by Maeve Haran
‘Look, Ma,’ she announced firmly, ‘you put the fear of God into Dad about sticking him in a care home when you had NO BLOODY IDEA what a care home would cost or how it would be paid for. Let me assure you there is no way either you or we could afford to put him in a halfway decent place and he’s not poor enough for the council to pay, so this is your only option.’ Her mother was looking so snooty that Claudia couldn’t resist adding, ‘Maybe you’re the one who ought to be in the home anyway.’
‘I thought you said they were too expensive,’ retorted Olivia. ‘I suppose you’d better bring the wretched woman along to meet me.’
‘Too right. And before that we need to get your cleaner back. I’ll call in on the way home. Where is Dad anyway?’
‘Where do you think? In his shed. One of these days he’ll move his bed in there.’
Claudia had to stop herself adding, ‘And who could blame him?’
She went off to her father’s lean-to sanctuary to look for him. To her amazement she found him watching an illegal football channel with commentary from Brazil which the cleaner’s grandson had found and set up for him on his ancient laptop, a gin and tonic at his elbow.
‘Gola! Gola! Gola! Gola! GOO-LAAAAA!!!!!’ congratulated the commentator.
‘I think someone might have scored,’ suggested Len with a wry smile.
‘I love you, Dad,’ announced Claudia.
‘Me too, little Claudia. Am I still for Colditz?’
‘I don’t think so. Fortunately the fees are too steep. We’re getting a carer in.’
‘Not by the name of Rosa Klebb, I hope?’
‘I think she’s actually called O’Brien.’
‘Oh good. I like the Irish. They understand the important role of drink in your declining years.’
He seemed much more himself today she was glad to see.
‘How has your mother taken it?’
‘I think it’ll depend if she can get the woman under her thumb.’
‘I’ll try and behave myself.’
Claudia came and sat on the arm of his wing chair and kissed the top of his bald head. ‘It’s Ma who needs to behave.’
‘Don’t ever get old, Claudia.’ He smiled his mischievous smile up at his daughter. ‘If there’s anything good about it, I’ll let you know.’
‘You said that ten years ago.’
‘I rest my case.’
Five
Laura, already feeling so much better now that she’d enlisted Ella to help her, had another pleasant surprise waiting at home the next day after work. Her son Sam had cooked supper.
‘Spaghetti bolognese,’ he announced with a flourish. ‘Madam is served. Oh, and I found this piece of paper on the mat.’ He handed it over with a grin. ‘I don’t think it’s from Dad.’
‘If it was from Dad, it would have had a rock attached and he’d have thrown it through the window.’
‘Tsk, tsk, Mum, that would bring down the value of his investment.’ They smiled rather sadly at each other. ‘Cheer up, I even bought a bottle of exceptionally cheap wine.’
‘How delicious,’ Laura replied, meaning it. It was so sweet of him to go to all this trouble. She looked at the piece of paper. It was from Calum. She’d wondered why he’d gone silent for all this time when, as her friends had pointed out, he’d taken a slug at her husband Simon at Claudia’s daughter’s wedding. And then, weirdly, she hadn’t heard from him. He could hardly have lost her number and email address, unless his vengeful ex-wife had wiped them from his phone and that was hardly likely. It was all rather a mystery. Anyway, now he was saying he was sorry to have missed her and maybe they could meet up?
‘How’s the house sale going?’ Sam asked, pouring the wine. It was indeed really bad, but it could have been literally bull’s blood and she would have still drunk it, partly because Sam had bought it and partly, let’s face it, because she needed it.
‘All right, I think.’
‘And how about your new place?’
‘Nothing so far but I haven’t been really looking. Ella’s going to help me, though. She’s good at houses. She just sold her own and downsized to a small one.’
‘Rightsized,’ corrected Sam with a grin.
‘Sorry, what do you mean?’
‘That’s the correct PC expression. Apparently there wouldn’t be this outrageous problem with the housing market if everyone “rightsized” to an appropriately sized home. By the way, Mum . . .’ He paused as if he didn’t know what to say next.
‘Yes?’
‘I think it’s time I moved on. Bit sad living at home at my age. I’m twenty-two, not some nerdy teenager.’
She wanted to shout that it wasn’t sad at all, it was wonderful, that she’d love him to stay and be there for her, to cook spag bol and buy terrible wine. But she saw how unfair that would be, how Sam had to go and lead his own life with people his own age. She just wished he could be one of those Italian men she’d read about who stayed at home till they were thirty-five, with their mamma waiting on them hand and foot.
‘Of course.’ She paused. Then added weakly, ‘You don’t have to, you know. I’m going for a two-bed flat.’
‘I know, but maybe it’s the right time.’
‘I understand.’ She took a large gulp of wine. ‘You cooked. I’ll do the washing-up. It was lovely.’
‘Thanks, Mum.’ He grinned and disappeared up to his room. She could hardly expect him to watch the same TV as she did.
She cheered herself up by texting Calum and saying she’d love to meet up.
Nine p.m. already. Only another hour till she could go to bed. How sad was that?
Sal found herself staring into her screen and daydreaming about Lou, somehow ignoring the hubbub of the office around her. She almost jumped when the designer asked if she was happy with the layout he’d emailed her of the fashion spread.
‘Sorry, Jed!’ she apologized guiltily. ‘I’ll get right on it.’
This wouldn’t do at all. One lunch and the man was already affecting her well-known efficiency.
She cast a practised eye over the pages. They were great.
‘That’s terrific, Jed.’
She forced her brain back into work mode and despatched a message of congratulation to the fashion editor and their new young stylist. They had managed to source some clothes that genuinely flattered older women without being dowdy or ruinously expensive. It might be hard for a twenty-one-year-old to get this right, but she definitely had the touch.
Lou’s face with its teasing and ludicrously infectious smile started to insinuate itself back into her mind.
‘Get lost, Lou,’ she commanded, not realizing she’d said the words aloud. The features assistant, who sat opposite her, jumped and gave her a strange look.
Sally Grainger, she instructed herself, silently this time, stop behaving like some silly teenage girl!
Fortunately she had some reading to do which required her full attention and turned out to be an effective proof against irreverent Americans.
‘So when is this carer woman arriving?’
‘Mrs O’Brien. In half an hour. I’m just going to tidy up.’ Thank God the cleaner said she’d start again next week. Claudia felt like a cleaning woman herself. She’d popped in every day this week to tackle the mess and do the washing. Replacing a treasure was bloody hard work. She didn’t know how the cleaner had put up with her mother all these years.
Claudia had hoovered everywhere, wiped down all the surfaces and put everything away. She’d even tidied her dad’s shed by the time the doorbell went.
Mrs O’Brien was older than Claudia had expected. In fact, she looked like a smarmy yet sinister Disney granny, all fat cheeks and twinkly smile.
She saw the surprise in Claudia’s face and winked. ‘Don’t worry, appearances can be deceptive. I’m as strong as an ox, as my old dad used to say. Is it all right if I come in?’
Claudia stood back and invited her into her parents’ kitchen.
�
�Mrs O’Brien’s here, Ma!’
Olivia looked the arrival over disdainfully, from her white hair, tied up in a bun, and her Day-Glo-pink tabard with Your Home Care’s logo in a discreet corner, to her trainer-clad feet. ‘You look too old for the job to me,’ she announced.
‘I was just telling your daughter here. I’m younger than I look. Besides, Mrs Warren, experience is what counts, I always say. And patience. Old people have their own little ways, I find.’
‘My husband certainly does.’
‘So do you, Ma,’ Claudia reminded.
‘And what exactly does a “carer” do for the extortionate sum your agency demands?’ Olivia enquired testily.
Claudia realized they hadn’t even offered the woman a seat and did so. Mrs O’Brien sat down on the edge of it as if she couldn’t wait to start whatever task was required of her.
‘Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?’ Claudia asked.
‘No thanks. I stop for ten minutes at eleven and four. My usual routine is to wash and get my lady or gentleman up, give them breakfast, get them dressed. Then we might go out for a walk, if they can manage it.’
‘My husband hates walking. He likes sitting in his chair in the shed watching sport on television.’
‘I do a lunch, some activities. Does your husband like any activities?’
‘Ma, why isn’t Dad here? He should be answering for himself. He’s not completely gaga. I’ll go and look for him.’
Of course he was in the shed. It was, Claudia reflected sadly, the only place in the house which felt like his. Even though it was summer there was a fug from his fan heater, overlaid with cigarette smoke, his wing chair, a huge pile of old newspapers, possibly a fire hazard, containing his completed crosswords, and his semi-concealed bottle of gin.
‘I think we’d better put that away,’ Claudia smiled at him.
‘Doing the dragon’s work for her?’ enquired her father, his twinkle rather less in evidence than usual.
‘She doesn’t seem like a dragon. Unless she’s keeping her scales out of sight till later. Why don’t you come and meet her?’
‘Let your mother interview her. I’ll be a good boy and let her clean my arse and make me take my pills if it means I can stay at home. It’s your mother who won’t want anyone around. And of course, the irony is it’s she who should be taking the bloody pills!’
Claudia kissed the top of his head, feeling assailed by guilt. Should she and Don be having him to live with them? The trouble was, they had so little room. Besides, the stairs were so steep it would mean he’d have to sleep downstairs and none of them would have any privacy, least of all him. No, the carer had to be better.
She began to think about Igden Manor again and had to stop herself. Get real, Claudia, it isn’t going to happen.
She went back into the kitchen to see how her mother was getting on with Mrs O’Brien and discovered that the atmosphere seemed to have subtly altered. Her mother’s tone was less imperious. Despite her claims of only two breaks at fixed times, Mrs O’Brien was pouring her mother’s best Assam tea leaves from Fortnum & Mason into a china pot. Claudia paused a moment, still out of sight and listened.
‘I love a bit of good Assam tea myself,’ Mrs O Brien seemed to be confiding. ‘Proper tea leaves now, none of your cheap teabags that taste like ash from the cinder pile. And always a good china pot.’
‘I couldn’t agree more, Mrs O’Brien,’ Olivia nodded.
‘My husband now,’ the woman divulged, ‘makes it in a cup with the milk in too. But he’s a man. That’s your problem, Mrs Warren,’ she opined, ‘your husband’s a man. At least he’s not an Irish man. They’re the worst. But men generally are a useless lot. They’re what I call a necessary evil.’
To Claudia’s utter amazement her mother was nodding sagely, as if Mrs O’Brien had just revealed the secrets of creation.
Her mother finally noticed Claudia. ‘Oh, there you are. Mrs O’Brien here seems a very sensible woman. She’s prepared to start next week. And listen to this, Claudia, she says we really don’t need a cleaning woman, that she’d be happy to take that on herself. That would be quite a saving.’
Claudia stared at her mother in amazement. Her cleaner had been coming in twice a week for thirty years and Olivia seemed to have no loyalty to her whatsoever.
‘That’s very good of her, Ma, but really, she’ll have her hands full caring for Dad. I’m not sure it’s appropriate she takes on cleaning as well.’
‘You must never look a gift horse in the mouth. If Mrs O’Brien’s prepared to do it, surely it’s up to her?’
Mrs O’Brien twinkled back at her, all generosity and grandmotherly good cheer.
Claudia could see that as far as her mother was concerned, the matter was settled.
‘Come over here, Mrs O’Brien,’ Olivia beckoned, ‘and bring your tea with you. Tell me more about your husband the necessary evil.’
Oh God, Claudia winced, she could see an entirely specious bond of oppressed womanhood forming between these two without the slightest spark of recognition that it was probably they who were the oppressors.
Her poor dad.
Ella had been daydreaming too, though not of men. Instead her vision was filled with the idea of creating a vegetable garden to rival the allotment, where glossy dark green courgettes could follow on from delicious asparagus, then onions, carrots, runner beans in rows with their festive red flowers, potatoes, giant marrows, festoons of sweet tomatoes, and maybe, as her confidence grew, more exotic fare like pak choi and Swiss chard, with its rhubarb-like red stalks. A cornucopia of fruit and veg abundant enough to satisfy Pomona, the goddess of fruit trees, of gardens and of orchards.
Ella found that she was smiling at the thought of them never having to buy anything from the supermarket ever again.
Maybe she could even get the others involved, persuade them of the mental joys and emotional satisfaction of growing things you could eat.
Thinking about Sal in her leopard skin, Claudia who, despite living in the country for years now, still only had hideous pink hydrangeas in her garden and Laura, who bought all her flowers and veg in Waitrose, she realized this might be an uphill task. But then nothing would give her more pleasure than growing things herself and trying to get the others involved too.
Sal sat at her desk in the busy open-plan office mourning the days when people had a tiny bit of privacy at work to make their private phone calls. She was longing to phone Claudia and explain that she might be getting an unexpected visit from a grey-haired ball of energy called Lou Maynard. She could message her or email her but she wanted to try and convey a little about the man to her friend. No, let’s face it, she just wanted to talk about him. Well, she’d have to do it later.
For now she should be concentrating on deciding which of the shots she liked best from the fashion shoot with London’s most celebrated older model. The truth was, of course, nothing to do with age. The woman looked great because she was lean as a greyhound with cheekbones like ski jumps. She would have been stunning at any age. Sal decided to have a word with the fashion editor about choosing someone a little more representative of the readership next time.
Anyway, the preparation for the dating site was going well. It would need investment, though, and Rose had asked her to prepare a short report to be presented to the board, which actually consisted of Rose plus her financial advisors. The thought crossed her mind that Lou might get a seat on the board if he became a substantial investor. She must try and find out.
The other thought, which she was trying to push to the back of her mind, was her follow-up appointment. She didn’t want to get Lara over for it. Maybe Ella would come with her? Down-to-earth Ella could be relied on to keep things calm. For the first time, Sal found herself wondering what it would be like to have a husband with you, like so many of the women at the hospital seemed to have.
For God’s sake, Sal, she told herself irritably, you’re perfectly okay on your own!
She decided to compromise and drop Claudia a quick email.
Hi, Claudia. I may have mentioned our new American investor, Lou Maynard. Lou has a daughter down near you and has gone to visit her. I happened to mention your anti-retirement village to him and, God knows why, he seemed rather charmed by the idea. Don’t be surprised if he suddenly turns up and wants to hear more! Talk soon. Sal.
She just hoped Lou wasn’t going to go and encourage Claudia in her crazy ideas.
To her surprise Laura had found her temporarily jaundiced idea of humanity was continually challenged by working in a local supermarket. The thing was, people were, on the whole, exceptionally friendly and very nice. You got the impatient or rude customer but most people had a cheerful word and a smile. The job might be low-status and pay rather ridiculously but it had few worries attached and that suited Laura just fine at the moment. She felt the odd pang of guilt at having passed up the chance of a more managerial role, but the truth was, she didn’t feel strong enough for anything more demanding yet.
‘Top of the morning, Mrs Minchin,’ Mr A greeted her jovially.
She was glad he seemed a little happier. Maybe the thundercloud had been diverted.
‘Any more news from India?’ she enquired delicately, stepping round the painful topic.
Mr A’s face fell comically. ‘Two weeks,’ he announced tragically. ‘Mrs A’s mother arrives on the twenty-third. I must go to Heathrow airport to bring her back. Perhaps I will drive into oncoming traffic and that will be the end of it, in this life at least.’
‘Now, now, Mr A,’ Laura replied soothingly. ‘Apart from anything else, driving into oncoming traffic on the M4 is very difficult. There’s a barrier in the way.’
He smiled sadly. ‘The trouble is, Mrs A’s mother is a big noise in India, a famous lady. She will find our humble life here below her touch. Where is she even going to sleep? Our spare bedroom is full of stock for the shop. And always she makes Mrs A feel a failure because we have given her no children or grandchildren.’
Laura could see the ripples of his mother-in-law’s visit widening miserably and it made her feel very cross.
