by Sarah Hope
‘No, actually I can’t I have a splitting headache,’ I kick the empty bottle of wine behind a fallen cushion.
‘Huh, well thanks very much Mum,’ she shouts and storms upstairs, flinging the now redundant keys into my lap. One, two, three, I count and, yep, there it is, the slam of her bedroom door.
Slowly getting to my feet I head towards the kitchen to get a glass of water. Charlie will be home soon. I’m not sure where the night has gone but I sure don’t feel as though I have had any sleep at all.
I finish setting the table ready for lunch just as the doorbell goes and Jack’s dad pokes his head round the front door.
‘Ste, Lynette. I’m just dropping Charlie off.’
I reach the door just as Charlie bounces in, high with excitement after his sleepover and full of enthusiasm as most six year olds seem to be.
‘Hi Lynette, I’m sorry I don’t think either of them had much sleep last night. Too excited. Is Ste about? I wanted to ask him if he fancied a round of golf this afternoon?’
‘No, I’m sorry Bill he’s been called into work. Some emergency with a patient of his or something.’ I force myself to smile feeling all the muscles in my face strain.
‘Oh, never mind, maybe next weekend. See you then.’
Closing the door behind him and taking a deep breath I steady myself before turning my attention to Charlie.
He zips down the hall and rushes into the kitchen.
‘Can I have cheese on toast today Mum?’
‘Of course you can.’ Following him I ruffle his hair as he jumps onto his chair. ‘Got a kiss for Mummy?’
‘Urgh,’ Charlie wipes his cheek to remove the offending germs I’ve just given him from my kiss.
‘Charming.’ Turning to get the cheese out of the fridge I let my smile slip. I hastily wipe the tears away as they begin to tumble down my cheeks again. I must not let the kids see.
Just then the phone rings.
Chapter Three
Enid
My body shakes as I hear Father coming through the front door. I wait for it … and yes, there it is; the slam of the door and five seconds later the thud of the umbrella stand being knocked to the floor. It’s pay day and he’s probably spent half of it down the working men’s club again by the sound of it. I brace myself for the shouting to begin. I hate pay day and I hate my father, I wish he would be made redundant or sacked on the grounds of being incompetent. Even Mum says the amount of times he calls in sick to nurse a hangover it would never surprise her if they did. At least then he wouldn’t have the money to be able to drink so much, or at least so often.
Sometimes I even wish he were dead. Trembling, I recall the state Mum was in after he had finished with her last pay day.
Opening my bedroom window I take a deep breath, swing my legs over the ledge and drop down onto the porch roof. Holding my breath I listen to see if I’ve been heard but there’s no break in the shouting. Knowing my escape has gone unnoticed I lower myself onto the garden path.
Running down the path and onto the road I try not to think about what poor Mum will be going through right now. Recognising the sickening guilt building up inside me I try to shut it out. Memories of the last time I tried to save Mum from a beating rise and I instinctively touch my left rib wincing as the pain, still raw, pulses through my body and my cowardice slows me down. I’m such a rubbish daughter.
Hours later, holding the front door handle in the palm of my hand I pause to listen. No, there’s no sound. The house is perfectly still, which probably means Father has either passed out drunk or gone back to the pub for a lock in.
Taking my shoes off on the front step I creep into the house ready to sneak up to my bedroom but a strange noise, a bit like a whimpering, coming from kitchen stops me and I strain to hear it again.
At the kitchen door I peer in and realise the noise is coming from Mum. I gasp; I can’t help myself, and swing the door fully open.
‘Mum, what’s he done to you this time?’
‘Enid, Enid is that you? Don’t worry, I’m fine. No don’t come any closer…’
‘Mum! Look at you. Wait there I’ll go fetch Doctor Emmet,’ I turn to run back out but am stopped by Mum’s pleading.
‘No, no you can’t. Please no. Just think what he’d do then.’
Turning back to face Mum the fear in her eyes tell me what he’d do. Crouching down next to her on the cold stone floor I take the wet dishcloth she’d been trying to clean herself up with.
Carefully wiping away the blood encrusted around her nose and face I begin to shake as the all too familiar guilt engulfs me. Why didn’t I stay? Why did I take the coward’s way out and run?
‘I’m so, so sorry Mum, I should’ve stayed I could have stopped him. We could have fought him off together.’ Tears spring to my eyes and I can’t keep a brave face anymore.
‘Enid, love, don’t think like that. You couldn’t have done anything. I couldn’t, and I’m a grown woman. What would a slip of a fourteen year old like you have done?’
‘I don’t know but I shouldn’t have left you. I’m such a coward.’
As she reaches to take hold of my hands she winces and holds onto her arm.
‘You must never think of yourself like that. You are a wonderful, caring girl who will grow up into a wonderful lady. Please don’t blame yourself. This has nothing to do with you. It’s just your father’s ways. You know how he gets when he’s been drinking. I don’t want you involved and I meant what I said after last time. I forbid you to stay when he’s like that. You know you ended up in a bad way after you tried to stop him.’
‘But Mum, why don’t you just leave him? You don’t have to put up with this.’
‘You know what he’d do if I tried to leave him.’
‘He’ll kill you anyway one of these days if you stay.’
‘No. No he won’t. It’s not that bad. Not if I just let him get on with it and don’t fight back. Plus as he gets older the beatings will get easier.’
‘They’re getting worse. You know that.’ Seeing the look of defeat and acceptance on her face fills me with such disgust that I force myself to turn away in fear that she’ll see how I feel. Standing up I look for a tea towel to act as a make shift sling for her arm.
After I have tried my best to clean Mum up and put her to bed with a cup of cocoa I go to my own bed. That night, just like every night since I had tried and failed to confront Father I sleep fitfully with my Nanna’s dark oak chest of drawers pushed up against the door.
Forcing my eyes open as Freda paws at me I feel as though I have had next to no sleep at all. How can my father’s aggressive nature still affect me when he has been cold in his grave for almost thirty years?
Looking in the mirror after my morning shower I straighten my locket and decide it is high time I went and brought a birthday card for my darling boy, Peter.
‘Yes, I’ll buy you a card today Peter and send it to you along with your new jumper I have just finished.’
Feeling a warm rush rise from my heart I say his name again, ‘Peter.’
This is my favourite card shop. I don’t even know why I even entertained the idea of going to that new, fan dangled, hippy card shop down the road. What’s the time now? Coming up to half past one. What a waste of half an hour.
No, here in Claire’s Cards I’ll find what I’m looking for, I always do.
Pushing open the door the familiar ‘ting-ting’ announces my arrival and the nostalgic musty smell of dusty greeting cards welcomes me.
Beginning, as I always do when I buy Peter’s birthday cards, with the jokey cards I head towards the back of the shop. I’ll then dismiss those and move on to the cutsie cards. Then the age related cards and then finally my favourite from the range I always buy from, the ‘son’ cards. I spend a minute pondering, as I always do, why I don’t just skip straight to the ‘son’ cards. But, no, I like to prolong the experience.
Picking up a funny looking card with a chimp on I imagine w
hat Peter would like and what kind of sense of humour he has. It always makes me feel closer to him, as though I really know him.
Deciding animal jokes are probably not his favourite I select another one.
I repeat this process with time and care, enjoying every minute of it until I have thought about and rejected each and every possibly suitable card the shop is displaying in its ‘humour’, ‘cutsie’ and ‘age’ ranges.
Now, the moment I have been waiting for, looking through and choosing my ‘son’ card. I can already feel the butterflies in my stomach at the anticipation of it. Savouring every step I wander around to the ‘relatives’ range.
Feeling the colour drain from my face I’m stopped in my tracks. I don’t believe it. Of all the days in the year there’s that slip of a young mother from down the road. Rachel, I think her name is. Rachel or Rochelle or something like that anyway.
Before I can turn around and retreat, she spots me and comes towards me. This is all I need.
‘Hello Mrs Reynolds.’
‘Afternoon,’ I am forced to reply.
‘How are you Mrs Reynolds?’
‘Fine thank you,’ I would be better if I had not run into you.
‘Look how much he’s grown! Don’t you think Mrs Reynolds?’ She brandishes her small son in my face.
What? Why ask me? He must be about nine months old now but he still has that sweet baby face that reminds me of Peter and still manages to pull on my heart strings.
‘I really must go. Goodbye,’ stumbling towards the door I can feel my eyes are already filling up with tears.
‘Careful, Mrs Reynolds. Are you alright?’ She grabs hold of my elbow as I back into one of those twirly stands, knocking the badges being displayed flying.
‘Yes, yes fine. I’ve just forgotten something,’ I quickly head towards the door before she can say anything else or see the tears that I am sure will be hurtling down my cheeks any moment now.
Out in the bleak sunshine and leaning against the shop wall, my heart thumps so much it feels as though my chest is constricting and squashing it. I must stay calm but I can already feel the tight pain spreading. Struggling for breath I roughly wipe those silly tears before I cause a scene.
This is supposed to be one of my most longed for days of the year and that silly girl shoving her baby in my face has spoilt it.
Taking deep breaths I try to take control of my body again. I turn away and pretend to search in my bag as I see Rachel or Rochelle coming out of the shop. I can’t bear to see her or her baby again. That should have been me.
Later that afternoon as I sit in my favoured spot by the window in Cafe Purple, the lady owner comes across to refill my coffee.
‘What you got there then, love? Have you been shopping?’
‘Yes it’s a birthday card for my Peter,’ I reply with a smile.
‘Oh yes, your son? How old is he now?’
‘He’ll be sixty three this birthday.’
‘Wow, you don’t look old enough for a son that age. You must tell me your secret!’
If only you knew. If only you knew.
‘How’s he doing now?’ she refills my cup, Bernice is her name if I remember correctly. This is my favourite coffee shop and I’ve been coming here for the best part of fifteen years now. It’s one of my life’s little pleasures, coming in here and talking to Bernice. She always asks me about Peter and I enjoy talking about him and imagining the life I should have had. It’s one of very few opportunities I have to be the person I would have liked to have been; a loving mother and doting grandmother.
‘Oh, he’s fine. He’s doing really well for himself is my Peter. He’ll be retiring soon and he’s got big plans for that.’
‘How lovely, and how are the grandchildren and great grandkids?’
‘Good, very good thank you.’
This continues for a few minutes more and in return I ask about her family.
Watching Bernice retreat to the counter I take Peter’s card out from the blue paper bag lying on the table. What a palaver that was. Luckily I had managed to return to Claire’s Cards having waited until I saw Rachel or Rochelle come out and go into Co op. I delicately finger the golden, embossed words on the front of the card; ‘To a Special Son’. Gently tipping the remaining contents of the bag into the palm of my hand I take the gold stickers of ‘6’ and ‘3’ and position them underneath the word ‘Son’. I always, always make sure I personalise his card with numbers to show his age. It makes me feel closer to him and I always think he would appreciate the thoughtful touch.
Taking my trusted biro from my handbag I open the card. Savouring every moment I think about the message I should write inside and decide upon;
To my Darling Son, Peter,
Happy 63rd Birthday!
I will never forget you
And always love you.
All my love,
Your Mum
x x x
Once written and sealed I cello tape the envelope to the front of the brown parcel containing the jumper I have knitted for his birthday (as I do every birthday and Christmas). When I am certain the envelope will not be parted from the parcel I write on the envelope;
Peter Reynolds
Wherever you may be.
I’m not stupid and in my heart I realise that my darling Peter will never receive this parcel. As all the others I have sent. But by going through this ritual every year it makes me feel closer to him. It’s my small chance to do a motherly thing for him. To get a snippet of an idea of how I would feel if I’d been blessed with the opportunity of being a real mother to him.
Chapter Four
Lynette
‘Hurry up with that cheese on toast Charlie, we’ve got to pop in to see Nana,’ I call out as I put the phone down.
Making my way upstairs to tell Mandy, I thank Nurofen profusely as the pounding bass from whatever rock music she’s into at the moment vibrates through her bedroom door.
‘Mandy,’ knocking quickly I let myself in before she can give me the usual ‘Go away’ or ‘Get lost.’
‘What do you want?’ Mandy swivels around on her bed to scowl at me.
‘We’re going to see Nana as soon as Charlie has finished his lunch so start getting ready now please.’
‘What? You can drive to see Nana but not to take me to meet Kayleigh? I thought you had a headache? A self-induced one by the look of the empty wine bottles.’ She stares at me with the cocksure knowledge that only teenagers seem to possess that the whole world is against them. I curse myself for not hiding the bottles better.
‘That was almost four hours ago now, I’ve taken some Nurofen and yes I feel better now, thank you for asking.’ Why do I need to justify my actions to my fourteen year old child?
‘Why have we got to go see Nana anyway? We only went yesterday.’
‘Because I’ve just had a call from the care home to say she’s a bit unsettled today.’
‘She’s always unsettled. They’re always ringing you. It’s not like she knows who we are anyway. She always calls me Phyllis.’
‘I know sweetheart but it’s not her fault. It’s the dementia, you know that.’
‘I just don’t understand how us going when she doesn’t know who we are helps her. It’s the nurses’ job to make her feel settled anyway. You’re always saying how expensive it is. They should earn their money.’
‘That’s not fair Mandy. We’re still familiar faces to her even if she gets our names muddled up. Besides she does have her more lucid moments when she knows who we are and she’s her old self again.’
‘I don’t want to go Mum, I want to go see Kayleigh.’
‘Okay, okay I’ll drop you off in town on the way.’ I know when to give up and for that I get a tight lipped, forced smile and a mumbled ‘Thanks’ before she turns her back on me to fish her mobile from her jeans pocket to ring Kayleigh.
After the fiasco of driving Mandy into town during the Sunday shop rush and the panic when Kayleigh was
n’t where Mandy had arranged to meet her, me and Charlie finally arrive at the care home almost an hour and a half after the original phone call.
Pushing the heavy glass reception doors open we are met with the usual wave of clinically clean air laced with the smell of bleach.
Once I’ve signed in I ask to speak to Betty, Mum’s key worker.
‘Hi Lynette. Hi Charlie. Thanks for coming down.’
‘Hi Betty. How is Mum? What happened?’
‘She was playing Bridge this morning, sitting next to April and Sid when she had another of her hallucinations. She was adamant your father was sat next to her and unfortunately April wasn’t in a very tolerant mood. They ended up arguing about whether he was there or not which really upset your mother. To the point that she became very distressed and had to be taken out of the recreation room to calm down.’
‘Oh poor Mum. She seems to be having more and more of these hallucinations, is it normal?’ It breaks my heart to know that I wasn’t there to comfort her. If we had let her move in with us things like this just wouldn’t happen.
‘Unfortunately yes, it’s a common symptom in the type of dementia she has.’
‘Is there anything that can be done? They seem to cause her so much distress.’
‘I will talk to the doctor on Monday, it might be that he prescribes risperidone or some similar medication to try to reduce them. Look, I’ll take Charlie for ten minutes while you go on ahead and see her. Give you a bit of time together alone.’
‘Thank you.’ I watch Charlie happily skip down the corridor following Betty, probably with the promise of a lollipop or chocolate bar. The care assistants are very good here, they always take him (and Mandy when she decides to grace Nana with her presence) away to get a treat or to look at the fish in the pond or something to give me some alone time with Mum.
With Charlie out of the way for a few minutes I approach Mum’s room to find her in her favourite spot, sat in her green armchair gazing out of the window at the beautiful landscaped garden and pond, the sun shining on her thin, silvered hair.
