‘I don’t know,’ Father went on, ‘we had a bit more life in us when we were young, I know that. We didn’t sit like dumb ducks.’
‘We’re tired,’ Angela said, ‘the children are worn out.’
‘Worn out? At their age? Good god, what with? Sitting in a car? Walking up a little hill? They don’t know what being tired is. Don’t make me laugh.’
He was nowhere near laughing. He was truly angry. Irritation had changed into rage so rapidly it was impossible to mark the transitional stage. Rapidly Angela reviewed the day—perhaps a quick one on the way to the stables but that was so long ago it did not count, and nor did a Guinness at the picnic. It was always drink that made Father truculent. Friday and Saturday nights and Sunday dinnertime he would come home not in the least drunk—he was never drunk—but suddenly demanding entertainment from his family. They would all try to escape. Quietly, Angela would try to slip off upstairs, but most of all he wanted her to be there. ‘Sit down,’ he would order, ‘give us your crack.’ ‘Haven’t got any,’ she would say, sullen and a little frightened. ‘Then you’d better think of some,’ he would say, as Mother dished up an enormous plate of food. ‘Where’ve you been today? Who’ve you seen?’ he would splutter between mouthfuls. ‘Eh? Come on—cat got your tongue?’ She would refuse to look at him. Taking care not to let open disgust show in her face she would sit meekly at the table, eyes fixed on the tablecloth, waiting for Mother to divert his attention so that she could go upstairs to bed.
But Father had not had a drink. It was simply age fuelling his temper more effectively. His outing was over and his regret that it was, that the pleasure would not be endlessly prolonged, goaded him into attacks on everything. He needed comfort, but nobody was going to give it to him.
Sadie hated Max, or said and acted as if she did. She tolerated Saul and was reasonably fond of Tim, but she hated Max, nearest in age and her permanent enemy. It was painful to Angela to see the intensity of her hatred. Whatever poor bumbling Max did, Sadie mocked—whatever he said, she imitated. She crushed him at every opportunity and in the normal course of family life there were many such opportunities. Sometimes, Max deserved it. He could be provokingly slow and stupid, doggedly hanging on to a point long since passed. But other times, at his nicest, he was concerned and shy about expressing an opinion that showed sensitivity and understanding—and it was at those times Sadie put the boot in. ‘Why do you do it?’ Angela asked afterwards. ‘Why are you so cruel to him?’ But Sadie would make a sound of irritation and flounce out. It drove Angela into being Max’s defender. When he was small, it meant opening her arms for him to run into and when he grew bigger it meant replying for him and scoring off Sadie on his behalf. She learned to know the times Sadie was going to hurt him most—that look on her face, of malice and cunning, when Max, all vulnerable and dimpled, launched into one of his ponderous sagas. And when she had defended him, Angela would catch another expression of Sadie’s—catch just the tail-end of jealousy and bewilderment as she ran away in defeat. She knew it was Sadie who needed help most, but was powerless to give it to her.
Mother and Father began packing to go home the night before the second-last day.
‘Might as well do it now,’ Mother said, ‘then it’s done.’
‘No sense hanging about,’ Father said, ‘start early and we’ll have plenty of time to do it. No hurry.’
‘The week isn’t over yet,’ Angela said, exasperated into the reaction he wanted. ‘We have two whole days left. Why spoil those two days packing?’
‘Doesn’t spoil them,’ Father said.
‘Of course it does—all this thinking ahead instead of enjoying the present.’
‘Oh, you have to think ahead,’ Father said, ‘get things done in time and that. We’d be in a mess otherwise, wouldn’t we Mam?’
‘Would we?’ Mother said, but she was as bad as he was, always hurrying on to the next thing, constantly clearing quite clear decks.
‘That case could be packed in five minutes,’ Angela said, ‘there just isn’t any need to do it now.’
‘We aren’t clever like you Angela,’ Mother said, ‘it takes us longer. We’re old and slow.’
‘Oh don’t be so ridiculous,’ Angela said angrily,’ it’s got nothing to do with being either old or slow. ‘It’s an attitude to life.’
Neither of them said anything. Father gave a small, strange smile. There was no mistaking the sly look Mother gave him, nor the pressure of Father’s hand upon Mother’s as he passed her some stockings to put in the case. He wanted Mother to acknowledge that sometimes she identified with him against her children. Angela had ideas foreign to both of them and he longed for this to be made plain. But Mother would go no further. ‘What time will we be setting off on Saturday?’ he said.
‘Why do you want to know?’ Angela said. ‘Does it matter? You aren’t catching a train or anything.’
‘Oh, it matters,’ Father said, ‘have to get organized, have to get things in for the weekend. What’ll we have for Sunday lunch, Mam? A bit of ham?’
‘Not if it’s like that last lot,’ Mother said. ‘Nasty fatty gristly stuff.’
‘There you are,’ Father said, happily, ‘hard to please as usual. No more menus anyway—back to the kitchen. What time will you be leaving for London when you’ve dropped us off?’
‘Oh god,’ Angela said, ‘I don’t know and I don’t care.’
‘I haven’t sent any postcards,’ Mother said suddenly.
‘Who do you want to send postcards to?’ Father said.
‘Nobody. I can’t be bothered. But they’ll expect them—Mrs Collins and all that lot. She always sends me one.’
‘We’ll buy some this morning,’ Angela said.
‘You’ve left it a bit late,’ Father said, pursing his lips.
‘I know I have.’
‘There is plenty of time,’ Angela said.
They bought eight coloured postcards in Port Point while the others went to the putting green. Mother protested she did not care what they were like—Angela could choose any she liked—but then she proved highly critical of those selected. She worried and fretted and frowned over which card to send to which person and then dictated contradictory messages to put on them until Angela was hopelessly confused but trying to conceal her dismay. ‘Put “Have had a nice—no, pleasant—week down at Port Point—weather not too bad—no, put weather mixed—have got out and about and have enjoyed some nice runs—no, that’s clumsy—put, went for an interesting excursion—no, she’ll think that means on a bus—put, drove to Bodmin Moor yesterday and had a delightful picnic in beautiful sunshine.” That’ll do. Now, what can I say to Mrs Collins?’
‘The same?’ suggested Angela.
‘Oh no,’ Mother said, ‘that wouldn’t do. Oh, I can’t think what to say to her.’
‘Does it matter?’
‘You say that about everything—of course it matters—’ Mother’s face was turning a dark red and her eye twitched violently, ‘nothing matters to you—you’re always saying “does it matter” when of course it does.’
‘I only meant writing a card shouldn’t upset you so. When you get a card you don’t scrutinize it for hidden meanings, do you? You don’t judge its literary merits. You just glance at it and look to see where it’s from and that’s all. Don’t make it into a burden.’
‘It is a burden,’ Mother said, the bluster gone. ‘I can’t be bothered to think, that’s the trouble.’
‘Then don’t be bothered—don’t send any cards.’
‘But people expect them, and it shows I’m on my holidays.’
‘Oh, Mother,’ Angela said, and managed to put her arms round her and hug her. She was very near to tears at the mess she was making of a simple job. They laughed a little together and then returned to the fray, and this time it went easier.
They finished the little stack of cards after lunch back at the hotel and then Angela made an outing of going to the Post Office along the road for
stamps. Father wanted her to drive Mother there, but Mother insisted she was up to walking. She clung to Angela’s arm tightly but stepped out smartly enough. For once there was very little wind and no rain and they were sheltered by the thick hedgerows that grew either side of the narrow road. Angela pointed out all the flowers hidden among them—the purple vetch and white convolvulus and even a few primroses among the wet moss at the bottom. Mother showed interest and strained to see. But when they reached the tiny shop-cum-post office she was panting and breathless and looked up at Angela with panic-filled eyes.
‘I don’t think I can manage back,’ she said, ‘your Father will be angry.’
‘No he won’t.’
‘He was right. I can’t even go for a little walk now.’
‘We’ll sit down for a little while,’ Angela said.
‘Where? Where? There isn’t any seat,’ and Mother began to moan slightly and look around frantically.
‘I’ll get one from the shop,’ Angela said.
‘Oh, you can’t do that—’
‘Of course I can’—and before Mother could stop her again, she had asked the lady serving if she could bring out a chair and it was brought willingly and at once, and Mother collapsed onto it and then Angela telephoned to Ben to bring the car. ‘I’m such a nuisance,’ Mother said tearfully.
When they got back to Grun House, Father was waiting, standing sternly on the steps with his arms folded across his chest. Angela glared at him, willing him to keep silent, but he said, ‘You shouldn’t have made her walk that far. You should have known better.’
‘She wanted to walk,’ Angela said.
‘Never mind what she wanted,’ Father said, ‘you shouldn’t have let her—she can’t do what she wants, not in her state.’
‘I thought it would do her good.’
‘It will make her bad again.’
‘She can’t sit all her life in a chair—she has to do something sometimes, take some risks.’
‘Oh yes—you can talk—and who pays the price? Eh? Who looks after her when she’s ill? Muggins, that’s who. You don’t know.’
They had raised their voices, arguing about Mother as though she were an inanimate object while behind them she remained in the car, waiting. ‘For heaven’s sake don’t make Mother feel guilty,’ Angela said, ‘she’s afraid of what you’ll say.’
‘I should think she is,’ Father said, threateningly, but his first words as he opened the car door were, ‘Now don’t worry, lass—nice and easy does it.’
‘I’m all right,’ Mother said, ‘no need to fuss.’
‘Nobody’s fussing,’ he said, but he was, handling her with even greater exaggerated care. ‘The sooner I get you home the better,’ he said. ‘Keep an eye on you. You’re not used to all this gadding about, that’s the trouble, too big a change.’ Mother’s groan only made him worse.
Yet again, they went onto the cliff top. Yet again, Mother sat smothered in rugs on a chair in a sheltered spot with the car turned sideways to the sea to act as a windbreak though there was still no wind. Yet again they played games while she slumped before them, her eyes closed. Guilt hovered in the air with the seagulls. Their cries and screeches were a melancholy accompaniment to the concern they all felt. For a long time Father would not join in any of the sport. He stood in front of the huddle of blankets that was Mother, arms akimbo, looking down at her, studying her, twitching a cover more securely round her shoulders. She did not betray by a single word or movement that she even knew he was there. When one of the children shouted loudly ‘Grandad!’ he put his finger to his lips and motioned them to go away. But he beckoned to Angela, who went to him reluctantly.
‘What do you think of her? he asked.
‘She’s tired,’ Angela said, ‘that’s all.’
‘I don’t like the look of her,’ Father said. Angela turned abruptly away and stared out to sea. The tide had turned and the water was rushing quite fast across the mud inlets where small boats were marooned.
‘I don’t like the look of her at all,’ Father repeated.
‘Course, it’s her own fault—she knows her limit, she knew I was right, she knew it was too much before she started but then she gets these ideas and thinks she’s spoiling everything and there you are. And she worries about what’s going to happen—that doesn’t help—I keep telling her what will be will be but it’s no use. She’s weary all right, but she’s had a hard time, no doubt about it, what with her arm and her leg and her back’s playing up but she won’t say anything about it to you of course, and then she gets depressed, starts talking about dying and that though I stop that one straight away—and she misses the family, that’s the biggest blow—’
‘I must get Tim out of that bog,’ Angela said, and ran off unnecessarily fast to where Tim was quite happily up to his knees in mud searching for a ball. Ben turned round, amazed at her feigned cries of anxiety and the game of cricket came to a stop. Angela yanked Tim out, roughly, concentrating on the look of the thing. ‘Don’t stop,’ she shouted at the others, ‘just carry on—carry on, can’t you—for heaven’s sake—I’ll look after Tim.’ She made some remark about the state of his shoes and crouched down beside him, rubbing in vain at his legs with a handful of coarse sea grass. ‘It’s only mud,’ Tim said. ‘I know it’s only mud,’ Angela said. ‘What did you shout for, then? I wasn’t doing any harm.’ ‘I know you weren’t. Sssh.’
They walked back slowly towards Father, as slowly as Angela dared. A pulse beat still in her temple and she put a hand up to hold it. She tried to take deep breaths, tried to lift her thoughts away from the crumpled figure of Mother, and Father standing guard. But no matter how hard she focused on the clouds above or the sea in the distance she found her gaze pulled towards the two forlorn figures. She was taking Mother home soon, to rot by inches, plonking her down in her miserable routine, at the mercy of Father’s all-devouring solicitude, allowing her to slip further and further into confusion and pain. She was her daughter, her much loved daughter upon whom had been lavished unstinting care, and now that she was needed all she did was run away. She thought only of escape.
‘What was all that about?’ Sadie said, meeting her halfway, tired of the childish game and spoiling the game by deserting.
‘Nothing.’
‘You would have thought he was drowning.’
‘I was all right,’ Tim said.
‘I know. I’m sorry.’
‘You gave Grandma a fright. She opened her eyes and really sat up. What was wrong?’
‘It just got too much.’
‘What got too much?’ Sadie frowned and stopped. ‘I don’t know what you’re going on about,’ she said.
Angela was tempted to say ‘You soon will.’ It was the sort of dark threat Trewicks were used to muttering. ‘You’ll know when it’s too late,’ Father used to say, asked to explain some particular piece of adult behaviour Angela did not understand. ‘When it’s too late’ invariably implied death, and almost always Mother’s death. They were all going to appreciate Mother when it was too late, or all going to help her when it was too late, or most frequently of all be sorry when it was too late. But Sadie must never feel what she felt now. She and Ben could never be Mother and Father, wrapped round heartstrings and impossible to loose. She would go out of Sadie’s life whenever the time came and Sadie would have no need of subterfuges. And so she said to Sadie, ‘Don’t worry—I’m not on about anything. Forget it.’
They bought icecreams in Port Point as a farewell treat, enormous cones of soft icecream with bars of chocolate flake sticking out of them. Mother loved icecream. She wolfed the whole lot down in half the time it took the children. ‘That was nice,’ she said, ‘only thing that eases my mouth.’ ‘What’s wrong with your mouth?’ Angela said. ‘Oh, nothing—it’s sore, that’s all—my teeth don’t fit right any more—they slop about and then food gets under and rubs—oh, my mouth is just a mess, like the rest of me.’
Mother and Father didn’t have a
dentist. Father still had all his own teeth, or half of them, yellow or blackened stumps but teeth all the same. Mother had no teeth at all of her own. She had had them all pulled out at the age of thirteen—she couldn’t remember why. She sat on an upright chair in the front parlour with her father holding her hand. They had put her into a black pinafore and covered her lap with a rubber apron and gave her a tot of whisky which made her gag and choke. Then they prised open her pretty soft little mouth and pulled out all her teeth. She said she could not remember much about it, only her father’s big warm hand firmly clasping hers and his gruff voice telling her she was a good girl. For three months she went around with a scarf round her face and was embarrassed if anyone saw her without it. She ate nothing but blancmange and bread soaked in milk and she hid from strangers even more than usual. They gave her a pair of false teeth, heavy and rough, that gripped her gums like a vice. She had had two more pairs since, each worse than the last.
‘We’ll see about it,’ Angela said, ‘at once.’
‘Oh, never bother,’ Mother said, passing a hand over her tired face, ‘it really doesn’t matter. I’m used to it. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.’
‘Of course you should mention it,’ Angela cried, ‘of course you should—all this suffering in silence—I can’t stand it—it’s so stupid, so—’
‘Now, that’s enough,’ Father said, and held up his finger.
Angela had always been a good nurse. She knew how to make sick people comfortable and more important she inspired confidence. Her children felt better as soon as they had told her they felt ill. But she had a sharp eye for malingerers, and nobody malingered more than Sadie. Angela could not understand her daughter’s cravenness. When Sadie had a cold, she immediately said she would stay off school though she loved school. If she had a temperature she begged for aspirin, and any sort of rash had her glued to the bed. Medicine delighted her. ‘I haven’t had my medicine yet,’ she would remind Angela. ‘The doctor said every four hours.’ ‘Oh don’t take it so seriously,’ Angela would say, but she dutifully brought the medicine and a drink and straightened the bed and Sadie thrived on her attentions. Angela could not resist saying sometimes, ‘I used to drag myself to school when I was far worse than you’ve ever been. I didn’t even use to tell my mother I felt ill.’ ‘How silly,’ Sadie said, tartly, and Angela knew she was right.
Mother Can You Hear Me? Page 13
