Human Condition

Lyn Miller

Description

Marion's life should be getting easier. It hasn't been simple juggling her busy job as an Edinburgh GP and caring for her daughter, Rose, single-handed. But, as Rose sets off for Bristol and student life, it becomes apparent that Marion's mother is failing. Deteriorating Alzheimer's disease makes her vulnerable and increasingly dependent on Marion. Marion's strength is tested as she copes with her mother's illness and deals with a startling discovery about her family's past.Nyaga has moved to Scotland from Botswana with the hope that she would find more opportunities in her work as a nurse and be able to make a better living. But missing her home, lonely and unhappy, Nyaga begins to feel ill and her anxiety mounts. A growing friendship with Marion helps to brighten her outlook.In Bristol Rose is soaring, on a high. She's in love and hopes to star in the forth-coming drama society production. But not everything continues to go smoothly for Rose.A Human Condition follows the three women's paths through life events and focuses on their relationships. Lyn Miller uses experiences from her own career working as a GP to add colour and detail to the narrative which will appeal to fans of women's and contemporary fiction.

Sujets

• Edimburgo
• Edinburgh
• Édimbourg

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 01 mars 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781789019940
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

A
HUMAN
CONDITION
Lyn Miller
Copyright © 2019 Lyn Miller

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is unintended and entirely coincidental.

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ISBN 9781789019940

Illustrated by Dave Hill
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This story is largely about family, so I want to dedicate it to my family.
To my parents, Bob and Morag McLarty, and my brother Russell.
Dad loves to entertain by recounting stories of his childhood and young adulthood. I’ve heard him say that perhaps he should have put his anecdotes down in writing. Mum can spin an elaborate tale from any small every-day occurrence, and is famous for her accompanying expressive gesticulation. Russell embraced the tradition of oral storytelling and has travelled to festivals in the UK, Eire and the USA. And so I’ve come to realise that by writing books I’m continuing in the family tradition of telling a yarn.
Also to my children, Andrew and Shona, who’ve always been enthusiastic and encouraging about my writing and to my husband, Dave, my constant support.
Contents
1. Marion
2. Nyaga
3. Marion
4. Rose
5. Marion
6. Nyaga
7. Marion
8. Rose
9. Marion
10. Nyaga
11. Marion
12. Rose
13. Marion
14. Nyaga
15. Marion
16. Rose
17. Marion
18. Nyaga
19. Marion
20. Rose
21. Marion
22. Nyaga
23. Marion
24. Rose
25. Marion
26. Nyaga
27. Marion
28. Rose
29. Marion
30. Nyaga
31. Marion

Acknowledgements
Marion
The ringing phone sounded very loud in the middle of the night. Marion was catapulted awake from a deep sleep, sitting bolt upright in bed before she was fully conscious. Years of being on call at nights had produced this Pavlovian reflex to the sound. She shuffled into her slippers and grabbed her dressing gown from a hook on the back of the bedroom door, shrugging it on as she stumbled into the hall. The ring was louder here and wasn’t stopping. She felt slightly sick and dizzy, having been woken from her deepest sleep. Turning on the light in the doorway of her study caused her to squint against the brightness as she entered the room. A glance at the wall clock told her that it was two thirty-six. She tossed a mental coin, Rose or Mum, and lifted the receiver.
“Is that Marion?” a voice asked.
“Yes.” Her voice produced a dry croak.
“It’s Rita Hutchison here, I’m sorry to wake you. I’ve got your mum here with me, I found her wandering in my garden. She’s not making much sense and I don’t want to just put her back next door in case she doesn’t settle.”
“No, no, I understand. Can you keep her with you till I get over?”
“Yes, of course, I’m just about to make her a cup of tea.”
“OK, I should be there in half an hour, maybe less at this time of night.”
She put the phone down and headed back through to her bedroom. Maybe she should get over her stubbornness about having a phone situated next to her bed. She had banished it gleefully several years ago with the advent of the out-of-hours co-op which meant that she no longer had to be on call from home at nights. She pulled on fresh underwear and grabbed jeans and a favourite red jumper from her wardrobe. Rummaging in her bottom drawer she found a pair of socks and then forced a brush through her thick, unruly hair, clipping it with a large clasp at the nape of her neck to keep it back from her face. What would she need? She retrieved her handbag from the bottom of her bedside cabinet and checked that her mum’s house keys were in the side pocket. Maybe she should take her work case. Might as well have the equipment to carry out a basic examination, it might save on having to call out her mum’s GP. She went through to her study, picked up the case and then set off downstairs to don her shoes and a thick tweed jacket. She stuck her right hand into the jacket pocket and jangled two sets of keys for her car and her front door which she’d left there when she came home earlier, then stepped out into the cold night air.
She’d always enjoyed driving through the city in the middle of the night. There were hardly any other cars on the streets, and traffic lights, if red, responded at her approach changing to green immediately, facilitating her journey. Her route, via Ferry Road then all along Seafield to Portobello, would be congested and have multiple hold-ups by day. She hummed along to a Sarah McLachlan CD and arrived in front of her mum’s bungalow in Joppa by ten past three. All was quiet when she got out of the car; the sharp slamming of the door seemed too loud. She could see a light shining dimly through the curtained side window of Rita’s house. In contrast her mum’s house was fully illuminated, with all lights blazing and all the curtains fully opened. Rita must have heard the car. She appeared at her front door.
“Come in and have a cuppa,” she invited.
“Thanks. Has she settled down a bit?” Marion asked, as she trailed after Rita into the kitchen. Her mum was sitting at Rita’s kitchen table nursing a mug between her hands. She was wearing an odd selection of clothes: a black and white knee-length hound’s tooth tweed skirt with what looked like a frilly nightie hanging down underneath almost to her ankles. The top part could have been mistaken for a blouse but the bluebird and butterfly fabric betrayed its origins from the lingerie department. She had a red, white and blue silk scarf tied jauntily at her neck and a green velvet beret perched on top of her tightly permed, ‘black from a bottle’ hair. Her legs under the nightie were bare and the skin was white, dry and flaky. On her feet was a pair of warm sheepskin slippers that Marion didn’t recognise.
“Hi Mum,” she greeted her, slipping off her jacket and leaning in to kiss her mother’s cheek.
“Oh no, dear, you shouldn’t wear red with your hair,” her mum replied.
Marion was tempted to laugh. Her mum had always been a well-turned-out woman, interested in fashion. As the manageress of a small boutique in Portobello, she loved to give customers guidance on their purchases. Despite her own strange ensemble of clothes tonight, she still had the instinct to advise. She’d always been firm that redheads couldn’t wear red clothes. However, Marion’s hair was copper rather than carrot and through time she’d developed her own ideas about which colours suited her best.
“How are you, Mum? Did something waken you up tonight?”
“I’m perfectly fine and enjoying a cup of tea,” was the reply.
“The slippers are mine,” Rita informed, as she placed a mug of tea on the table for Marion. “Sit down. Do you want a biscuit? Or some toast?”
“A biscuit would be nice, thanks. So was she wandering outside in her bare feet?”
“Yes. I heard noises that woke me up, like rummaging around my wheelie bins. I thought it was maybe a fox but then I got up and looked out of the window and saw Betty. When I went out and asked her what was wrong she kept mumbling about seeing someone off, and not wanting Peter to see the man. It didn’t make much sense.”
“Did she seem frightened?”
“No, not really, but she was whispering as if it was all a secret or a conspiracy.”
“Mum, did you think you heard someone outside?” Marion asked.
“I’m not sure… I don’t always remember.” Betty sounded hesitant, and then added, “But I didn’t want him to be disturbing Peter.” Marion’s dad, Peter, had died five years ago but sometimes her mum forgot this.
“Mum, if you’d thought someone was outside you should have phoned me or called the police. It wasn’t sensible to go out by yourself to deal with it.”
“Oh, he’d never have hurt me, dear,” her mum assured her.
Marion sighed. It didn’t sound as if there had been a real intruder, but it was hard to gauge what had been going on. Although Betty’s mind was compromised her hearing was still sharp. Could there have been a potential thief who knew that a vulnerable old lady was in the house alone? But such a person might also intuit that the house wouldn’t be likely to contain any electronic gadgets or much else that would be of value.
“All the lights are on in the house. It looks as if she’d been up for a while,” she told Rita. “Anyway, we should go and let you get back to sleep. Thank you so much for helping out, I’ll take Mum home now. I’m sorry you’ve had a disturbed night.”
“You can give me the slippers back tomorrow, or I suppose it’s going to be later today. What will you do? Do you have work?”
“No, luckily I don’t work on Wednesdays. I’ll get something sorted out. Thanks again.”
“Bye dear.” Rita patted Betty on the shoulder as Marion shepherded her out.
Next door Marion found