‘I expect,’ Angela said, with her most lavish smile, ‘she isn’t feeling very well and that makes her irritable.’
‘Oh, we all don’t feel well sometimes,’ Sister said, with a frown, ‘and we don’t all behave the same. The trouble is, your Mother is spoiled. We get old folk in here that have come from bed-sitting rooms and nobody to care for them and they weep with gratitude for how we treat them—they can’t believe such kindness exists. But your Mother has been pampered—plain as a pikestaff. She’s been spoiled by your Father and she expects us to spoil her too. She’s forgotten how to do anything for herself.
‘My Mother,’ said Angela, tiring of the silly game, ready for a little rudeness if it would deflate Sister’s overwhelming pride, ‘has spent her whole life doing things for other people. She’s never once put herself first, never even thought of herself, and now that she’s old and ill and in pain I would have thought she was entitled to a little compassion instead of lectures on being spoiled.’ She had spoken louder than she had intended, but Sister was not put out.
‘Oh, you’re another,’ she said with a short bark of a laugh, ‘just like your Father, wanting me to treat Mrs Trewick like royalty. Well, we can’t do that but you shouldn’t believe all she tells you—illness makes the old a bit funny in the head. My mother is the same, always thinking nobody cares. Off you get back to her and let us do the worrying.’
Angela went back, dutifully, knowing Sister had somehow won in spite of the stand she hoped she had made. She would not go, yet, to see Mr Farrar. Sitting in the semi-gloom, watching over Mother, who only opened her eyes now and again, she waited uneasily for Father to arrive. She had not told him she was coming, dreading the production he would make of her flying visit. She heard his footsteps right at the other end of the long corridor. When she was very young she had tried to copy Father’s impressive walk. He walked like a policeman, feet slightly turned out, gait ponderous and slow. His shoes were always highly polished and very heavy with thick leather soles into which he hammered clinkers to make them last longer. Getting up to go to work in the steam laundry one Christmas holiday, Angela had been stunned to find that Father polished his shoes and everyone else’s while he waited for the fire to draw properly and the kettle to boil at half past six in the morning. He sat on a little wooden stool in his boiler suit with a row of shoes in front of him and worked away at them with brushes and rags. ‘You’re mad,’ Angela said, barely able to keep upright or open her eyes. ‘Fancy doing that before a day’s work.’ ‘Nothing wrong with it,’ Father said, keeping on with the polishing, appearing quite content and even happy. Shoes were vital indicators of caring. Their shine, their whole look, told people everything you needed to know about them.
She heard his unmistakably authoritative feet and smiled slightly—the smile played about her mouth and she could not control it. ‘Sssh,’ she said to Mother who was making no sound, and watched the door intently. She knew what she wanted to catch—the same split-second thrill Mother had experienced. But Father was a tougher nut. He hardly gave a start, only the merest flicker of shock, and then he was saying, without any change of expression, ‘I thought you’d come—I said to Mother yesterday I wouldn’t be surprised if we had a visitor today when the weekend’s over.’
‘She shouldn’t have come,’ Mother muttered, ‘all that way.’
‘That’s right,’ Father said, ‘play war with her.’
‘Oh, she’s not,’ Angela said, resisting his attempt to start that awful squabbling they both indulged in, ‘don’t pretend she is. She’s only concerned for me and I’m fine.’
‘Good,’ Father said. ‘What do you think of her then?’
They discussed Mother’s condition amicably. Angela said she had spoken to Sister and Father said ‘A real bitch’ and Angela agreed. She said she would see Mr Farrar if she could before she left the next day and Father was relieved. ‘Once they know what’s what your Mother gets treated right,’ Father said, ‘no doubt about it.’ Angela said she was going to go to their house and eat and have a bath. Father approved. He gave her long, complicated instructions about the immersion heater and which bread to use and he handed over the front door key with dire warnings not to lose it. ‘Now,’ he said, as she was about to go, ‘Valerie will ring. She’ll be cross, mind, that you’ve stolen a march but it can’t be helped—tell her you never told me.’ ‘I’ll tell her,’ Angela said, grimly, hating the fact that she and Valerie were always going to be assumed rivals. Father would not let them be anything else even though at their age rivalry was unseemly.
Sadie was good to Max until he was four and then she decided to hate him. ‘I hate Max’ she would tell strangers and when, looking at the then angelic, sweet, waif-like Max, they said it was impossible, nobody could hate him, she was emphatic. ‘Yes I do,’ she would say, ‘I hate him. He fights all the time. He spoils everything I do and makes Mummy tired because he wakes up and cries all night.’ Angela, hearing her, dreaded the outcome. She wanted her children to love each other. She tried hard to combat Sadie’s antagonism but she could make no headway against the daily list of Max’s crimes. The situation grew worse as Sadie and Max grew older. Sadie no longer said she hated him, but treated him with contempt. Angela did not want to become’ Max’s champion. She wanted Sadie to love him. One Saturday when Sadie was twelve and Max ten they were going out for lunch. Everyone had been warned to be ready by twelve-thirty. At one o’clock Max still had not found his shoes and was roaring round the house looking for them while the rest of the family had been sitting in the car for half an hour. ‘Right,’ Ben said, ‘I’ve had enough. He can stay at home,’ and he started the car. They pulled away from the pavement and suddenly Sadie shouted, ‘No—don’t leave him.’ ‘He deserves it,’ Angela said, ‘he knew perfectly well he had to be ready half an hour ago—he’s done this kind of thoughtless thing once too often.’ ‘No,’ Sadie said, ‘don’t leave him on his own—he’s scared, even in daylight. I’ll find his shoes.’ Which she did. Max snarled at her and accused her of hiding them in the first place and refused to be grateful but Angela went to lunch reading into Sadie’s abstracted silence the deepest significance. The link was there. Nothing else mattered.
Angela felt she could be coming home from school, so exactly did she follow the same route. Always on her own. Sometimes he found herself drifting along in a group, but she was never happy about it. She walked alone but talked to herself all the way, reasoning out things that had disturbed her, selecting what was suitable for Mother to hear. Mother was always at home, knee deep in steaming clothes draped on a clothes horse round the fire, moving the dry ones to one side and the thicker, wetter towels to the middle. When they all came in from school she made a hole so that they could see the fire as they sat listening to Children’s Hour. By the time Father came in, the clothes horse would be removed and the glory of the blazing fire in the black range exposed to welcome him home. Angela always felt welcomed herself. Mother kissed her and gave her milk and a scone and in the quick absorption of the homecoming atmosphere she would feel happy for a while—there was a hiatus, a hiccup in the day, as she transferred from one world to another. When the readjustment was complete, happiness fled. She was not the same girl at home. At school she was alert and willing, at home she was often sullen and disobedient. Except for Mother, there wasn’t anything about home that she liked for long. She wished there were no weekends or holidays to interrupt school.
Father had left the house immaculately tidy. His stamp was on the place from the moment she opened the door. All the windows were tightly closed in spite of the beautiful weather—Father feared burglars constandy—and the curtains were half drawn. The guard was on the fire in the living room, a low fire heavily banked with small loose coals and dust to keep it smouldering until such time as Father wished to call it into life. His slippers lay in front of it, turned sideways on to catch the heat. In the kitchen, her eye saw the tray set for his supper when he came back—plate, knife, salt
, pepper, cup and saucer, sugar and milk. On the grill were one and a half slices of toast already cut and spread with cheese. She opened the cupboard doors at random—all the supplies she and Valerie had bought six months ago used, only sad packets of blancmange and cheap tins of tapioca left. Former glories—row upon row of Mother’s beautifully preserved fruits and jams—were nowhere to be seen and the thought of them hurt.
But nothing was scruffy or neglected. She took sheets from the airing cupboard and though they had been badly ironed and folded they were clean. She made up her old bed, noting the hot water bottles, stone cold, against the mattress—Mother kept them aired by heating them once a week. The house was very quiet except for odd ticks and creaks that had once been familiar but now were not. She used to conspire to have the house empty but now she wished that it was not—she wanted someone, even Father, to talk and break the dangerous hold of memories. There was nothing to be nostalgic about, that was the worst admission to herself. There was no time in this house she had always hated that she wanted back. Her feelings were those of misery and dread and she remembered them as she went into the bathroom. She opened the window and put the taps on and thought there was nothing she would put the clock back for except Mother’s arms round her when she was small.
Whenever they came back from one of their many spells away Sadie would rush to her room and re-emerge looking pleased and relieved a long time later. ‘What have you been doing?’ Angela would say, annoyed that she had been struggling alone to carry in luggage or unpack bags. ‘Nothing—just seeing everything was there,’ Sadie would say, non-committal, almost shame-faced. Her room meant more than she was prepared to admit. It puzzled Angela that Sadie could neglect it and yet secretly care for it. Whenever she and Ben had discussions about moving as they did from time to time Sadie would protest violently. ‘This is our house,’ she would say, ‘you can’t just leave it.’ ‘Why not?’ Angela said, pushing for the answer she wanted, ‘a house is just a house.’ ‘It isn’t,’ Sadie would say. ‘Why not?’ ‘I just don’t want to leave it—it makes me feel ill to think about it.’ And that was as far as Angela could get her to go, but it was far enough.
She was in her nightdress and dressing-gown when Father came in at nine o’clock.
‘Nice to see a light on,’ he said, ‘it gets lonely on your own, very.’ Since it was Father making the statement the effect was not pathetic.
‘Can I get you anything?’ she said.
‘Oh no, no, no—I left my supper ready—no bother—a bit of toast and cheese does me in the evening these days—Valerie rung?’
‘No.’
‘That’s strange.’ He paused in the act of taking his coat off to consider it. ‘I wonder what’s up—she usually rings before nine because I’m usually back before then. That’s odd.’
‘You can hardly call it “usually” after two days,’ Angela said, but Father ignored her. He went to hang his coat up and then came back to poke the fire, which sprang at once into sheets of flame, and put his slippers on.
‘Why don’t you ring her?’ Angela said.
‘Oh no—she said she would ring—it isn’t up to me to ring her, not after she said that.’ Slippers on, he put his shoes in the cupboard next to the fire, first inspecting them critically for wear and blemishes.
‘You’re the only person I know who puts shoe trees in shoes every time you take them off,’ Angela said.
‘You don’t anyway,’ Father said, ‘anyone can see that—treat them terrible—easy come, easy go.’
‘I wouldn’t have the energy,’ Angela said.
‘Doesn’t take any energy—just common sense to look after what you’ve got. Now if the phone rings when I’m making my supper, leave it—it’ll be Valerie—I’ll dash and answer it. Though mind you, her not ringing might mean she’s on her way.’
She forced herself to stay while he ate his miserable snack. ‘It’s the anaesthetic worries me,’ he said at the end of it, ‘if they operate, like. I don’t know if she’ll be strong enough to stand it.’
‘If they don’t think she is, they won’t do it.’
‘Oh, it’s all right for you to talk—shows what you know—there’s more goes on in hospitals than meets the eye.’
She took it as her thought for the night. Father put the news on and did not seem to mind when she said she was going to bed. Everywhere, he saw deviousness, but how happy it made him. Unlike Mother, he kept himself occupied with the millions of possibilities people’s wickedness laid open to them and he never ran out of ideas. He had always played Machiavelli to Mother’s Hope, Faith and Charity. Angela remembered rushing home one day just before she left school and describing in the most graphic detail an accident she had seen in which a perfectly innocent driver had knocked down and injured a reckless cyclist. ‘I must offer to be a witness,’ she said excitedly, ‘the driver never had a chance but nobody will believe him.’ ‘You do that, poor man,’ Mother said, ‘stand by him and tell the truth.’ ‘Keep away,’ Father said, ‘never get mixed up with the police—never volunteer to go anywhere near one of them courts.’ She followed Mother’s advice and her own inclination and regretted it. She had to keep going back to the police station to make statements and lost her holiday job by appearing in court weeks later and the driver she was so determined to help turned out not to have a licence so he could not be saved from trouble. And as Father had predicted she felt mixed up with the police, who looked at her too carefully and with a hostility that frightened her.
She slept well and woke late to Father already banging about. He ignored her and could not get her out of the house quick enough, which suited her very well. Though the weather had changed and it was raining she walked to the hospital again and sat with Mother before they came to take her down to the operating theatre for her investigation. When she arrived, Mother was out of bed, slumped in a chair, all huddled up with her head lolling to one side. ‘They’ve had me here hours,’ she whispered, ‘not even put my slippers on and my feet are frozen.’ Angela put her slippers on for her and went in search of a nurse. ‘My Mother would like to get back into bed,’ she said. ‘Sister said eleven o’clock,’ the nurse said ‘and it’s only quarter to.’ ‘But she’s uncomfortable,’ Angela said. ‘Oh well,’ the nurse said, ‘we’ll risk it. But Sister will be cross.’
Once she was back in bed, Mother looked better. Angela talked to her until she was hoarse. She told her things about the children, tales of her teaching experiences, anecdotes about Ben’s work. Mother made no response. When Angela paused, exhausted, she said, ‘May you never come to this, Angela.’ ‘I would be quite pleased to,’ Angela said, ‘if it meant I’d got to seventy-five with all my children grown up and happy and a long healthy life behind me.’ Little tears began to run down Mother’s cheeks.
Hardly able to cope with the nausea and trembling that had suddenly come over her, Angela bent over Mother and said, ‘Mother can you hear me? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be cruel—it’s just—’ she stopped. What was it ‘just’? She patted Mother’s hand pointlessly. ‘They’ll make it better soon,’ she said.
She watched them wheel Mother away. Sister was brisk and sharp. ‘It’s only a minor job,’ she said, ‘won’t take long. He isn’t going to operate now you know, even if it is anything—he’s far too busy—his list is full of major surgery today—go and get yourself a cup of tea and come back in an hour.’ Obediently, Angela went, but not to the cafeteria. She went and found the river and walked along it getting soaked to the skin. Now and again she turned to look back at the hospital where Mother was being poked and prodded. It would be such a relief if she died quietly, in a tidy Trewick way, on Mr Farrar’s table. She picked up a stone and stood holding it for a minute. If she could throw it to the other side, Mother would die. If she failed and the stone fell into the river, she would live. She shut her eyes and got ready to throw with all her might but her might was nothing—her arm was weak, her strength vanished. She did not throw the stone at all.<
br />
Eleven
FATHER WAS WAITING for her, beaming. ‘Nothing wrong,’ he said, and then his face changed as he saw Angela’s condition. ‘Damn,’ he said, ‘you’ve gone and soaked yourself.’ ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Angela said, dully. ‘Of course it matters—coming into a hospital soaked—anyways, the surgeon says it isn’t what he thought and he’s put her right and she’ll be home in no time.’ ‘What does that mean?’ Angela said. ‘What it says,’ Father said, irritable. She was robbing him of his pleasure by her dripping clothes and doubting Thomas questions.
‘And Sadie rang,’ Father said.
‘What for?’ It was uncanny how far away her own family seemed whenever she was with Mother.
‘They’ve all been invited out after school today—says you needn’t hurry back. You could get a later train.’
‘No,’ Angela said, ‘I’ll get the one I planned.’
‘I just thought you could sit with your Mother longer, that’s all, that’s all I was meaning.’
‘She’ll be tired after the anaesthetic,’ Angela said, ‘and now she is going to be all right I can go.’
‘Suit yourself,’ Father said, shaking his head at the folly of a world in which his way was not seen as the best way by everyone. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘Valerie’s coming tomorrow.’
‘Good,’ Angela said. It made going much easier if Father thought her jealous.
She went up to the ward and said goodbye to Mother, who had only just come round and was sleepy. Father walked to the end of the hospital drive with her. ‘It will be another long haul,’ he said, ‘but I’ll manage somehow.’
‘Yes,’ Angela said.
‘You’ll ring this evening?’
‘Of course.’
‘We’ll just have to keep our fingers crossed. She’s had a bad time, no doubt about that.’
‘Yes,’ Angela said again.
Mother Can You Hear Me? Page 19
