Bob opened the back door and called. ‘Tigger, come on, supper time.’ He knew the cat had spent the evening next door with Sally. It had got to the point where Tigger only came back home for food.
Bob took the bottle of milk from the fridge and placed it on the worktop. His bedtime cup of hot chocolate helped him sleep. If he drank tea like Margaret he’d be in and out of the loo all night. A diuretic, that’s what tea was. Funny it didn’t affect her the way it did him. He stooped down and took a saucepan from the cupboard.
Margaret was already upstairs, settled in bed with her book. She was still in control of things though. Her voice carried down the stairs. ‘Don’t forget to take the fish out of the freezer, dear.’
She didn’t trust him to carry out the simplest task. Anyone would think he was senile. Damn cheek. Bob could remember things that had happened years ago, tiny little details that lots of people would have completely forgotten about.
Now, what was he doing? Ah yes, the fish. Take it out of the freezer to defrost overnight, ready for tomorrow’s lunch. He swivelled round towards the freezer and his elbow caught the milk bottle, toppling it over. It rolled along the worktop, glugging out its contents as it headed towards the edge. He lurched out and managed to grab it just before it rolled off, but by now there were only a few drops of milk left in the bottle. Bob cursed to himself. He didn’t like to see waste. Good job they had Tigger to lap it up.
Bob was determined not to get into a panic. He took a deep breath. Right, first things first. The fish. He took the frozen haddock from the freezer and placed it on a plate.
What else needed to be done? Of course, turn off the central heating for the night. He went over to the control unit and was surprised to find he’d already switched it off. He was obviously more efficient than he’d realised.
Right, now for the bedtime drinks. He’d spilt almost all of his full cream milk, so he’d have to use Margaret’s semi-skimmed for his cup of chocolate. Not to worry. He took the red-topped bottle from the fridge, poured a cupful into the saucepan and switched on the hob. A couple of spoons of chocolate powder in the cup, and that was his drink sorted. Okay, now for Margaret’s cup of tea. There was still no sign of the cat. Bob scooped out some cat food from a tin onto Tigger’s saucer. He opened the back door and tapped the spoon on the edge of the plate. That should do the trick.
He boiled the kettle and dropped a teabag into Margaret’s cup. He smiled to himself as he tipped in the remnants of the full-cream milk. Margaret always insisted on semi-skimmed and it would be interesting to see if she noticed the difference.
Out in the garden, Tigger had finished his toilet duty for the night and was covering the evidence with soil. He recognised the sound of cutlery on china as a signal that food was available in the kitchen. Mealtimes had become somewhat hit and miss lately; sometimes they forgot to feed him, and other times, like tonight, he was fed twice. It was all very confusing. That’s one of the reasons why he was spending so much time with Sally next door. She didn’t feed him at all but she did let him sit on her lap, smoothing him for hours. And her house was lovely and warm. Heaven.
His saucer was being tapped again. He decided to go in and see what was on offer for second sitting.
Bob watched as Tigger clattered in through his cat flap and sniffed at the food in his saucer. He wandered off without touching it. Never mind, Bob told himself, he wouldn’t starve. Not with all that milk on the worktop.
Bob placed the two hot drinks on a tray and carried them upstairs. As he reached the bedroom door he realised he’d stupidly put the empty milk bottle on the tray, too. All that fussing with the spilt milk had thrown his concentration. Not that Margaret would see it that way. She’d make some dig about him losing his marbles. He placed the bottle carefully on the floor outside the bedroom door and carried the tray into the room.
‘Here we are, dear, tea for you and hot chocolate for me.’
Margaret glanced up from her Mills and Boon. ‘I was beginning to think you’d forgotten.’ She took her cup and warmed her hands on it. ‘I was cold. I think the heating must have gone off early. She took a sip of tea. ‘Mmm, that’s better. I was dying for a drink.’
‘It’s not just a matter of making a drink. There’s a lot to do before I can call it a day.’
‘Like what?’
‘You know the kind of things. Like making sure the telly’s turned off, and checking the back door’s locked. And seeing to Tigger of course.’
‘I wonder what you’ve forgotten tonight?’
Bob bit his lip. This was just the sort of jibe Margaret had been coming out with lately and it was starting to bug him. He decided to change the subject. ‘Enjoying your book?’ he asked.
‘A bit of escapism to take my mind off things.’
‘What things?’
‘Nothing in particular.’ Margaret finished her tea. ‘I heard a noise downstairs while you were in the kitchen. Did you knock something over?’
Give me a break, thought Bob. ‘Had a little accident with a milk bottle, that’s all,’ he said. ‘No damage done.’
‘An accident?’ She looked anxious. ‘What have you done now?’
‘Nothing to worry about, dear.’
Margaret wasn’t taking the matter so lightly. ‘Don’t tell me you spilt the milk?’
‘Just a drop.’
‘Which milk was it? Mine or yours?’ She was definitely agitated.
‘Does it really matter, dear? The milkman will be here again in the morning.’
‘Of course it matters.’
‘It was only a spot of milk for pity’s sake. And it won’t be wasted, not if I know Tigger.’
Margaret looked horrified. It was just as well she had finished her tea because she dropped her cup, and it bounced off the bed and onto the floor.
Margaret loved Bob, of course she did. But earlier that day she had made a difficult decision.
Bob’s memory was deteriorating at such a rate that he had become a walking liability. The real problem was that Margaret wasn’t going to be around to look after him. He didn’t know that of course. But with her not there they’d say he needed special care and they’d take him away and put him in a home. He’d hate that. That would be no way to spend the last days of his life. It was up to Margaret to prevent that from happening. It was desperate situation and it called for desperate measures.
She had a bottle of sleeping tablets in the bathroom cabinet. Doctor Grant had prescribed them for her last year when she’d been having trouble sleeping. She couldn’t take them now of course, not with her being so ill. Doctor Grant had instructed her to destroy any she had left so as to ensure she didn’t take them by accident. According to him, one tablet could finish her off.
She smiled. Yes, she’d been tempted by the notion. Suicide would be a way out of her predicament. But she couldn’t reconcile her conscience and her religious beliefs with such an action. And Bob would never forgive her either. So there was only one thing for it.
It would take more than one tablet to see to Bob, though. There were about twenty tablets in the bottle; that should do the job. It was a blessing she hadn’t thrown them out. She knew they would be more potent if he took them with alcohol, but Bob never touched the stuff. Nothing for it then, he’d have to take them with his bedtime drinking chocolate.
She slipped into the kitchen while he was watching Deal or No Deal. There was virtually a pint of his full-cream milk in the fridge, so she poured away most of it, leaving just a cupful in the bottle. Then she emptied out the sleeping capsules and tipped the powder into the milk. It was a drastic plan but Bob wouldn’t feel anything, and it would save him from all that unpleasantness later on.
She felt pleased with herself for being so assertive, and that night she went up to bed feeling happier than she had for some time. She simply had to wait for Bob to make his bedtime drink, and all her worries would be over. And all his worries too, of course. The plan was simplicity itself; even Bob couldn’t make a hash of this.
Margaret sounded sleepy and was slurring her words. ‘Please don’t let Tigger drink that milk,’ she mumbled.
Bob picked up her empty cup where it had fallen on the floor. ‘You’re almost asleep, dear,’ he said. ‘Let me help settle you down.’ To his surprise, Margaret didn’t argue. Her head flopped back on her pillow and she dropped off almost straight away.
He took her book from her hand and placed it on the bedside cabinet. ‘You must have been exhausted,’ he muttered. ‘Sleep tight.’
He climbed into bed and drank his cup of chocolate. He much preferred it made with full-cream milk, but never mind. He turned off the light and closed his eyes.
Really, it was a silly habit for Bob to have a drink at bedtime. He always needed the loo in the small hours, and this night was no exception. If he’d checked on Margaret as he climbed out of bed he’d have found her breathing had stopped completely and her body was stiff and cold.
He hobbled out through the bedroom door. He knew he was wobbly on his feet but he was convinced it had nothing to do with old age. Everybody is a bit unsteady when they’ve just woken up.
He’d completely forgotten about the empty milk bottle he’d left outside the door. He tripped over it but managed to regain his balance. The bottle rolled towards the top of the stairs and he lunged out awkwardly, trying to stop it with his foot like some kind of geriatric goalkeeper. It was asking too much of his ancient legs, and his left foot came down on top of the bottle just as it bounced over the first stair tread. It took Bob with it as it tumbled down the stairs.
After the first bump he didn’t feel a thing.
Tigger sniffed the spilt milk on the worktop; it smelt odd. He wouldn’t bother with that. He ate up the cat food on his saucer and curled up to sleep in his basket.
Nobody came down to feed him in the morning, but it didn’t matter; there were two delicious-smelling fillets of fish on a plate and these would keep him going for the time being.
Mealtimes had become erratic here lately; perhaps it had come to the point where they’d stopped feeding him completely. If that turned out to be the case, he’d be forced to move on. Well, a cat has to survive. He’d enjoyed his time with Bob and Margaret but it was no use crying over spilt milk.
He stretched out and yawned. Yes, he’d be quite content to move in with Sally next door. She really knew how to fuss a cat. And her house was lovely and warm.
