The Cactus

by Sarah Haywood

  Since that call a few days ago, I’ve received no communication from Rob. It’s completely understandable. Alison was his first and only love; he was desperate to get back together with her. His priorities, now, are elsewhere. I’m thrilled for him, naturally, and I hope he’ll be very happy with his reconstituted family. Although I’d become accustomed to our daily and nightly phone and text contact, the fact is that Rob has only ever been the custodian of my furniture while it’s in storage, nothing more and nothing less. There’s no reason why his newly rekindled relationship should change that. Unless, I suppose, he decides to move up to Edinburgh, in which case I’ll have to make other arrangements. A minor inconvenience. There’s nothing to justify any feelings of regret or disappointment on my part.

  In any event, I’ve had other matters to distract me: I was to meet Richard at a busy pub on High Holborn. The location had been a compromise; I wanted a businesslike meeting, so I rejected Richard’s suggestion that we go to a restaurant or to one of our previous haunts. At least, with this plan, I could stop by briefly after work, have a quick drink, sort out what needed to be sorted out and be home by dinnertime. I arrived first. The crowds parted as I entered, and people at the bar stood aside. I was getting used to this; no longer did I have to stand in packed Tube trains, queue in the post office or wait my turn in the sandwich shop. After ordering a lime and soda for myself and a gin and tonic for Richard, I squeezed into a seat at a corner table near the constantly opening and closing door. I watched the throngs of people spilling onto the pavement outside the pub, gulping down drinks, smoking and generally behaving in the raucous way that young professionals behave on a Friday evening straight after work.

  The arrangement to meet had been made a few days earlier, when Richard and I had bumped into each other in the Oxford Street branch of Marks & Spencer, of all mundane places. The shop was buzzing with January sale shoppers, but the lingerie department was relatively quiet. I’d grown to unforeseen proportions, and supplementary purchases were urgently required. As I was metaphorically weighing up the items on offer, trying to decide which were the least aesthetically displeasing, I happened to glance across to the nightwear section, where I spotted a man who, from his side profile, looked the spitting image of Richard: impossibly even features, precisely cut and coiffed hair, parade-ground posture, impeccable dress. He was with a tiny, slightly humpbacked elderly woman wearing a bobble hat. She was holding a pink floral nightdress in front of her. The man-who-looked-like-Richard nodded his approval. How strange that he should have a doppelgänger in London, although they do say we all have one wandering the earth somewhere. I’m not sure I’d like to meet my own; I prefer to think of myself as a one-off.

  The man-who-looked-like-Richard followed the elderly woman as she moved away from the nightdress rack. As he did so, I caught his eye. It was Richard. We both looked away—I, because I didn’t wish to engage in conversation while holding a double-pack of maternity bras; he, perhaps, because he was uncomfortable being seen in such a banal situation. With my intended purchases under my arm, I headed for the tills via a circuitous route. It seems that Richard’s thinking was identical; we arrived simultaneously at the same point, but from different directions.

  “Susan, what a wonderful coincidence,” he said, his expression giving the lie to his words. “I’ve been meaning to call so we can get everything agreed, you know, well in advance.”

  “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?” asked the small woman, in a strong Northeastern accent. Newcastle? Sunderland? I regret to say I’ve never been able to tell the difference.

  “Mam, this is Susan. Susan, this is my mam—er, mother—Norma.”

  “Oh, I’ve been dying to meet you, pet. I’ve been badgering Richie but he said not until everything’s sorted out between you. Seemed to think I’d put a spanner in the works, but I’ll not interfere. What’s gone on between you is no business of mine.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” I said, holding out my hand, which she squeezed with both of hers.

  “Look at you, Susan! You’re a picture. I notice you’re carrying very high. That means it’s a girl.”

  “Good guess.”

  Richard smiled. “Well, I never.”

  “Ah, just wait ’til I tell the family,” she said. “They’ll be over the moon.” She grabbed the undergarments, which I’d been endeavoring to conceal, and thrust them into the hands of Richard, who was already holding the pink floral nightdress. “You go and pay for these, while me and Susan here have a little wander. I’ll see you by the cardies.” She threaded her arm through mine and we headed off. I was in no rush, and had no objection to spending a few minutes in the company of this old woman—soon to be my baby’s grandmother—who reminded me a little of my own mother. Also, I admit, I was intrigued, and keen to learn more.

  “So, do you live near Richard?” I asked.

  “Me, oh, no, I live in Gateshead, with one of Richie’s sisters. I love visiting him, but I couldn’t live down here, pet.”

  “But I thought Richard was born and brought up in Sussex.”

  Norma chuckled. “No, he’d never left Gateshead until he was eighteen. Did really well in his A-level exams and got a place at Cambridge University. We were all so proud of him. And then he moved down to London when he graduated. I understand why. There wouldn’t have been any work for him where we live. You can’t tell he’s from Gateshead anymore, of course. He started talking posh when he was at university, to fit in I imagine, but he’s been doing it so long now it’s just how he speaks. I sometimes think he’s a bit embarrassed about the way I talk, but he still invites us down to visit him, so I can’t complain.”

  This was certainly shedding a new light on Richard. I’d never have guessed that he was a self-invented person, but, then again, perhaps we all are, to a greater or lesser extent. We’d reached the knitwear section, and Norma was riffling through a rack of oatmeal-colored cardigans. She asked me to find her size, and I duly did so. She turned to me.

  “You know, I’m not an old fuddy-duddy, Susan. Things have changed since I was a lass, and I don’t blame you for not jumping on Richie’s proposal just because you’re having a bairn. That can be a recipe for disaster. I know he can be a bit—now what’s the word?—detached from the real world. He’s always been like that, since he was a wee lad. But his heart’s in the right place, and I can tell he wants to do what he can. So do I. This’ll be my eighth grandchild. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I won’t see this one like I see my others—most of them live a few streets away—but I hope I’ll get to know her.”

  “Richard and I are going to sort things out.”

  “I know you are, pet. Speak of the devil.”

  Richard appeared at my side and handed me a carrier bag. I tried to reimburse him for his outlay, but he said it was the very least he could do, all things considered. After arranging to meet a few days hence, Richard and his mother shuffled off, arm in arm, to continue their shopping trip. Heading down the main aisle, she turned and called to me, “Can’t wait to see you again and meet my new granddaughter. Come and visit us in Gateshead.”

  * * *

  Once he’d tired of holding open the door for the constant stream of people entering and leaving the pub, Richard finally joined me at the gloomy corner table. I realized, now, why it was the last unoccupied one in the pub; it was directly underneath the speaker pumping out dance music. The usual greetings and civilities out of the way (conducted, through necessity, with voices raised), I took my portfolio and pen from my briefcase.

  “Right, I only have half an hour, so let’s get down to business. I’ll make notes of our discussion, type them up and send them over to you for your agreement.”

  “Great idea. That way there’ll be no misunderstandings.”

  “Sorry, no what?”

  “Misunderstandings.”

  “Exactly. Number one—
place of residence. Obviously with me. Once I’ve received my inheritance, which will be very soon, I’ll buy a flat that’s better suited to a family of two, so you can rest assured there’ll be no compromises on the domestic front.”

  “Sorry, Susan, I missed all of that,” he said, leaning into my personal space, then quickly withdrawing.

  I repeated myself at top volume, articulating my words as distinctly as I could.

  “Oh, yes, certainly. I’ve always accepted that the child will live with you, Susan, and I have no doubt that you’ll organize everything in a suitable way.”

  “Good.” There was a loud and prolonged cheer from a group of men at the bar. I waited for it to subside before continuing. “Number two—regularity of contact between you and the child. I was thinking once a week.”

  “Did you say once a week?” Richard shouted. “If so, that’s perfect. I’m usually up in London on Wednesdays and Thursdays, as you know, so either of those days would be fine. And she could stay with me in my hotel on Wednesday nights. I’m assuming she could accompany me to meetings and to the shows I’m reviewing.”

  “I should think so. I understand they’re not much trouble when they’re little. They just sleep all the time.”

  “Excellent. I’ll purchase one of those baby slings. So much more convenient than a pram in theaters and galleries.”

  “And when she’s born you can come to the hospital to have a look at her, even if it’s not a Wednesday or Thursday.”

  “Very accommodating of you, Susan.”

  “What was that?”

  “Accommodating!”

  I nodded, took a sip of my drink and scribbled down what we’d agreed so far. My throat was feeling sore from raising my voice.

  “Number three,” I shouted, “weekends. I’m assuming you’d like to take her to Sussex from time to time. I was thinking one weekend in four.”

  “I’m not sure I can agree to one weekend a year.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, can you ask one of the bar staff to turn that music down.”

  Richard was gone for some time, but his mission must have been successful, as the volume was soon lowered to a tolerable level. As he regained his seat, I repeated item number three on my agenda.

  “That’s precisely what I’d have suggested,” said Richard. “I can meet you at Waterloo station for the handover. Once she’s old enough to make herself understood, do you think it would be acceptable to put her on the train in London and I’ll meet her at the other end?”

  “I don’t see why not. After all, it’s important to encourage independence from an early age. Moving on. Number four—holidays.”

  “I don’t generally take holidays, as such.”

  “Neither do I, Richard, but I understand that children enjoy them.”

  “Well, shall we say twice a year, for a week in the spring and a week in the autumn? I’m so looking forward to showing her the European capitals.”

  “That’s agreed, then. Obviously on dates to fit in with school holiday times. Which leads me on to five—decisions about the child’s education and other such practicalities. I’m happy to listen to your views on such matters, but, as the main carer, the final decisions must always be mine.”

  “If it was someone other than you, Susan, I might object, but I know your thoughts on such matters are likely to accord with mine, so I’m prepared to accede to that.”

  “And finally, number six—the financial side, which we haven’t seen eye to eye on so far. I’m very much against taking money from you, but I know you feel strongly that you want to contribute. I’ve decided on a compromise. Each month I’ll itemize the precise amounts of money I’ve spent on the child, for food, clothing, books, etc. I’ll allow you to pay 50 percent of the total, and not a penny more. I wish to make it clear that under no circumstances will I accept any money for myself. I won’t be morally indebted to you.”

  “Understood and agreed.”

  “As far as I’m concerned,” I said, gulping down the last of my lime and soda, “we’ve covered everything that needs to be covered.”

  “I must say, I think we can congratulate ourselves on a job well and amicably done. Some people would’ve made a meal of all this, but we’re both too sensible and pragmatic to get bogged down in detail. I’m very much looking forward to putting our agreement into practice. What is it, eight weeks now?”

  “Seven weeks and two days.”

  “Even better. There is just one other item for the agenda, though, before we go our separate ways,” said Richard. “The one we left hanging in the air last time—the question of marriage.”

  “Richard, I appreciate your offer, but, let’s face it, it’s not what either of us signed up for. Our relationship was like an affair—the evenings out, the nights in hotels, the distinction from the everyday. And just like, in an affair, the parties generally have no intention of leaving their spouses, I’m pretty sure neither of us ever envisaged spending the rest of our lives together.”

  “Perhaps your lack of enthusiasm might be justified,” he said. “I’ve been giving it some more thought over the last few weeks. My aim, all along, has been to do the right thing, and if you’d changed your mind and thought marrying was an attractive option, then I’d happily step up to the mark. But I must say, I’m not certain I’d make a great success of the living-with-someone bit of marriage in the long-term. I have my own particular ways of doing things, as I know you do, and I can’t imagine how I’d fit around another person’s habits and routines. My proposal still stands, of course, but if you’re determined to reject it I’d understand completely.”

  “I can set your mind at rest, Richard. If we were to marry it would be a complete disaster. I have no intention of accepting your proposal.”

  “Well, let’s shut the door on all that business, then. This has been a very productive evening. I knew, in my heart of hearts, you’d feel that way. Neither of us will ever settle down with a partner. We’re much too set in our ways.”

  I suppose it would be hard for me to disagree.

  February

  22

  “What’re we looking for?” Kate asked, picking up the packet of Post-it notes I’d skimmed across the kitchen table.

  “Any reference to mental health concerns, however fleeting or minor,” I said. “Confusion, memory loss, anxiety, depression. Also highlight any drugs prescribed. Use the pink Post-it notes for symptoms, yellow for diagnoses and green for medication.”

  “Hang on a minute, let me write that down.”

  I hoped I was doing the right thing allowing Kate to assist me. She was studying a pseudoscientific subject at postgraduate level, so she couldn’t be entirely devoid of logic. The fact was that, since my discharge from hospital, my mother’s medical records had simply been sitting in a pile on top of the casket, waiting for me to do something with them. Even mental exertion was beyond me. At the beginning of this month, however, I was prompted to take action. I’d received in the post defenses to my claim: one from Mr. Brinkworth and one from a firm that said they had been instructed by Edward. The court documents contained nothing that I didn’t know already—they were little more than bare denials of my allegations—but I knew it was high time I mustered my evidence. When I told Kate about my task for the weekend, she offered to help; I suspect her motive was more to escape the essay she was supposed to be writing than to share my burden.

  “Our campaign against the closure of the mums-and-babies group’s going well,” Kate said, scanning the first sheet in her pile. “We’ve had so much support from local people, especially parents and grandparents.”

  “Fascinating,” I said, “but I think we’ll concentrate better if we don’t engage in idle chitchat.”

  “Okay, boss.”

  Kate was examining the notes relating to my mother’s first admission to hospital, two years before her fu
ll stroke. After turning over a few more pages she looked up.

  “They keep referring to her having a TIA. What does that mean?”

  I reached for my laptop and looked it up. “It stands for ‘transient ischemic attack,’” I said. “It’s the medical term for a ministroke. She had temporary paralysis on one side of her body, and her voice was slurred. It only lasted a few hours. I didn’t even bother coming up from London, because by the time I heard about it she was completely back to normal. Or so she said.”

  “Didn’t you want to see her to check?”

  “There didn’t seem any point. I believed what I was told.”

  I’d been sure, at the time, that I was doing the correct thing. If my mother had wanted to see me after her ministroke, she would have said so, wouldn’t she? Telling Kate, however, I felt—not guilty, exactly—maybe a little shamefaced. I was starting to wonder if, perhaps, the rational decision isn’t always the best decision. We went back to our reading.

  “It says the MRI scan showed she had a small blood clot causing a temporary disruption of the oxygen supply to her brain,” Kate said. “She was prescribed a drug called clopidogrel.”

  I turned to my laptop again. “It’s what they call an antiplatelet medicine that prevents blood clots from forming. It’s precautionary—if a person has had a ministroke their risk of having a more serious one is increased.” I checked the side effects, but found nothing that would have affected my mother’s thinking.

  “It looks like she only took it for a few weeks, anyway,” said Kate. “She told the outpatients’ clinic she was getting headaches and wanted to stop. They prescribed low-dose aspirin instead.”

  “Any other medication?” I asked.

  “Doesn’t look like it. The notes say the doctors were satisfied with her recovery. They discharged her to the care of her GP.”