Afterwards, the cruelty of the telephone ringing at that precise time struck her as calculated—someone, somewhere, had been watching and chortling and rubbing their hands with manic glee. The boys did not move. Ben did not move. It would be one of Sadie’s friends and it could be left to ring. She stayed in the garden, dead-heading the second crop of roses, and waited for the ringing to stop. But it went on and on and began to spoil the peace of the garden. Every window was open and since they now had two extensions three telephones were shrilling away. Angrily, she marched in. ‘Can’t any of you answer the telephone?’ she shouted and, still angry, snatching the receiver from its cradle, ‘Hello, who is it?’ ‘Is that you, Angela?’ The football commentary blared in the background. She had already spoken—she could not pretend she was not there, she was too late to disconnect Father and take the bloody, hideous, wicked telephone off the hook.
‘Father, what’s wrong?’
‘They’ve taken your Mother to hospital—ay—I know—it’s a shock—always the way when you think you’re out of the wood, always the same. What a blow—never thought it would come to this. It started on Thursday,’ he said, his voice growing stronger as he properly began the saga, ‘but she wouldn’t let me ring you—Angela’s just got back from her holidays, she said, she doesn’t want to leave home—anyways, Thursday morning damn me what a flood—oh, it was chronic—couldn’t get to the bathroom in time—stuff everywhere, and of course that upset her, then with being sick on top of it—’
‘Oh god,’ Angela said, weakly, ‘this is awful.’
‘It is that. It was awful, no denying it. All the sheets and that and the eiderdown you just took to the dry cleaner’s, what a business. I had to get the doctor of course when I’d cleaned the worst up—came round and examined her and gave her something and came again yesterday but she was no better and he says I’ll have a specialist to her in the morning. Go and get this prescription. Well, Mrs Collins sat with her while I went for it but it did no good, tossing and turning all night, and then the bloomin’ specialist chap was here before I’d had my breakfast—just got the bacon on—damn me if the bell didn’t go. Anyways, they had a look at her, the both of them, ask her questions and that—though mind you when they asked her if she ever had trouble opening her bowels she says no and that was a lie—I told them—of course she does, but she pretends—and then he says, the specialist like, we’d better have you in hospital Mrs Trewick and he ’phones from here and the ambulance was round in no time—hardly had a chance to get her things together and of course she was weeping and I couldn’t find the blue nightdress she wanted or the right vests—’
He paused for breath. Angela knew he would be standing up as he always did for telephone calls. She could not interrupt him and tell him she did not wish to hear all these sordid details, nor could she risk sympathizing over the lost bacon frizzling to extinction in the big black frying pan.
‘I went in the ambulance with her of course and I must say they were very considerate, very, no cheek—oh, and she’s in the new part not the geriatric, and that pleased her, she’s in Ward Alexandra, in a little room on her own so that suits her and I spoke to the sister and put her right and now I’ve just got home and got a loaf on the way and now I’ll ring Valerie and then I’ll have a bite to eat and then get back to the hospital to sit with her.’
‘Don’t exhaust yourself,’ Angela said, ‘it’s a long way to the hospital.’
‘No, it isn’t—I’m not tired though I admit I was yesterday. I don’t want her in that hospital. She’s frightened. But it gives me a break and they might be able to do something for the poor lass.’
‘Did they say what they thought it was?’
‘A blockage, that’s all, or an obstruction—that’s what they said—that’s all they told me.’
‘I’ll ring up,’ Angela said. ‘I’ll ask to speak to the specialist.’
‘Good, Father said emphatically.
‘And then I’ll come down.’
‘Oh no, no, no, no,’ Father said, ‘oh dear me no—she’s in hospital now—no point in you coming—no, you wait, and see what happens—I’d catch it from your Mother if you came. She won’t like me ringing either—that’ll be bad enough in her book—but I told her, I can’t keep it secret, Angela and Valerie want to know, I can’t keep it from them. You’re their Mother—they’re entitled to know.’
‘Of course,’ Angela said, dreadfully afraid that her deep longing to know nothing of any of this might show in her falling voice. She cleared her throat determinedly. ‘Of course we want to know.’
‘Well then. Now I’ll get on with my dinner and strip that bed and get those sheets out again—there’s a good wind and they’ll dry in no time.’
‘You’ve done very well,’ Angela said.
‘No choice,’ Father said, ‘what has to be done has to be done. But I was flagging, mind.’
‘It isn’t surprising. You should have got help.’
‘Where from?’
‘Well, the social services—’
‘I spit on them,’ Father said, ‘wouldn’t let them near your Mother.’
‘You liked the District Nurse.’
‘That’s different.’
‘She’s part of the social services and—’
‘They pry into everything—I don’t want any truck with them, I’ll manage, don’t you fear, there’s no need to start talking about social services, no need at all, no call for it.’
She knew she would have to go down. Half blind with misery she stumbled through the sunny kitchen back into the garden, bitterly resenting the way Ben had continued to watch the football programme without appearing to notice her distress. She would have to go tomorrow or Monday—trains were bad on Sunday. Mother needed her, lying terrified in hospital, too scared even to ask for a drink of water and trying so hard to be good. She was lying there, old and wretched, dependent on others for the most trivial things, lying wondering what the point of all this suffering was, wondering why she was deserted and alone when she had freely given such vast quantities of love and affection to others. If she didn’t go, she was betraying all Mother stood for.
‘Lunch!’ Max called. ‘Come on—its finished—it’s ten past one—we have to leave in half an hour Mum.’
Angela went obediently into the kitchen and took a casserole out of the oven. She ignored all questions. In silence she served everyone and left some for Sadie to go back into the oven. She doled out baked potatoes and broccoli and her movements were abrupt and stiff.
‘What’s wrong?’ Ben said, rushing through his meal as fast as Max, thinking only of getting to the football ground in time.
‘You may not have noticed but the telephone rang. Mother is in hospital.’
‘Oh, god. What’s happened now?’ And as he said it he looked quickly at his wristwatch.
‘I can’t be bothered to go through it. Anyway, I’m going down on Monday morning.’
‘Not again,’ Ben said.
‘I have to go.’
‘What about Valerie? Isn’t it her turn?’
‘Passing the buck—talking about turns—it disgusts me.’
‘You’ve just had an operation—’
‘Don’t be stupid—I haven’t just had it—it’s two months ago since I had it and I’m perfectly well.’
‘You won’t be if you go tearing down to St Erick—it exhausts and depresses you—you come back in a state and you’ve only just got out of one.’
‘You will be late for your precious match.’
‘Get your coats, boys.’ There was a rush from the table. Ben put his hand over hers but she snatched it away. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I know you’re upset and I understand the reasons but I want you to wait—wait a while and see what happens—it isn’t as if your Mother is at home, she’s safely in hospital being looked after—’
‘I’ll only go for a day and a night, to show willing. I’ll spend Monday at the hospital, sleep at home, then come back on Tuesd
ay morning.’
‘We’ll discuss it when I get back.’
But they never did. The minute the topic was returned to in the evening, Ben gave in. He, who did not know what filial duty was, gave into her version of it. She wished he had not. She wished he had been quietly authoritative and made her stay at home. She didn’t want to look after anyone. She didn’t feel strong enough. Her arms ached from holding so many heavy babies for so long and she was afraid she would drop them and they would smash to the floor and crack open their pot heads.
Sadie was a great maker—give her cardboard and Sellotape and string and scissors and she concocted the most ingenious things. All on her own at the age of five she made a harp out of a shoe-box lid and elastic bands, and a kind of usherette’s tray for her dolls so that when she carried them around they could sit and look at her. Angela, whose fingers were all thumbs, marvelled at her talent. She encouraged Sadie to do more things. Whenever Sadie said, “What can I do?’ Angela said, ‘Make something.’ Sadie grew more and more ambitious. One day she set herself to make a puppet theatre out of two large cardboard boxes in which Angela had carried groceries home from the supermarket. Coming and going through the living room Angela saw Sadie absorbed in her task and smiled. What a glow it gave her. She wanted someone to call so that she could say casually, as they passed Sadie and saw her industry, ‘Oh yes—she’s always doing things like that.’ All morning Sadie struggled while Angela admired at frequent intervals, but then a change came over the scene. The boxes Sellotaped together, the stage decorated, a curtain made out of a J-cloth, the puppets waiting to be displayed—and Sadie’s scissors slipped making the opening at the back. The cardboard tore and wrenched the Sellotape holding the top box on and it fell off. Sadie screamed and wept. ‘Never mind,’ Angela said, ‘look—I can mend it easily—’ ‘The hole is wrong,’ wailed Sadie. ‘I can make it right,’ Angela said, ‘look, look—I can put this bit back here and—’ ‘But I don’t want it like that—it isn’t mine any more—I don’t want you to help me.’ ‘But if I don’t it will be all spoiled.’ ‘I don’t care,’ Sadie said. Angela withdrew. Five minutes later she heard more screaming and when she went back into the room Sadie was stamping on the broken puppet theatre with tears streaming down her blotchy face. ‘But I could have helped you,’ Angela said, and cuddled Sadie, who surprisingly allowed her to do so. ‘Next time,’ Angela said, ‘I’ll make you let me help you—it’s no disgrace to be helped.’
Angela walked from the station to the hospital reflecting that she never seemed to be away from hospitals these sad days. At least she was no longer afraid of them—she could cope with that queasy stomach as she went in and the claustrophobia of the corridors. She knew now how the system worked. Queen Mary’s Hospital in St Erick would be no different from the Royal Foundation in Richmond except that it was smaller and newer and altogether more pleasant. She had watched it being built. Every day, on her way home from primary school, she had stopped to watch the cement mixer and to talk to the man who fed it. She had seen the foundations being dug, the bricks being laid, the plate-glass windows being fixed—it had seemed to go on forever without her ever seeing the ambulances and stretchers she had longed for. Her cement-mixer friend said hospitals were places to keep away from. She wondered why, until Mother took her to the old infirmary to see Grandma, who died there a week later. Grandma was in bed, quieter and stiffer and yellower looking than ever, moaning now and again and turning her death’s-head face to and fro. To one side of her an old, old woman in a torn, stained brown nightdress was clawing at the wall, licking her fingers over and over so that the saliva would make marks, and on the other side a bald creature, whose skin was the colour of chewing gum masticated too long, sat in a wheelchair beside its bed thumping the floor with a stick. Mother did not seem to notice them. She took things out of a basket, like Little Red Riding Hood, and tried to get Grandma to look at them—at the apple tart, the lemon curd, the half dozen fresh eggs brought for her tea. Angela ran out and hid behind a door. She crouched down into herself and trembled and when Mother came and was angry she cried. ‘Don’t be so heartless,’ Mother said, ‘how could you—running out like that—as if you didn’t care about Grandma at all.’
Mother wasn’t in the geriatric ward, nor in the old infirmary, and Angela put the ghosts of both behind her as she walked up the long drive of the new hospital bordered on either side by bright red geraniums. The large windows let the sun into every cranny of the place and she smiled with pleasure at the sparkling cleanliness and cheerfulness of it. Mother, surely, would feel reassured. She would admire the glossy white paint and the polished blue floor and the sprigged curtains in shades of yellow and green that separated one bed from another. Angela looked around as she followed directions to Alexandra Ward and prepared her first words. ‘This is more like a hotel,’ she was going to say.
But she never spoke them. Mother was lying in a coma of incomprehension when she reached her. Alone, in a small side ward with thick dark green blinds pulled down over the windows, she lay on the high bed, her eyes shut, her face screwed up into a thousand deep wrinkles. Angela’s heart began to beat loudly and irregularly. She tip-toed to the side of the bed and looked down at Mother, her pretty hair unbrushed and scraped back behind her ears, and the pain was intolerable. Fearing that she might not have the courage to stay, Angela spoke quickly, ‘Hello, Mother,’ she said, ‘guess who.’ Mother kept her eyes closed. She frowned even harder and said, ‘Oh, go away for heaven’s sake—bothering me.’ ‘That’s a fine thing,’ Angela said, hating her own hearty tone, ‘when I’ve come all the way from London to see you.’
‘I don’t care where you’ve come from,’ Mother said, ‘just go away—leave me be—I don’t want anyone.’
Angela wondered how drugged Mother was to talk so insolently, to have so completely changed character. ‘Don’t you know who it is?’ she said. ‘It’s me, Angela, your ever-loving daughter—Mother, can’t you hear me?’
Mother opened her eyes, those large blue eyes now bloodshot and sore, and as she looked at Angela the most glorious transformation worked in her face and joy transfigured it. They both cried. Then Angela laughed and wiped away her tears on her sleeve. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘that was touching,’ and wished she hadn’t.
‘Oh, Angela,’ Mother said, ‘you don’t know what it’s like lying here, just a sorry old woman.’
‘At least you’re in a lovely hospital,’ Angela said, ‘more like a hotel really. And at least you have your own little room.’ The easy bit was over. Mother’s spontaneous reaction to the sight of her was short-lived. Happiness drained out of her face once more leaving it haggard and weary. The reproaches, the fears, the dissatisfactions that now rushed to Mother’s lips must be borne.
‘It’s like a private room,’ Angela said.
‘Nobody comes near,’ Mother said, ‘they just leave me. I can’t even lift a glass of water but nobody cares.’
‘They think rest is good for you, I expect,’ Angela said.
‘Rest? There’s no rest here. If I do fall asleep they’re at me, pulling me up and making me move when I don’t want to.’
‘Otherwise you’d get bed sores.’
‘I’ve got every sort of sore. If your Father didn’t come they wouldn’t do a thing. He doesn’t neglect me like they do.’
‘But he’s only got you to look after.’
‘Not for much longer,’ Mother said.
‘I’m sure this is one thing at least that can be put right,’ Angela said.
‘I don’t care,’ Mother said, ‘I just want to go home.’
‘Tea, Mrs Trewick?’ a nurse asked, with a nice smile.
‘No,’ Mother said, rudely, ‘it’s horrible tea.’
‘Come on now,’ the nurse said, ‘it isn’t that bad. You have to keep up your fluids, you know.’ Angela saw how gently she lifted the invalid cup with its fluted spout to Mother’s lips, how carefully she lifted her head. Mother took a mouthful and grimac
ed.
‘I’ve got to give her an injection,’ the nurse said, ‘so if you’d like to wait—’
‘It’s my daughter,’ Mother said, ‘she can stay. Stay, Angela. See what they’re doing to me. They might do it better if you’re here.’ The nurse flushed.
‘I want to see the sister,’ Angela said, ‘this is a good opportunity, Mother. And I can see this nurse anyway is looking after you beautifully. I’ll come back in a minute. Just be good.’
The sister on duty was a nasty, patronizing, fat little corporal of a woman whom Angela disliked on sight. Angela was careful not to antagonize her. She was prepared to be deferential, knowing her accent and her clothes and her whole demeanour would do their work.
‘Thank you for sparing time to see me,’ she said, with the kind of simpering, harmless middle-class charm she had picked up and now used shamelessly.
‘It’s my job,’ Sister said, cutting through the cant.
‘I really just wanted to know what exactly is wrong with my Mother? My Father is very vague.’
‘He’s been told,’ Sister said.
‘Well, he hasn’t understood.’
‘All I can tell you is there’s some sort of blockage. Mr Farrar will investigate tomorrow under anaesthetic, then, if need be, he’ll operate.’
‘Can I see Mr Farrar?’
‘He’s a busy man. He won’t tell you any different to what I’ve told you.’
‘I’m sure he won’t, but I’d still like to see him.’
‘Then you’ll have to ask his secretary for an appointment. Third floor. Second blue door on the left,’ and Sister got up. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s work to be done, if that’s all.’
‘It isn’t quite all. My Mother does seem to feel a little neglected—I’m sure it is her imagination but I was wondering if perhaps she could be put in with other people? It might make her feel better.’
‘It wouldn’t make them feel better though listening to her moaning and groaning. She’ll go into the ward after tomorrow anyway, and then she’ll be complaining she wants to be on her own.’
Mother Can You Hear Me? Page 18
