The Cactus

by Sarah Haywood

  In this witty and heartfelt debut, one woman’s unconventional journey to motherhood means learning to embrace the unexpected

  Even the prickliest cactus has its flower...

  For Susan Green, messy emotions don’t fit into the equation of her perfectly ordered life. She has a flat that is ideal for one, a job that suits her passion for logic and an “interpersonal arrangement” that provides cultural and other, more intimate, benefits. But suddenly confronted with the loss of her mother and the news that she is about to become a mother herself, Susan’s greatest fear is realized. She is losing control.

  When she learns that her mother’s will inexplicably favors her indolent brother, Edward, Susan’s already dismantled world is sent flying into a tailspin. As Susan’s due date draws near and her family problems become increasingly difficult to ignore, Susan finds help and self-discovery in the most unlikely of places.

  Featuring an endearing cast of characters and tremendous heart, The Cactus is a poignant debut and a delightful reminder that some things can’t be explained by logic alone.

  THE CACTUS

  Sarah Haywood

  For Simon, Gabriel and Felix

  Contents

  August

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  September

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  October

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  November

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  December

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  January

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  February

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  March

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Acknowledgments

  August

  1

  I’m not a woman who bears grudges, broods over disagreements or questions other people’s motives. Neither do I feel compelled to win an argument at any cost. As with all rules, of course, there are exceptions. I won’t stand idly by while one person’s being exploited by another, and the same goes when I’m the one being exploited; I’ll do everything within my means to ensure that justice prevails. Not surprisingly, then, the events that have unfolded this month have left me with no choice but to take immediate and decisive action.

  It was my brother, Edward, who informed me that our mother had died. Although it was only five thirty, I was already awake; I’d just been hovering over the toilet bowl wondering whether I should make myself vomit or endure the nausea. Vomiting relieves the feeling for a few minutes, but it soon comes back, so, having carried out a cost-benefit analysis, I decided endurance was the best option. While I was examining my bilious reflection, the phone trilled from the kitchen. So few people ring my landline that I sensed immediately that it must be an emergency relating to my mother. It was not, however, an emergency. In fact, there was no reason why my brother should have called so early other than to catch me off guard.

  “Suze, it’s me, Ed. I’ve got some news, and it’s not good. You might want to sit down.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “I don’t know how to say this, Suze. I’m afraid...”

  “Edward, get a grip. Is she in the hospital?”

  “Suze, she’s gone. She passed away last night. I didn’t get in until about two—I was at a mate’s house having a few beers. Her bedroom light was still on, so I knocked and stuck my head round the door. I could tell straight off from the way she was slumped. The GP’s been—massive stroke, she said. I can’t believe it.”

  I gulped back the surge in my throat and sat down at the kitchen table. I took a moment to sweep a few stray toast crumbs into a pile with the side of my hand.

  “Suze... Suze?”

  “She was seventy-eight,” I said, eventually, “and she had already had two strokes. It’s not exactly unexpected.” I hesitated. I was aware that I should say something sympathetic, but it didn’t come naturally to me where my brother was concerned. “I understand it must’ve been unpleasant to find her, though,” I added. “Sorry, I haven’t got time to talk now, I need to get ready for work. I’ll phone later. And, Edward.”

  “Yes, Suze?”

  “Please don’t call me Suze.”

  * * *

  I didn’t expect to find myself orphaned at forty-five, an age at which most people still have both parents, but my mother and father were into their thirties when I was born, and my father had a certain weakness of character that cut short his life. I didn’t see my mother as often as I should have in her final years. I’m a civil servant, working on Project Delivery (analyzing reams of complex data and producing in-depth reports on performance), and I find that, when I’m not spending long hours wrestling with large numbers and small print, I’m running just to stand still.

  Another reason for the infrequency of my visits was that Edward was living with my mother yet again, and he and I don’t—to put it nicely—share the same outlook on life. In fact, we go well out of our way to avoid each other. My brother is only two years my junior in age, but at least thirty years my junior in emotional and psychological development, which in his case ceased in his teens. Not, I should add, because he has any sort of diagnosable mental condition, but because he’s weak-willed and self-indulgent. While I’ve worked hard to establish a secure career and stable lifestyle, Edward’s staggered from useless job to meaningless relationship to seedy flat. No surprise, then, that he ended up crawling back to my mother in his forties.

  * * *

  It’s a shock to be told that a close relative has died, even when they were old and had been unwell, and I found that I needed to spend several minutes sitting quietly and gathering my thoughts. With me being in London, though, and my mother’s body being in Birmingham, there was little of any practical use for me to do. I therefore decided to go to work and carry on as normal, or as normal as I could fake with this relentless nausea. I wouldn’t tell anyone at the office of my mother’s death. I could imagine the orgy of fussing and sighing, the clammy embraces and the expressions of sorrow for the loss of someone they’d never met and didn’t even know existed. Not really my sort of thing.

  Emerging from the Tube station near my office building, I was struck by the heat, which had already risen to a level sufficient to soften the fresh tarmac outside the exit. The noise and fumes from the crawling traffic seemed amplified, and the piercing intensity of the sunlight stung the backs of my retinas. Once at the relative sanctuary of my desk, which is in the quietest corner of a large open-plan office, I switched on the fan and trained it on my face. Somewhat revived, I spent a few minutes, as I like to every morning, checking the cacti that I have ranged across the front of my desk. I ascertained that there were no areas of rot or any parts that looked shriveled or dry, dusted them with a soft paintbrush, ensured that the moisture levels in the compost were correct and turned them to maintain an even exposure to daylight. When that was done, I opened a case file. I hoped that grappling with the particularly challenging report that I needed to submit to my head of department at the end of the following week would help me elbow the events of earlier that morning to the back of my mind.

  Mine might
not be the most exciting of jobs for someone with a law degree, but it suits me. Most of the students in my course went on to train as solicitors or barristers, but I found myself drawn to the security of a government career: the predictable, if ungenerous, pay scales, the tolerable pension scheme and the fact that I wouldn’t be subject to the whims of senior partners or heads of chambers. Although my work doesn’t make use of my degree, and although I don’t have the kind of expertise I’d have if I’d gained a professional qualification, my broad knowledge of the law and the workings of officialdom come in remarkably useful whenever I need to pursue a complaint.

  If it wasn’t for the fact that I have colleagues, office life would be bearable. That day, however, even more than usual, I had a catalog of annoyances and irritations with which to contend. For example, it was barely ten thirty when the smell of leftover Chinese takeaway, which one of my stockier workmates likes to microwave in our tiny kitchenette and eat midmorning, wafted across to my desk. The bile was rising in my throat, and I needed a long, cold drink if I was to avoid an emergency dash to the lavatory. I made it over to the watercooler, where I was less than delighted to encounter Tom, a bouncy, recently joined administrative assistant, who still had evidence of a breakfast baguette in his luxuriant beard. He was to be the next source of irritation.

  “Hey, Susan—just the woman. I’ve been meaning to say, I’ve set up an office Facebook group for organizing pub sessions and sharing stuff that’s going down. Fling me a friend request and I’ll add you to the group.”

  “You haven’t been here long, have you?” I managed, as the water glugged into my glass. “Everyone knows I’m not on Facebook.”

  “Wow, for real? So how do you connect with people? Are you on Instagram or WhatsApp? I can set up groups on there, too.”

  “I’m not on anything. I find picking up the phone or sending a text usually works.”

  “Yeah, that’s okay for, like, your mum or whatever, but how do you keep track of all your old mates from school and uni? How do you organize your social life?”

  I wasn’t in the mood for this. For some reason my eyes were pricking—perhaps it was the harsh overhead lighting. I explained, briskly, that I had no desire to maintain contact with people I’d had a fleeting connection with many years ago, and that I kept my life very simple. If he felt compelled to inform me of office get-togethers or an important piece of workplace intelligence, he should email me. I could have suggested that he walk the fifteen paces from his own desk to mine, but I don’t like to encourage that sort of thing.

  Just after one o’clock, as I was binning the white-bread-and-butter sandwich that I’d hoped I’d be able to tolerate, and struggling once more to corral my thoughts, I was irritated by the sight of Lydia—a recently single thirtysomething colleague—striding around the perimeter of the room. Every minute or so she peered at a wristband. I needed to begin work on analyzing a table of figures I’d printed out before my short break, but my colleague’s perambulations were making it impossible.

  “Lydia, are you being deliberately infuriating?” I snapped, the fourth time she passed my desk.

  She told me she’d been given an activity tracker for her birthday and was doing her ten thousand steps a day. She needed to get in shape, now that she was back “on the market”—not words I would choose to describe our shared status as single women. On her fifth approach, I asked why she wasn’t walking outside, like any normal person. Apparently, she couldn’t; she had a blind date that evening, and didn’t want to end up covered in sweat and grime from pounding the streets. At the sixth time of passing, she said I seemed so interested in what she was doing that I might like to join her. I declined. Circuit number seven, and I felt like throttling the woman. I was in desperate need of silence and calm, so I could focus on getting though this gruesome day. I suggested she try walking up and down the stairs; that way she’d shift the excess pounds from her rear twice as fast.

  “Getting the message, Susan,” she snorted, altering her course and pushing through the swing doors. I’m sure I couldn’t have been the only one to breathe a sigh of relief.

  * * *

  Midafternoon, and Tom—vying with Lydia for the title of most annoying colleague of the day—sidled up to my desk. I tried ignoring him, but it seemed he was determined to stand and wait until I acknowledged his presence.

  “I’m doing a charity pub crawl next month, and wondered if you’d sponsor me,” he said. “I can email you the fund-raising link direct, seeing as you’re not joining the twenty-first century anytime soon.”

  “What charity is it for?” I asked, throwing down my pen.

  “I haven’t decided yet. I just know I need to do something meaningful with my life. I might do it for pandas—I love pandas—or I might do it to stop global warming, ’cos that’s something I really care about at the moment. There are so many good causes, though. Where should a guy start?” He pulled an exaggeratedly sad face.

  “I hear the Stroke Association does very good work,” I said. I don’t know why, but my eyes started to prick again.

  “Maybe, but it’s not very sexy. And anyway, I think my mate shaved his beard off for stroke victims last year. I want to do something different.”

  “Well, come back and see me when you’ve made up your mind,” I said, swiveling my chair away from him.

  Everyone’s raising money in my office these days. It used to be a once or twice a year thing, but now it’s a constant stream of charity-this, sponsored-that: walking, running, cycling, swimming, climbing, bungee-jumping, trekking, wading through mud. This isn’t a complaint, you understand. I wholeheartedly approve of people using their energies for the good of others, rather than for themselves—well, if you don’t count the associated health benefits and impression of virtue. Having said that, though, the personal interactions that seem to be part and parcel of these things do have an impact on office productivity. I decided I should have a word with my line manager, Trudy, even though I wasn’t really up to it. I wished I hadn’t bothered; she turned out to be yet another source of frustration.

  Trudy joined the department on the same day, and at the same level, as I did, more years ago than I care to think about. At first, she would nag me to join her for a cup of coffee in our lunch break or for a glass of wine after work, but she soon realized she was wasting her time. Since then, Trudy’s clawed her way up to the dizzying heights of team management, while also having four interludes of maternity leave. Photographs of the end products of those interludes were prominently displayed on her desk, in all their buck-toothed, freckle-faced glory.

  While she leaned back in her chair and smiled indulgently, I explained how it would make sense, in terms of efficiency, to have a single allotted time every month at which colleagues could promote their charity, sign up sponsors and collect in any real physical money. Trudy, who I assume was trying to be amusing, said it would make more sense in terms of efficiency to have a single allotted time every month at which I was allowed to make my productivity-enhancing suggestions. She chuckled; I didn’t. Perhaps she sensed my dissatisfaction with her reaction, because her expression changed from one of mirth to one of concern. She asked if I was alright, if I’d caught the summer cold that was doing the rounds. As she proffered her box of tissues, I made my excuses and left her room.

  * * *

  Six thirty: the only sound was the distant buzzing of the vacuum cleaner, getting louder as it approached the now-empty office, and unruly thoughts were jostling their way back into my head. I was switching off my computer and putting my phone in my bag, when our Romanian cleaner, Constanta, pushed open the door and came huffing in. I braced myself for our usual exchange.

  “Evening, Susan. How are you today?”

  “Excellent,” I lied. “You?”

  “Good, good. I always good. You last person in office?”

  “As usual.”

  “Ah, yo
u hard worker, Susan, like me. Not like other lazy layabouts.”

  She came over to my desk, and bent down to whisper conspiratorially, her breath hot on my ear.

  “That one over there. He drop dirty tissues on floor. Tissues full of snot and bogies. Yuck. And that one over there. She leave mugs all over her desk, covered in thick, greasy lipstick. Why she not put them back in kitchen? She got half a cupboardful. I used to clear desk for her, now I not bother. I’m not her mama. Big babies.” She straightened up. “So, Susan, you still not got husband?” If it was anyone else, I’d tell them to mind their own business, but she and I have the same conversation every day, and I’ve learned my lines. I told her she must be joking.

  “Very sensible lady. Men! We slave away to earn money, then get home and start slaving there, too. And what do they do when they finish work? Put their feet up and expect to be waited on, or disappear God knows where with their wages and come back with empty pockets. My own husband, Gheorghe, he vanished, just like smoke—poof. Left me with four daughters to bring up. They all married now, all their husbands waste-of-spaces, too. I got three cleaning jobs so I can send money back to them. I tell them to hide it under the floorboards.”

  “They’re lucky to have a mother like you,” I said, checking I had my Oyster Tube travel card in my pocket and switching off my fan. I stopped; the words felt different today.

  Constanta was beaming. “We the same, you and me. We know what we want from life and we know how to get it. We not care what other people think. You a good person, Susan.”

  She went to pinch my cheek, remembered that I always dodge such physical contact, then headed across the room to plug in her vacuum cleaner. As I left the office building and was assaulted once more by the heat radiating up from the paving slabs, I was pleased with the front I’d managed to put up all day, despite the constant onslaught from my colleagues. No one would ever have guessed. But, then again, I have no difficulty concealing my feelings from others. You’ll see—it’s a talent I have.