The Cactus

by Sarah Haywood

  Again, the mysterious information. I decided to let it pass for the moment.

  “Do you think the anxiety and depression affected her ability to think logically? Did it affect her judgment? Did she seem confused to you?”

  “Those are difficult questions.” There was a long silence while the vicar put his hands together, as if in prayer, raised them to his lips and closed his eyes. I wondered if he’d gone to sleep. With the radiator pumping out heat into his small office, and the atmosphere of serenity, I felt like I could have done so myself. Eventually, he opened his eyes.

  “I’d say that, after the second stroke, Patricia could be a little confused about the small things. I mean, about where the flower arrangements were supposed to go, times of services and meetings, whether people wanted tea or coffee. Sometimes she forgot names of people in the congregation. Occasionally she’d come to church in the winter in a pair of sandals or in the summer in a thick overcoat. However, as far as the important things are concerned, I’d say she was completely rational and lucid. Her memory of the more distant past was perfect. She was fully aware of who she was, where she came from, who her friends were. And, I have to say, she was very clear about family relationships.”

  “But if she was confused about everyday matters in the present, was she capable of making an informed decision about the disposal of her estate? Could she have given proper instructions to a solicitor, or understood the contents of a will?”

  “I’m sorry, Susan, I can only tell you the facts as I observed them at the time. I don’t have the necessary medical expertise to give you the answers you’re seeking. I certainly can’t say whether your mother knew exactly what she was doing when she wrote the will. All I can say is that the confidences she shared with me may have influenced the decision she made in relation to the disposal of her estate.”

  I was, by this stage, hungry for my lunch, and worn-out by the journey and interview. I was also thoroughly fed up with the vicar tantalizing me with this allegedly confidential information that he claimed he’d been given by my mother; it was as if he wanted me to drag it out of him.

  “Look, Reverend, let’s put our cards on the table. If you know something that’s relevant to my mother’s will and you don’t tell me, I’ll just get a court order to compel you to give evidence. So I’d suggest that it’s in your best interests either to reveal what you know or to stop implying that my mother entrusted secrets to you.”

  The vicar resumed his praying-hands, closed-eyes position, and the room once more fell into silence. After a deep sigh, he opened his eyes and looked at me.

  “I very much sympathize with the situation in which you find yourself. But I’m caught between a rock and a hard place. The Guidelines for the Professional Conduct of the Clergy state that a person has the right to expect that a vicar will not pass on to a third party confidential information without their consent or other lawful authority. I think this is something about which I’m going to have to pray for guidance. As you know, Christmas is the busiest time of year for our church, and I won’t be able to give it my attention for several days. Contact me in the new year and I’ll have a decision for you. In the meantime, I wish you a happy and peaceful Christmas in the bosom of your family. Would you like me to pray with you before you leave?”

  “No, thank you,” I said.

  Returning to the lobby area I found a hand-scribbled note in the place where I’d left the suitcase and sodden presents.

  Stan popped down to pick me up in the car, so we’ve taken your things home with us. Come and join us for a sandwich and a cup of tea. Love, Margaret.

  I could have kissed her. Almost.

  * * *

  By the time I left the church the sleet had passed and the sky had lightened a touch. I pulled my coat tightly around me against the bitter wind and headed up Blackthorn Road, sidestepping the icy puddles. It was strange to be walking along the path to Margaret and Stan’s front door, rather than along the one to our own house across the road. I glanced over. Edward, it appeared, was away for Christmas; there was no car in the drive and the curtains were drawn. I wondered where he was. Not that I cared.

  My discussion with Margaret and Stan went rather better than with the vicar. After a plate of egg mayonnaise sandwiches, followed by homemade mince pies with brandy cream and a small glass of sherry (what harm can it do at this stage?), we settled down in comfy armchairs in the sitting room. Stan put on a pair of reading glasses and began studying the Radio Times. I asked Margaret the same questions I’d put to the vicar earlier. She needed very little prompting.

  “I’d say she was very muddled, wouldn’t you, Stan?” said Margaret.

  “Oh, yes, muddled. Definitely,” he said, not raising his head from the magazine.

  “I kept saying she wasn’t her normal self.”

  “Not her normal self at all,” added Stan.

  “I got the impression she wasn’t really listening to me when we chatted. You know, as if she was just nodding along. You can tell sometimes.”

  “No, she didn’t listen properly. Just agreed with what you said.”

  “And then she’d forget what we’d arranged to do. I’d call round all set for a trip out to a stately home and she’d be in her cardigan and slippers doing the dusting. I’d have to help her get ready.”

  “That’s right. Get her ready.” Stan chuckled at something he was reading in the magazine.

  “If it wasn’t for Edward living with her I don’t think she would’ve been able to stay at home. Not that he’s at all organized himself, but I think he got the shopping in and that sort of thing.”

  “He always did the shopping,” said Stan, turning a page.

  “And took her to doctors’ appointments. But between you and me—and I’m only saying this to you because I know you don’t get on with him—I never trusted him. I always thought he was taking advantage of your mum. You know, taking handouts from her when he should’ve had a job like any normal man.”

  “Not normal, that man.”

  “And the funny thing is—often when I knocked round for a chat with your mum he’d say she was busy, when I know for a fact she wasn’t because I could see her pottering in the kitchen. He must’ve been up to something.”

  “Definitely something going on there.” Stan took off his spectacles, gave them a polish and put them back on.

  “If someone told me he’d taken advantage of your mum’s confusion to get her to sign the house over to him, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised. If anyone was going to get the house it should’ve been you.”

  “Mmm, should be yours, that house.”

  “So if you want us to sign something saying your mum wasn’t in a fit state to make a will, dear, we’re happy to do it, aren’t we, Stan?”

  “Oh, yes. Our pleasure. Have you seen the remote control, Peggy?”

  * * *

  Sitting on the train from Birmingham to Worcester, I felt very pleased with the way the afternoon had turned out. At last, in Margaret, there was someone who was prepared to step forward and acknowledge what had been going on. The vicar, on the other hand, had been a disappointment. That said, it sounded like he might well have some pertinent information that either God, or the court, would direct him to reveal. Bumping along in the taxi from Worcester station, however, my good mood began to dissipate. Had I really agreed to spend two days at Aunt Sylvia’s house? Perhaps celebrating Christmas alone would have been the better option. “No,” I told myself. “Positive thinking.” For two days, I’d endeavor to suspend my critical faculties and succumb to whatever this family gathering entailed.

  As my taxi disappeared down the long driveway and I walked toward the sprawling ranch-style bungalow, which was festooned with seasonal illuminations more flamboyant than Blackpool’s, the front door of Wendine was thrown open. There, in the expansive chandelier-lit hallway, stood Aunt Sylvia, Uncle Fran
k, Wendy and Christine, all wearing reindeer antlers on their heads. Aunt Sylvia was holding out a set for me.

  17

  “Let’s give you a tour of the bungalow, shall we? The girls can carry your bags to your room,” said Aunt Sylvia, standing on her tiptoes to straighten my festive headgear. I gritted my teeth and tried not to think how I must look. I’d known the next couple of days would be an ordeal, but I hadn’t expected the mortification to begin before I’d even taken off my coat. “It’s got to be over twenty years since you were last here, and everything’s changed. We must’ve extended and redecorated at least ten times since then. That’s what comes from marrying a builder. If only I’d married a plastic surgeon, eh?”

  My twin cousins, having played their part in the ceremonial greeting, had vanished along one of the corridors leading from the hallway. Aunt Sylvia and I came across their paunchy husbands—Dean and Gary—in the “games room.” They had been joined by Uncle Frank, now comfortably antlerless. There was a dartboard with properly laid-out oche, a table tennis table and full-size pool table. The main attraction of the room for the three men, however, was the well-stocked bar, complete with pumps and optics. They raised their whiskey tumblers to me, then went back to their conversation. Aunt Sylvia and I moved on to the snug, which was furnished with a cinema-sized television opposite a bloated leather sofa. Slumped on it were the four grandchildren, variously absorbed in phones, games consoles and laptops. They showed an interest in, and enthusiasm for, my arrival that was on a par with their fathers’.

  Next on the grand tour were the lounge, the study and the morning room. There was a noticeable theme to the decor: the carpets and upholstery were cream; the fireplaces pale marble; the light fittings crystal; and the ormolu lamp stands, picture frames and mirrors gilt. Even the lights, tinsel and baubles on the Christmas tree were white and gold, as were the swags and garlands festooning the walls. Dotted here and there were bunches of white-berried foliage in glass vases and albino poinsettias in gilded pots.

  “What do you think, love? I decided to go for a classy look this time,” said Aunt Sylvia. “If it was up to me I’d’ve had a lot more color and pattern, but my interior designer, Faye, said my taste was Texas whorehouse. Can you believe it?” She giggled. “I didn’t take offense, though. I’ve known her for years. Uncle Frank used to get her to do the show homes. We agreed to compromise on Hollywood glamour. You know, Jackie Collins’s style.”

  “Very...coordinated,” I said, searching for a diplomatic word. I was going to play the part of gracious and cordial Christmas houseguest even if it killed me. Two days. Only two days. “A contrast to the outside of the house,” I added.

  “To be honest, love, that’s a bit more me. Come along, I’ll take you to the bedroom wing.”

  At the end of a wide corridor we arrived at what Aunt Sylvia described as the “box room.” All I can say is that the boxes she had in mind must have been capacious and abundant.

  “Hope you don’t mind this room. I tried to get Wendy or Chrissie to swap, because you’re the guest of honor, but they wouldn’t budge. And I’m afraid you’ll have to use the family bathroom,” said Aunt Sylvia. “This room hasn’t got an en suite. I hate going anywhere that doesn’t have an en suite, don’t you? You just get so used to having one. I’ll get Uncle Frank to extend so you’ve got one for next time.” After studying her reflection in the window and patting her heavily lacquered hair, she lowered the Roman blind and turned to face me. “I can’t tell you how glad I am you came, love. This is going to be the best Christmas ever. Have a bit of a rest, and I’ll give you a shout when tea’s ready. You’re not lifting a finger while you’re here.”

  Within a few minutes of Aunt Sylvia leaving there was a murmur of voices and a cough outside my room. My cousins entered—without knocking—bearing my luggage. Wendy closed the door behind her with an ominous click and remained standing in front of it; Christine plumped herself down on the bed next to me. They had me cornered.

  “We want to know all about the pregnancy,” said Christine.

  “You’ve bin ignoring our calls,” said Wendy.

  “We’re worried about you. We want to know what’s going on.”

  “Do you know who the father is?”

  “Did he walk out on you?”

  “How’re you going to cope all by yourself?”

  “Will you have to carry on working?”

  “What’ll you do for money?”

  “Have you heard about the terrifying Down syndrome risk?”

  “You could always have it adopted.”

  “I can’t imagine how rubbish you must be feeling,” said Christine, reaching for my hand. “With this being your first Christmas without your mum, and not only that but you’re up the duff and on your own. You can’t really get much lower than that, can you?”

  How to react? In any other situation, I’d have told them it was none of their business and walked away. I’d done as much on numerous occasions when we were younger. Indeed, I could sense they were anticipating a combative response to their provocation and looking forward to some sport. But I was on their territory, trapped for two days, and I’d planned to give this family Christmas idea one good shot. I decided to try a different tactic.

  “Oh, Wendy, Christine, I’ve got myself into a terrible mess and I don’t know what on earth I’m going to do. The father doesn’t want to know, my boss says I need to consider my position at work and I’m terrified about having a baby to care for. I’ll need all the help I can get when it arrives. Thank goodness I’ve got you two on my side. I know you won’t let me down.”

  I thought my performance was pretty convincing, but clearly not quite convincing enough. Christine let go of my hand and stood up.

  “There’s no need to be sarcastic. Do you think we’re too stupid to realize? We’re only trying to help you.”

  “That’s right. Mum said to be extra friendly, and we was. Some people don’t know when to be grateful.”

  “Oh, I am grateful,” I said. “I really appreciate your concern for me. It’s lovely to know how much you both care.”

  They stared at me—the antlers on their heads cocked at an identical angle—wavering about my sincerity or lack thereof.

  “Well, we do care,” huffed Christine. “We’ve bin told to.”

  * * *

  Supper consisted of a Chinese banquet that arrived in several large crates from the local takeaway. My mother would have been horrified at the lack of home cooking.

  “Who wants to slave over a stove on Christmas Eve?” asked Aunt Sylvia, using her long, berry-lacquered fingernails to prize cardboard lids from the multitude of aluminum trays spread out on the kitchen island. “There’s enough of that on Christmas Day. Wouldn’t it’ve been lovely to live in Victorian times and have a cook and servants. Bin born at the wrong time, I have. Right, Wendy, you get the crocks out. Chrissie, you get the cutlery and serving spoons. Susan, you just stay sitting on that stool. We’re gonna have a buffet-style tea. Just fill your plates and grab a knife and fork. I’ll serve you, Susan. A bit of everything?”

  It was a free-for-all, with everyone—even the grandchildren, who had been hauled away from their electronica—piling as much food as they could fit onto their plates in double-quick time. Within minutes the kitchen was empty; the men had taken their plates to the games room, the children to the snug, and Aunt Sylvia, Wendy and Christine to the lounge.

  “Come on, Susan, we’re eating on our laps,” Aunt Sylvia called. “We don’t want to miss any festive TV programs. It’s what a family Christmas is all about. Do you want one of the girls to carry your plate through for you?”

  * * *

  It was very different from the way I’d previously spent Christmas Eve. When my father was alive, the day would be dominated by his presence in, or absence from, the house. He’d be off and out before eleven in the morning so
he could be the first person through the pub doors when they opened. He’d stagger back, quarrelsome, in the early afternoon. I’d do my best to avoid him by working in the kitchen with my mother, icing the Christmas cake and making mince pies, bread sauce and stuffing. We would listen to A Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols from Kings, and try to steel ourselves against the barrage of verbal abuse. The pubs would reopen at five o’clock, so we knew if we could withstand the onslaught until quarter-to we would be fine. I made sure I was in bed before closing time. I hardly remember Edward being around in the run-up to Christmas. I suppose he was off somewhere throwing stones at local cats or writing graffiti on neighbors’ walls. Christmas Days themselves I can hardly bear to think about. The pubs were shut so the drinking was all done at home. Somehow, we managed to get through.

  Following my father’s death Christmas was a very different affair; we no longer had to listen out for the sound of his key in the lock, try to assess his mood or hide ourselves away. Edward remained equally elusive, though. Perhaps, by that age, he’d got used to doing his own thing. It suited me. If he was there we argued. The only drawback was that my mother would worry obsessively about where he was and what he was up to. After I moved away, I deliberately got the last available train to Birmingham on Christmas Eve, and the first train back to London after Boxing Day. Any longer at home—with the added torment of my brother’s company—and I’d have gone mad.

  * * *

  “I love a Buck’s Fizz on Christmas morning, don’t you?” said Aunt Sylvia, popping the cork from a bottle as I entered the kitchen. She was dressed as if she was going to a party, in tight dress, high heels and full makeup. “Happy, happy Christmas, my love.”

  I’d expected the kitchen to be a hive of activity with preparations for Christmas lunch, but my aunt was the only one around. The children had woken at six o’clock to open their sacks of presents, and were now in the snug playing on their updated computer games and consoles. Everyone else was still asleep. I offered to help chop vegetables, but Aunt Sylvia said it was already sorted. “Marks and Sparks have chopped them for us,” she said. “And stuffed the turkey crown and made the Christmas pudding and brandy sauce. Thank God for posh supermarkets. Remember the bad old days when you had to do everything yourself?”