spun round to confirm it was his mother that had asked the question. His skin tingled with the thought that she had recognised him. She had not turned to look at him; her gaze was still directed towards the flowers and the garden beyond.
“Come on Albert, we had better be going so you do not miss your train,” A.J. had found Albert’s case and was holding it as he stood against the open door.
“Do you think?” Albert started to ask, but A.J. interrupted him.
“I’m sorry, I can see what you thought, she didn’t know you, she sometimes calls me George, and sometimes she thinks I’m her father.”
Albert sighed, he really should not have expected her to remember him, but just for that one moment he imagined they had been reunited.
As A.J. drove out of the car park he said, “If you don’t mind I would like to take a little detour on the way to the station, there is something I would like to show you, it will not take too long and we will still be in time for your train.”
Albert did not object and A.J. turned onto the ring road rather than heading directly towards the town centre. Albert watched the scenery flash past but rather than enquire where they were going he asked, “Did I have a teddy bear, when I was little, a young child, did I have a furry teddy bear?”
A.J. did not answer immediately; he seemed to know the answer but was considering the question, and how to phrase the reply.
“A strange question. Why do you ask?” A.J. replied, delaying his answer.
“When I was talking to mother I had this image come into my mind of a teddy bear, I was holding it close to my face and it had strange eyes like brown glass marbles.”
Albert often experienced these types of images of people and places. Sometimes they were in vivid dreams and others sparked for no obvious reason. He wondered if they were images from his past, memories locked away only released by some unknown key, or simply things or people he had seen in the gardens or working in the Inn. This image of the teddy bear had been so powerful and obviously not from a recent experience he could only assume it was a childhood memory that had been inexplicably released from its locked cage.
“You did have a teddy bear,” A.J. finally reluctantly replied, “it was given to you by father when you were only a baby. As you grew older you took it everywhere, Ted, as you called it, was never far from your side. You slept with it, took it outside when you were playing. You dragged the bear around the yard and the feet began to fray. One day, I think you had just started school, you announced that you were too old for a teddy bear and you decided to give it to me, your younger brother. You made a big announcement of it and presented it to me in front of mother and father, but father grabbed it from my hand and said that if you no longer wanted it then no one was to have it. He marched us out into the back yard and set fire to the bear. He did it slowly and carefully, no raised voices or signs of anger, he quietly and deliberately built a little pile of sticks, poured on some spirit and burned the bear like burning witches at the stake. You were horrified and screamed for him to stop, but it made no difference, I’m not sure he even heard you.”
Albert sat quietly deep in thought. He had often wondered about his childhood days. He imagined them to be wonderful, idyllic, full of happiness, parties, Christmas presents, and family holidays at the beach. However, this was a family life painted by Mrs Hughes, as she convinced him he was her son Albert; reality he now knew was likely to be much different, darker and sinister. Did he really want to know who he was and where had come from?
“Our father was an evil man,” A.J. continued as if answering the question Albert was afraid to ask, “he committed some depraved acts, it was as if he was infected by some unknown poison, never violent, he never physically hurt any of us, but the mental pain he dispensed was much worse. He made mine and mother’s life hell, he found more and more devious ways to ensure our unhappiness, but to everyone outside of the family he was so charming, no one would ever believe our stories if we ever dared to tell them.”
“You mentioned you and mother, what about me?” Albert asked, “How was he towards me?”
“Towards you, he was exactly opposite. You were definitely his favourite. At first you enjoyed it but as you grew older you could see and understand what he was doing to us and this upset you particularly as his favours to you were being used to punish us. It was as if he was trying to use you as his partner in crime. You tried to help us as best you could, but we all had to be so careful. If he had beaten us there would have been bruises, some form of physical evidence, but mental punishment only leaves scars that are invisible and long to heal. It’s strange talking about it now, the emotions are coming back as I describe how desperate life was like then, sometimes I envy you that memories of those days have been cleaned from your mind.”
The car pulled up in front of a two stone buildings, the one on the left a small house with a door and window on the ground floor and two windows above. The second building was a similar size but the wall was plain with no windows or doors. A stone archway, with a solid wooden gate below the arch, connected the two buildings. The building that looked like a house was previously part shop and part house, A.K. explained, the other building was used as a store and stable. The gate opened onto a paved yard and gave access to the store and stable for a horse and cart.
“This is where we were born, this is where we lived and worked,” A.J. explained as they got out of the car and walked across the road towards the buildings. “This window was the shop window and the door was the access to the shop, we lived at the back and upstairs.”
A.J. unlocked the door and lead them into a small sitting room.
“Who lives here now?” Albert asked.
“No one, it’s empty. Mother lived here until she moved to Northwood Hall. Of course, I changed it for her to make life more comfortable, put in heating, installed electricity, but for some reason I could not bring myself to sell it when she moved out. Before I installed these radiators, you can see around the rooms, the only heating was small open fireplaces in each room. Father never had them lit, he didn’t give a reason, the house was like an icebox in the winter it’s amazing we all survived. I always hoped that my son would return from America and live here. It’s a crazy notion I know, why would he want to do that, but I wanted this to be somewhere he could live if ever it should happen.”
A.J. showed Albert the dining room and the small kitchen with a door that lead out into the back yard. He described how he had converted the stable and store into an office which he used before he moved his operation into Waterson House. The yard lead down to a paddock bordered by a picket fence, there was no evidence of any horses having used it for many years.
“I’m surprised there isn’t a garden as mother seems to be so keen on gardening,” Albert observed as he looked around the area at the back of the buildings.
“There was a garden once. Father built it for mother when they first moved into the property, just after they were married, but one day he dug it up, I was very young at the time so I do not remember it. Mother told me she thought he was taking out the flowers and bushes to create a vegetable garden but he just left the bare soil, not a sign of a plant, weed or a blade of grass. He kept it like that for years; mother was heartbroken. She begged him to let her plant some flowers but he refused and the ground stayed as barren as if it was a patch in the desert.”
“This is where I found him,” A.J. said pointing to the base of the wall of what was previously the stable. “I had been away for most of the day and they say he had probably been dead for hours.”
“This is father you’re talking about?” Albert enquired.
“Yes, they say it was a heart attack. The doctor reckoned it was very quick, but I think he was saying that to comfort me. The way he was sitting, propped up against the wall, he must have crawled there across the yard. I like to think he stared death in the face for many hours, alone with his evil thoughts.”
“We had better be heading for the station,” A.J. said as he walked back towards the rear door. He stopped before the door as if an invisible force was blocking his way. Turning to look back at the yard he said, “One day father came through this door carrying an apple, he said there was a spare one and you were to have it. The store was full of boxes of apples, there was more than enough for one each but only you were to have the apple. You started to eat it but when father left the room, you got a knife, cut it in half, and gave the other half to me. Father saw me eating my part of the apple and snatched it from me; he fed it to the horse. Years later, when father died and they removed his body from the yard; the first thing I did was go into that store and helped myself to an apple.”
As they drove towards the station, A.J. explained how he had met Neville Conrad the day before at the country club. He quickly assured Albert again that Neville had not been part of any grand plan and their meeting at the club was purely coincidence. He hoped that Albert believed that and if he was to see Neville again he should remind him to call A.J. sometime about something they had talked about at the club. He did not explain what that something was and Albert did not enquire. They parted with a handshake and assurances they would both keep in contact.