The Cactus

by Sarah Haywood

  The bundle of records I was studying related to my mother’s second, more major, stroke. They began with her emergency admission to hospital following the incident at church. There were pages and pages of data: clinical observations; blood pressure, heart rate and temperature charts; hematology and cytology results; and medication administration records. There were also reports of CT and MRI scans. The notes said my mother had had a left hemisphere ischemic stroke, caused again by a blood clot in her brain—this time larger. She’d been treated with something called a tissue plasminogen activator drug to break up the clot, and had been put back on the antiplatelet medication, together with warfarin to thin her blood and beta blockers for high blood pressure. There was an abundance of medical terminology, some of which I understood but most of which I’d check later. I wanted to get on to meatier stuff.

  The doctors noted that my mother was responding well to the treatment; within days she started to regain the use of her paralyzed right hand and had sufficient control of her voice to make herself understood. This accorded with what I remembered from the time; my mother appeared to be recovering so well from the stroke, in fact, that I returned to London before she was discharged from hospital. She had Aunt Sylvia and Edward visiting her every day, after all, and I knew that a backlog of work would be building up on my desk. And I recall that Richard had tickets for a concert at the Barbican that I particularly wanted to attend. Despite the numerous reasons why it made sense for me to return to London, I must admit that I now question whether I should have waited until my mother was discharged; perhaps I shouldn’t simply have assumed she’d make the same rapid and complete recovery as she had from her ministroke.

  I turned to the outpatient notes, which related to my mother’s regular appointments at the hospital following her discharge. The first pages concerned physical matters: the usual checks on her blood pressure and heart rate, and discussions of how she was getting on with her medication. Then came a page of much more detailed notes. Now this was getting interesting. My mother reported to the doctor that she felt upset about small incidents that had never used to bother her, like next door’s cat coming into her garden to do his business or the milkman delivering the milk after breakfast was finished. Although she knew she was getting matters out of proportion, these things were almost unbearable to her at the time. My mother also told the doctor that she kept misplacing things—keys, her purse, her address book—and forgetting what day it was and what she was supposed to be doing. It made her feel stupid and angry with herself. She was determined not to let anyone know what was going on, and she was sure she was hiding it well by writing detailed lists and reminders for herself. However, it was exhausting putting on a show. She said she felt down in the dumps. The hospital notes recorded that my mother was referred to a neurologist and a psychiatrist for further tests and assessments. At the conclusion of these she was given a diagnosis: vascular dementia.

  “Oh, no,” I said. “Oh, God.”

  “What’ve you found?” asked Kate, looking up in surprise from the last sheet of her pile.

  “Dementia. My mother had something called vascular dementia.”

  “That’s a bit more serious than confusion. Didn’t she tell you? Didn’t you realize?”

  “I knew something wasn’t right, but she hid it well. I only visited her a couple of times after her stroke, so I didn’t see all the signs. I don’t think my aunt knew either, though, and she saw her regularly. Poor, poor Mum.”

  We sat in silence for a few moments. “On the positive side—and I don’t mean to be callous,” said Kate, “this is fantastic for your court case, isn’t it? I mean, it’s not fantastic that she had dementia. That goes without saying. But you can’t change history—she had it and that’s that. You must feel satisfied knowing you were right all along.”

  “I suppose so.” Kate was correct. This was exactly what I’d been hoping to find. Strangely, though, satisfaction wasn’t my primary feeling.

  “If she’d told me at the time, I could’ve visited her more often. I could’ve helped. I could’ve shielded her from Edward.”

  Kate wasn’t really listening to me; she was caught up in the thrill of the detective work. “I’m just looking up vascular dementia,” she said. “It says here symptoms can include slowness of thought and difficulty in planning. It also says there’s no specific treatment. What was the hospital doing for her?”

  I went back to the notes. “It says she was prescribed antidepressants in addition to all the other drugs she was taking. She was also given advice on lifestyle changes and referred for occupational therapy. It looks like that was to help her manage everyday activities. It probably helped her disguise her problems.” I turned over another sheet. This one was about her care plan. The notes recorded that a meeting had taken place at which my mother and Edward were both in attendance. My brother had agreed to be her primary carer and, consequently, no additional home support was organized. My mother was advised that she was entitled to claim state benefits to pay Edward for the care he’d need to give her. She told them she’d already submitted an application.

  I went through the rest of the papers. More of the same: reviews of medication; notes of discussions about problems with memory and planning; further tests and assessments. The doctors told my mother that her condition appeared to be stable, for the time being, but that she should continue to take her medication regularly as any further clots could cause deterioration. It was noted, often, that Edward was in attendance at the appointments. So that was it. I now had proof, not only that my mother was suffering from a medical condition that would have affected her ability to write a will, but also that Edward was fully aware of that fact. Indeed, he was benefiting financially from her need for assistance. I could understand my mother’s reasons for not telling me about her diagnosis. She was a proud woman; she wouldn’t have wanted people feeling sorry for her. But why would Edward keep it from me, if not for nefarious reasons? The more I thought about it, the more my sorrow at my mother’s diagnosis was replaced with rage at Edward’s duplicity.

  I was now certain that a judge would declare the will invalid, and that the estate would be dealt with under the rules of intestacy; that is, the house would be sold straightaway, and the proceeds would be divided equally between Edward and me. It felt like we were entering the endgame. I should have been feeling happier.

  * * *

  The following week, during my lunch break, I called in to see Brigid in her Lincoln’s Inn chambers. Her attic room was about the size of a broom cupboard, and was accessed via a steep, winding staircase, the ascending of which was far from easy in my heavily pregnant condition, and can’t have been much better for the hefty Brigid. Her desk was laden, not only with the expected briefs and files, but with dead potted plants, used coffee cups, sandwich wrappers and miscellaneous receipts. It reminded me of her bedroom in our shared flat.

  “So, what’ve you got for me?” Brigid asked, clearing a space in the middle of the desk with a sweep of her brawny arm.

  I passed her my claim form and statement of case, together with the two defenses, which she spent a few moments perusing. I explained to her what I’d discovered in the medical records, and showed her the most significant pages. Finally, I informed her that Margaret, my aunt and the vicar could—to a greater or lesser extent—attest to the fact that my mother was suffering from forgetfulness and confusion.

  “You’ve missed your calling, old girl. I always said you should’ve gone for the bar.”

  “Dealing with the paperwork would’ve been fine,” I said. “It’s the people that would’ve been the problem.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  She looked at the sections I’d highlighted in the medical records. “This is exactly the evidence you need in a matter like this,” she said. “Have you heard of a case called Banks v Goodfellow?”

  I told her I’d read about it in the course o
f my legal research. The case established that, when someone makes a will, they must understand the act they’re carrying out and its effects; the extent of their property; and the claims to which they should give effect.

  “That’s right. And he or she mustn’t be affected by a disorder of the mind that—and I’m quoting here from memory—‘poisons his affections, perverts his sense of right or prevents the exercise of his natural faculties.’ Generally speaking, if a will appears rational and doesn’t contain any irregularities, mental capacity is presumed. But the case of Vaughan v Vaughan established that if there’s evidence of confusion or memory loss, it’ll be for the people seeking to rely on the will—i.e. Mr. Brinkworth and your brother—to establish mental capacity. And another case says that an irrational disposition in a will can rebut the presumption of capacity. So the medical evidence, combined with the fact that there’s no logical reason why your mother would give preference to your brother over you, is all in your favor.”

  “That’s exactly what I thought.”

  “A slight note of caution, though,” said Brigid. “The issue isn’t whether the person actually understands what they’re doing, it’s whether they’ve got the mental capacity to understand. The more complex the estate, the easier it is to prove lack of capacity. The fact that it’s a very simple will with only two beneficiaries doesn’t exactly help you.”

  “But with vascular dementia she probably wasn’t capable of understanding all the implications of a life interest.”

  “That’s what I’d be trying to argue.”

  “And then there’s the undue influence.”

  “Oh, yes, the strong-arm tactics. You know I’ve never been keen on going down that road. Undue influence requires coercion. The deceased had to have been pressured into making a will they didn’t want to make. In your favor, what amounts to coercion varies with the strength of willpower, and if the willpower’s weak due to mental frailty, less force is required to overcome it. The problem is, it’s possible to be influenced to do something without that act being against your will. So, if Edward simply badgered or nagged your mum into giving him a life interest in the family home that’s not enough. The court will need to be satisfied, on the balance of probabilities, that Edward did more than that—that he actually forced her to make the will against her better judgment. You haven’t shown me anything to prove that.”

  A young barrister knocked and stuck his head round the door. Brigid told him she would be with him in a sec.

  “So, Susan,” she said, standing, “my advice is, forget the undue influence and focus on mental capacity. The medical records, supported by the witness evidence, give you a reasonable case on that issue. Get those witness statements drawn up and signed as soon as possible, and serve your evidence to the other sides. Hopefully they’ll capitulate without the need of a hearing. Best of luck, old girl. Don’t forget my cut of any winnings.”

  * * *

  A couple of days later I received a call at work from the vicar of St. Stephen’s.

  “Miss Green, I’m so pleased I’ve got hold of you. I’ve been thinking carefully about the issue we talked about on Christmas Eve, and I’ve been praying long and hard for guidance. I’ve come to the conclusion that I have a moral and ethical duty to disclose the matter that your mother told me in confidence, now that she’s no longer with us.”

  “About time,” I said. I’d actually forgotten all about the vicar’s allegedly top secret information.

  “Yes, I’m sorry it’s taken me so long, but it’s been a very difficult decision for me to make. In the end, I’ve been swayed by the fact that it’s something that will have an impact on you personally, and possibly on the way you act in the future. Also, before she died, your mother was wrestling with the question of whether to tell you herself. I believe that she may well, ultimately, have decided to do so. I feel that those considerations outweigh my duty of confidentiality to your late mother.”

  “Fine. I’m sure God will understand your reasoning. So what is it?”

  “Ah, well, it’s not the sort of thing I could possibly divulge over the telephone. Come and see me in the vestry and I’ll explain it to you.”

  “You do realize I live a hundred miles away, and I’m eight months pregnant?”

  “I do, indeed, Miss Green, and I’m sorry to put you to the trouble, particularly in your delicate condition. But I’m sure that, if your mother knew I was going to tell you this, she would want me to do it in person.”

  As it turned out, I’d been considering making yet another trip to the Midlands. I’d now typed up witness statements for the vicar, Margaret and Aunt Sylvia, and I wanted to oversee their signatures personally.

  “Alright. What about next Friday afternoon?” I said.

  “Super.” There was a pause. “You might want to bring along a friend or relative for support.”

  23

  Kate clambered up into the loft above her flat, while I simultaneously held the ladder steady and thwarted Ava’s and Noah’s efforts to follow her. A few moments later, she reemerged with a bulging holdall full of newborn-baby clothes, which she lowered down to me.

  “Throw them in the washing machine and they’ll be as good as new,” Kate called as she disappeared back through the hatch. Next, she brought down a Moses basket, followed by a black bin liner full of bedding and a first-stage car seat. “There’s not much more you need at the start, other than a bag of nappies.”

  “But where am I going to put all this stuff?”

  “You’ll find somewhere. Think of your flat as a TARDIS—you’ll be amazed how much you can cram into it.”

  I offered to pay her, but she refused. “We’ll stick them back up there when you’ve finished with them. Who knows? Maybe one of us’ll need them again in the future.”

  “Hilarious.”

  That evening I opened the holdall and spread out the contents on the sitting room floor: bodysuits, vests, cardigans, jackets, caps and mittens. Everything was unbelievably small; it called to mind the clothes I’d had for my Tiny Tears when I was little. I’d taken that doll almost everywhere with me, from the day I unwrapped it on my third birthday, to the day—five years later—that it mysteriously vanished from my bedroom when I was out Christmas shopping with my mother. She said I must have taken it with me and forgotten where I left it. I knew better. Edward looked very pleased with himself when we returned home, exhausted from battling the city center crowds. It was only later that evening that I realized why. I had no proof, though, and my mother was furious with me for making such an accusation.

  “I wouldn’t put it past the little brat,” my father had slurred. “He gets away with murder in this house.”

  * * *

  As I was tidying away the baby clothes, the phone rang. I glanced at the display; Rob’s number. I’d heard not a whisper from him in almost a month. Inexplicably, I felt a sense of trepidation as my hand hovered over the receiver. I snatched it up a second before the answer machine clicked in.

  “Hello.”

  “Susan, it’s great to hear your voice. It feels like an eternity.”

  “I suppose it’s been quite a while.”

  “The time’s just vanished, I’ve been mad busy.”

  “I see.”

  “It all went brilliantly, Susan, I’ve had an amazing time. It was a bit awkward with Alison at first. She was sussing me out; making sure I’d really changed and wasn’t still the arse I was twenty-odd years ago. I must’ve convinced her. She decided to take some time off work, show me the sights of Edinburgh and introduce me to her parents and her other two kids. One’s at college in the city and the other one’s doing an apprenticeship at a local joinery firm.”

  “How lovely.”

  “It was. Everyone was so friendly—the complete opposite of when I contacted the family all those years ago. The past’s been forgiven and forgotten.
It probably helps that they’ve got a new villain now—Alison’s ex-husband. Sounds like, compared to him, I wasn’t so bad.”

  “I assume you met your son.”

  “Eventually, yeah. He’s started a PhD at the University of Liverpool. Alison suggested we visit him together so she could introduce the two of us, so after about a week in Edinburgh we drove down. I can’t explain what it was like—saying it was the best day ever doesn’t do it justice. I wasn’t mentally prepared for meeting him, though. I knew, rationally, that he was a twenty-three-year-old man, but subconsciously I was still thinking of him as a boy. In fact, he was as tall as me—maybe a bit taller—and stockier. And he had this great bushy beard. He’s an amazing guy—Alison’s certainly done a wonderful job.”

  “I’m glad you got on with him.”

  “We more than got on. I wouldn’t call it a father-son relationship. I don’t think that’ll happen after all these years. But we definitely bonded. Alison stuck around with us in Liverpool for a few days, then went back to Edinburgh, but James insisted I stay on. There was a spare room in the house he rents, which I used. It was great just hanging out with him. We visited John Lennon’s childhood home, went on a Beatles tour, took a ferry across the Mersey. Then I suggested I show him Birmingham, so he came and stayed with me. I took him to where his mum and I met, and to a few of our old haunts. He left this morning. We’re going to make an effort to see each other regularly.”

  “I expect you’ll be seeing Alison regularly, too, now you two are together again.”

  He laughed. “Actually, we’re not together.”

  Not together, I thought. Not together.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. You must be very disappointed.”

  “Not in the slightest. When we finally met each other, I realized straightaway how ridiculous the whole idea had been. I’d built up a rose-tinted picture in my head of what Alison was like and how it was when we were together, but it wasn’t true then and it certainly isn’t now. I think she’s great, I got on well with her, she was friendly and funny, and maybe if I’d wanted to pursue it she might’ve been interested, she might not. But there was no spark there at all, as far as I was concerned. It’s pretty crazy that I’ve spent all this time obsessed with a person who never really existed, other than in my imagination. I’ve been an idiot. Alison and I’ll stay friends, though. We’ve got James in common, and we’re a big part of each other’s past. But she’s not part of my future. I’ve been doing a hell of a lot of thinking these last few weeks. And I’m so sorry I haven’t called for ages. I’ve been in a little bubble—real life has been suspended. I’m going to make it up to you.”