by John Clanchy
‘Christ, what’s the time?’
‘Miriam, there’s one last thing.’
‘I don’t know that I’m ready for last things.’
‘What would you like to say to your mother? If she could hear you. What would you want to say?’
‘God, I don’t know.’
‘Not now. But it might be worth thinking about.’
‘You mean, do I love her? I don’t think I do. Sometimes I feel desperately sorry for her. But love –?’
‘Mother-daughter … it’s pretty basic, isn’t it?’
‘And Philip?’
‘Well, Philip may have to look after himself for a while. You’re carrying enough as it is.’
‘I must go.’
‘Find someone, Miriam.’
‘Find someone?’
‘For your mother. To sit with your mother, nurse her while you’re out. If your teaching really keeps you sane.’
‘It does. If it weren’t for those women …’
‘Then find someone. There must be someone.’
Grandma Vera
‘Gone?’ Miriam says. ‘What’s gone, Mother?’
‘Gone,’ I have to tell her again. Miriam forgets things.
‘You said something was gone, Mother. You were upset, remember? You came in, you came in to me from the flat and you said something was gone.’
‘Piss in boots,’ I say.
‘Puss in boots, Mother. Puss in Boots. It’s about a cat.’
‘No –’ I tell her.
‘Yes, it is, Mother. It’s a fairy story and a pantomime. Katie’s seen it. I think you took me to see it, Brian and me, when we were children. Were you talking to Katie about it? Just now?’
‘It’s gone. Gone.’
‘The cat? Is that what you mean? The cat’s gone?’
‘Oh, no. Oh noo –’
‘No, no, I didn’t mean the cat has gone, Mother. I was just asking you whether the cat … Jesus.’
‘It’s gone. They’ve taken it.’
‘Mother, try not to get so upset. Let’s start again. Something’s gone? What is it? What has gone?’
‘The bowl thing.’
‘The toilet? Is that what you mean? You want to use the toilet?’
‘They’ve moved it.’
‘No, no, they haven’t, Mother. Nobody’s moved the toilet. Come and I’ll show you, I’ll show you so you can use the toilet. That’s why we put signs on all the doors, remember? Come on, this way. You see there?’
‘Kitchen.’
‘Yes, kitchen. It’s the same in your flat, isn’t it?’
‘Kitchen, kitchen.’
‘No, you don’t have a kitchen now. We’ve made yours into a sitting room for you now, remember? That’s where your TV is.’
‘Yes. The TV.’
‘Good, okay, now see the sign on the door? Sitting room – TV. That’s so you’ll know. And down here you’ll find Bedroom, Shower, Laundry, Toilet. I’ll show you the Toilet sign. Look, what does it say here?’
‘Laundry,’ I say.
‘KATIE!’
‘Shouting,’ I say. ‘Shouting. It hurts.’
‘I’m sorry, Mother, but I want that girl down here this instant. KATIE! Katie Trent-Harcourt, you come down here at once. At once, do you hear me?’
‘Laundry.’
‘I know it says Laundry, Mother, but it’s a mistake. Katie!’
‘Yes, Mum?’
‘Katie,’ I say. ‘Katie. Katie’s six.’
‘Hello, Grandma Vera.’
‘Forget the hello Grandma Vera. Are you responsible for this?’
‘What?’
‘Thi-ss,’ Miriam says. She’s getting red. Red with Katie. ‘Changing the signs,’ she says, ‘on Grandma’s rooms.’
‘Well …’
‘Well nothing. Did you do it?’
‘It was only a joke. Penny and I did it, but it was only a joke except we forgot to change them back.’
‘Katie, don’t you understand how upsetting this is for Grandma. She gets confused. Why do you think we put the signs on the doors in the first place? Precisely so that she wouldn’t get upset.’
‘We didn’t mean to upset her.’
‘Well, it is upsetting. She wanted to go to the toilet, and she went to the door and it said Laundry.’
‘Gone,’ I say.
‘No, it’s not gone, Mother, it’s still there. It’s just that the signs have got mixed. Now, Katie, switch all of these signs back immediately, and please don’t ever –’
‘Gone,’ I say. ‘Already.’
‘No, no, Mother,’ Miriam says. ‘I keep telling you.’
‘I think,’ Katie says, ‘Grandma means she’s gone. Already.’
‘Gone? Oh, I see. Katie, please, this is not funny.’
The girl is laughing. I like that laughing. See the girl laughing. Girl can laugh. Laugh, girl, laugh.
‘Katie,’ Miriam says again, ‘this is not funny.’
Girl’s laughing. Laughing. I like that. Katie laughing. Like that.
‘You sit over there with Grandma, and don’t move, while I look for … whatever it is. And stop that stupid giggling.’
‘We can play darks,’ I say, as Miriam goes. Miriam goes in the bowl thing. Goes in. Laundry, the door says.
‘Well, only if you remember, Grandma. And they’re cards, not darks.’
‘Laundry,’ I say. ‘Kitchen,’ I say. ‘TV – I remember them all.’ ‘No, the cards, Grandma Vera. You can’t play Snap if you don’t remember the cards.’
Miriam comes out of the bowl thing. She’s frowning. She goes into the other one, the sink place. The girl gives me some of the picture things. You put them down. You put one on top. You put.
‘Your go, Grandma Vera.’
‘Snap!’ I say.
‘It’s not Snap, Grandma Vera. This one is a Jack.’
‘Jack,’ I say. ‘Jack.’
‘Yes, but you can’t Snap it with an eight, it’s got to be the same. See, this is the Jack.’
‘Queen,’ I say.
‘No. Queens have the crown and they’re smiling. See, the Jack, he looks black, he’s always naughty.’
‘Stole them all away.’
‘Ye-ss, except this one’s Diamonds. But you have to have two the same together, to get a Snap. You see this?’
‘It’s a nine. Nine.’
‘You see, Grandma, you can read them. So we just keep going. We’ve got a Jack so far and a nine, and nobody’s won yet. And it’s my go. There, that’s a Queen, the red one. Now you go – no, on top. That’s an eight.’
‘Pans!’
‘Oh, Grandma –’
Miriam comes out of the sink place. She’s got the rubber feet things. The rubber. She’s holding them out. It’s time for a walk. You take the rubber things for a walk when it’s wet.
‘Are we going for a walk?’ I ask Miriam.
‘Were not,’ she says, ‘but these boots are. And Katie, if I have to speak to you about this again …’
‘Piss in boots,’ I say.
Laughing. I like that. To see that. The girl. Laughing. The Laughing Girl.
‘Snap!’ says Katie. ‘You’ve got to watch, Grandma.’
‘That’s a good idea.’
‘Otherwise, you’ll never win anything.’
Philip
‘Masked bandits?’ Miriam says to me. ‘Philip, don’t be absurd.’
‘Well,’ I say, ‘a home invasion at least.’
Miriam seems so much more relaxed, so much more at ease than when I left. Something’s shifted. Maybe it’s just me, happy to be back after a week in Melbourne. Melbourne – my God, what a city. Collins Street perpetually in shadow, the wind biting your ankles no matter which way you turn. Those green and yellow beetles clanking along their iron rails. Maybe it was the welcome home kiss I got, which nearly laid me on my back, or Miriam on hers – and might well have, if the girls hadn’t been around, Mother lurking, the dinner still to put on. Later
, we told each other. Later. After dinner. A gin, and my blood’s still ringing from her embrace. Don’t drink too much with dinner, I tell myself. Whatever’s shifted, I’m happy just to be here, to be home, fooling about like this. And so’s Miriam. She’s the lightest, the most vibrant I’ve seen her in months.
And we aren’t the only ones. Katie, as usual, slobbers all over me and then goes off to read Grandma Vera the new book of fairy tales I’ve brought back with me. ‘Which one is it?’ Mother, of course, has to ask. ‘Aesop?’ I ignore this. It’s Laura who interests me more. She keeps hanging round while we drink and talk, persuading us by every gesture – fiddling with things on the bench, opening and shutting the fridge, taking glasses out of the cupboard and then putting them straight back in, or just gazing distractedly out of the kitchen window – that she’s not the slightest bit involved in what we’re saying, in fact she hadn’t even noticed we were speaking. Until, of course, something really registers with her – some small intimacy, usually, between Miriam and myself – and then she can’t help herself, and we see her roll her eyes in that extravagant way of hers and you can hear the unspoken Yeech, or What a fake. Miriam’s enjoying Laura’s display as much as I am. We watch her stalk out in silent protest, and laugh and hug briefly, knowing she’ll be back within half a minute and will simply turn on her heel again in obligatory dudgeon if she catches us entwined.
‘You do exaggerate things, Philip,’ Miriam says.
‘Yes,’ I say, and hold my hands, cupped, a foot in front of her breasts. She slaps them away as Laura wanders back, forced against her will to return to the kitchen for something she’d forgotten half a minute ago.
‘Who was that lady who was here when I got home?’ Laura says.
‘Phoolan Devi,’ I say.
‘Her name,’ Miriam says to Laura, ‘is Hafize. She’s Turkish –’
‘A Kurd actually,’ I say. ‘A terrorist.’
‘She’s nothing of the kind,’ Miriam says. ‘She’s one of my students and she was sitting with Grandma Vera –’
‘Who was tied to a chair,’ I tell Laura. ‘Bound and gagged. Hang on … That’s not a bad idea.’
‘But why?’ Laura says. Not to me.
‘Because I was out, darling,’ Miriam says. ‘It’s Thursday, remember? It’s one of my teaching days, and Hafize was looking after Grandma Vera.’
‘She was nice,’ says Laura. ‘She left these yummy cakes.’
‘Aren’t they wonderful?’ Miriam says. And I know what’s going to happen now. We’re going to spend the next half-hour in total rapture over Middle Eastern recipes. ‘The ones she left,’ Miriam says, ‘are called Nightingales’ Nests. She brought some to class one day. They’re traditional in Turkey.’
‘They’ve got lovely pastry.’
‘Yes, and nuts and honey. You’re supposed to eat them with yoghurt or fresh fruit.’
‘They’re yummy just as they are.’
‘Anyway, what would you think?’ I say, appealing to Laura this time. ‘Just consider the facts. You come home, you’ve been away for a week, you get into the house …’
‘It’s your own fault,’ Miriam says, ‘for getting back early without warning. Nobody expected you to drop by at lunchtime like that.’
‘I got an early flight,’ I say, ignoring Miriam for the moment. ‘I called by to pick up some papers on my way to the office. But that’s irrelevant. Maybe I was just here to say I’m home and chase away the milkman. None of that matters. What matters is that I get home and find this strange woman wandering about my own kitchen who no sooner sees me than she pulls on a balaclava –’ ‘A balaclava?’ Laura says. ‘She wasn’t wearing –’
‘A veil, darling,’ Miriam says. ‘A head scarf, a light veil – she must have taken it off with Grandma Vera, that’s all. But in front of a man …’
‘As I was explaining …’ I say. ‘She pulls on this mask, and bolts.’
‘Bolts?’ says Laura.
‘I swear it’s true,’ I tell her. ‘The woman covers her face and runs out of the house. I stand stunned for a minute. Then I look around. The microwave’s still there, the TV, the CD. It seems I’ve caught her before she can snatch anything. So, what am I to do? Call the police? Eventually I decide no, it’s more trouble than it’s worth, so I go down to the flat to release Mother …’
‘Phi-lip,’ Miriam says.
‘What, you mean I shouldn’t have? Anyway, I get there and Mother’s actually watching the TV. Or vice versa.’
‘Philip, that’s enough about Mother,’ Miriam says. Frowning in Laura’s direction, who has her back to us now. But is listening with every inch of it.
‘And at the window,’ I say, ‘is the Bandit Queen, peering in. She sees me and turns away. But does she bolt? No, she just paces up and down on the path, looking sideways into the room.’
‘Mum –?’ says Laura, genuinely puzzled.
‘Philip’s slightly crazy, dear,’ Miriam says. ‘You should know that by now. Hafize, on the other hand, is a lovely, very sane and understanding Turkish woman.’
‘But –’
‘She’s also a Muslim, and she’s fairly Orthodox, and so she wears a headscarf, especially when men are around, and the last thing she wants is to be alone in a house – a strange house – with a man. Particularly a strange man –’
‘Now hang on,’ I say.
‘It would be a terrible stain on her honour,’ Miriam says to Laura, ‘if people got to know about it. So when she saw Philip, she fled to the garden. She had no idea he’d be here. Nor had I. And if you’d only told me …’ Miriam says, slapping me on the chest in mock anger, though her hand stays there, massaging gently, ‘then I would have warned her, and we wouldn’t have had any of this nonsense.’
‘So, it’s my fault?’ I say.
‘But wait a second,’ Laura says, turning at last to face us. ‘She wouldn’t have been alone in the house. The place wasn’t vacant. Grandma Vera was here.’
We look at one another for a moment, and I think this is the first time the three of us have laughed together, spontaneously, in ages.
* *
Later, after Laura’s gone and I have Miriam to myself again, it occurs to me to ask: ‘But why was this Hafize woman here anyway? I thought Tamara was sitting till we found someone permanent?’
‘After one afternoon’s sitting,’ Miriam says, ‘Tamara realised six sessions a week would be too much for her. I don’t blame her. She’s got a family of her own. She could do two, maybe three at a stretch, but that’s it.’
‘So how have you managed?’
‘That’s the wonderful thing. On Tuesday when I went to the college, Christ, I was at my wits end. I was late for class, I must have looked a total wreck. They wouldn’t do any of the exercises I set, they just wanted to know what was wrong with me. So I explained briefly – I hate doing that, bringing my personal problems into class –’
‘But they’d understand, surely? They’ve all got …’
‘Well, exactly, that’s it exactly. Anyway, at coffee break I didn’t stay with them. I went off to find Pam Richter and tell her she’d better have a relief teacher on call for the next week or so. You can imagine how she took that –’
‘That’s her problem.’
‘Not entirely. Anyway, when I went back to the classroom, I found they’d got all the coffee stuff washed up and put away and were drawing up a roster –’
‘This is for Sorathy?’
‘No, for me, for us. They’d discussed it during coffee break and decided they could all manage a session once a fortnight looking after Mother.’
‘That’s amazing.’
‘Isn’t it? I resisted, of course, but the more I thought about it, the more it appealed. Apart from helping me, they’d be wonderful with Mother.’
‘So, what’s troubling you?’
‘Well, they insist on doing it for free. I argued with them, I’d want to pay them. I’d be paying Tamara, after all, or anyone else –
but they wouldn’t hear of it. It’s a gift, they say, a return gift. But I get paid, I told them, for teaching them, but it made no difference. And there’s only so long you can argue with a woman like Maria.’
‘But wait on. How can they be sitting here with Mother, if they’re supposed to be there, at the college, in class with you?’ ‘No, no, don’t you see … They’ll sit while I’m taking my other classes, on different days. And Tamara will sit for the three sessions I have with them. I’ve asked them all to come here for lunch next week, to meet Mother. Familiarize themselves with the house. But Hafize had no problem coming straight off. She saved my life today.’
‘They’re all coming here? In masks?’
‘There are four of them in veils. Not even veils – head scarves.’
‘Have you warned the neighbours?’
‘Philip, you’ll love them, I promise.’
‘Me? You mean I’ve got to be here? What if they see me and they all run out into the garden?’
‘Don’t be silly, it’s only meeting you alone that’s a problem. I want them to meet you. You and the girls. I want them to see an Australian family, at home, close up. Some of them have never once been invited into an Aussie home, can you believe that?’
‘But what am I to do?’
‘Just be yourself – and cook the barbecue. Some chicken – half of them will eat meat. The others I’ll cater for. And of course they’ll bring mountains of cakes and sweets, as usual.’
‘You’re sure about all this?’
‘The one person I feel sorry for is Sorathy.’
‘Sorry for her?’ I say. ‘Because she can’t meet Mother –?’
‘Because she can’t take part in the roster, and I’m sure she’d love to. She always gets left out.’
‘But at least they’re letting her go for the lunch, aren’t they? That’s something.’
‘You won’t believe the trouble I had, getting her released for that. For one lousy lunch. I had to get this sworn statement from Pam Richter –’
‘I suppose she had to cover herself. Make sure it was all above board.’
‘Okay, but Christ, the way she hummed and hawed before she’d do it. I could see what she was thinking – what if something went wrong, like last time? I got so mad in the end I just said, ‘Pam, either you sign it, or I’m leaving. I’m walking out.’
