by Ann MacLaren
Marissa had been sympathetic, but pragmatic.
“Well, it’s not the end of the world. Just be thankful you can afford to retire. And think of all the things we can do: we can spend the whole winter in Sitges, visit my family in Chisinau, go up to Edinburgh and stay with Oliver and Patrick. We’ll have a wonderful time.”
Adam no longer even liked Sitges, which had become overcrowded with tourists since they had bought the house there. He’d rather cut his wrists than spend time with her mad Moldovan relatives, and so far he had managed to avoid sleeping in the same house as Oliver and his partner. It wasn’t that he didn’t love his son, and he accepted the situation, of course he did, but it was all so... oh, he didn’t know what it was.
“It’s not as if you’re completely deaf,” said Marissa. “You’ll still be able to enjoy life.”
Yes, but for how long? He’d soon have to get a hearing aid. Maybe two. What if he reached the stage where he couldn’t hear anything at all? How would he cope? He became quite agitated. He didn’t want to be deaf. He didn’t want to retire. How could he live without his music? He couldn’t sleep, went off his food. That was when Marissa dragged him along to the Health Oasis, to relax in the flotation tank.
Adam tried not to think about his encroaching deafness, and instead worried about how much longer he would have to spend floating in this black hole. He was surprised he didn’t feel cold lying in the water. There would be a system for maintaining the temperature, no doubt, like in swimming pools, with air filters, with droplets of water dripping from them. He’d probably end up in hospital with Legionnaire’s disease. Or at the very least get an ear infection. He wished he’d remembered to put in the foam earplugs that had been given to him. He tried to focus on emptying his mind, but found that impossible, so he began to imagine himself playing one of his favourite pieces of music – one of the variations on a theme from Schubert’s “Trout” Quintet: the one where the double bass carries the melody as the pianist gives a virtuoso performance on the keyboard. He took his hands from behind his head to play the notes into the air, and it was at this moment that he became aware of the silence. He could hear nothing. Nothing. He was conscious of his heart pounding in his ears, but that was more a sensation than a sound. And then, in that complete silence, as he played his piano in the air, he could hear the notes. He could hear them in his head as his fingers rippled along the keys, hear the double bass by his side. Yes. He could hear the music perfectly.
And that was when the idea came to him. It was as if a switch had been flicked; he could almost see a little light bulb going on inside his head, illuminating his brainwave.
He would give a concert. A piano recital, but with a difference. An air piano recital. And why not? Plenty of people played air guitar didn’t they? There was even a World Air Guitar Championship Competition; he’d seen an article about it in the newspaper. Well he would play air piano. He would perform a whole concerto facing his audience with his imaginary instrument, and they, instead of hearing the music in the traditionally accepted manner, would interpret the sounds as he expressed them through his hands, his face, his head, his whole body. Goodness, he could think of pieces he could interpret with just his eyebrows. It would be a concert for the deaf principally – from the hard of hearing to the profoundly deaf – but anyone would be able to come along. It seemed such a simple idea he wondered it hadn’t been done before; or perhaps it had and he hadn’t heard about it. In fact, he could probably get a little group together, a trio perhaps, or even a quintet sometimes – he’d need a quintet for “The Trout”. He thought about the dozens of musicians he knew, some of them old friends. Like Peter. He could ask Peter to be violin; he had the most expressive face Adam had ever seen. Peter would be happy to help out. And Sam – double bass would have to be Sam. With his long face and large watery eyes he’d be ideal; and he had retired last year, so he was sure to be bored by now. Then there was Sam’s wife, Stella. She played the cello, he remembered; she hadn’t played professionally for years, so she’d probably be happy to be asked. That just left the viola. Maybe Marissa would do that – she used to be quite good, just needed a little practice; anyway, it wasn’t as if anybody would notice if she dropped a note here and there. It was only the viola after all. Marissa certainly knew how to convey what she wanted to say with just a look, so he didn’t think she’d have much problem with musical expression.
His mind raced on, working out a programme, deciding which venue would be most appropriate, wondering about Arts Council funding, till the piercing strains of a Peruvian flute filtered into the chamber, breaking into his deliberations and signalling the end of his session. Adam stretched out an arm and his hand immediately came into contact with the door handle. He pulled himself up, pushed open the door and stepped out into the dimly lit shower area.
“And here and there he da-a-arted, as swift as swi-ift could be.” He sang loudly as he stood under the hot water, scrubbing the salt out of his hair. “Was never fish so li-ively, and frolicsome as he?”
He hoped Marissa could hear him.
You’ve Got to Laugh
She’s toddling along beside me as we make our way down Sauchiehall Street, I turn to fend off a woman doing market research for some catalogue, and when I look round she’s gone.
I try not to panic. She’s done this before. I know she’ll either be in Boots or Marks and Spencer’s because they’ve both got escalators. Marks is nearest so I run in there, and sure enough there she is at the foot of the escalator, leaning over at a funny angle with her hand outstretched.
“Mother!”
But I’m not in time to stop her pushing the button. A dozen bodies lurch forward as they come to a sudden halt, but nobody falls. I grab her arm and drag her away while they’re all still standing there, looking around them as if they’ve just wakened from some hypnotic trance and are trying to work out where they are.
I don’t know why she does it and I don’t suppose she knows either. Maybe she used to do it because she was scared to step onto a staircase that was moving, so she learned how to make it stop. But that was when she was what you might call semi-rational. When she did silly things but you could work out the reasoning behind them. Nowadays she doesn’t even bother to go up or down the stairs once they’ve stopped moving. She just presses the button and stands there grinning, as if she’d been told the funniest joke. Mind you, you’ve got to laugh when you see all these people as the stairs come to a sudden halt and they keep going, grabbing onto each other as they try to keep their balance.
I hustle her out of the shop back onto Sauchiehall Street. I don’t like being in shops with her, it makes me nervous. And I’m not just talking about the escalators. If we stop beside a display with something on it that takes her fancy, her hand shoots out like a snake’s tongue and it’s in her pocket. How can someone who is so slow of thought be so quick of movement? I have to keep my eyes on her the whole time. It’s become a joke with her granddaughters, if they want some make-up or jewellery that they can’t afford.
“Can we take Granny shopping?” they’ll say.
I keep her close and point things out in the shop windows till we reach Buchanan Street. I wish I’d brought the car. There’s an hour to wait till the train leaves, so I take her into a café for something to eat. We’ve only been out together half a day and already I feel frazzled. I used to enjoy a trip into town with her, having coffee or lunch, chatting about this and that. Now it’s just a question and answer session:
“What would you like to eat?”
“Beans”
“They don’t have beans here. What about a cake?”
“Why don’t they have beans?”
“Because they only have cakes.”
“I want beans.”
We’ve been down this path before, in other cafés, so I know just how long we might be talking about beans. And all the while she has a smile on her fa
ce like the sun coming out.
I order cake and tea. She puts the whole slice into her mouth but it’s too big to chew, so she starts to laugh. She takes it out again and has a slurp of tea. She’s like a toddler, learning to feed herself – mashed up cake in one hand, wobbly cup in the other.
This regression into a sort of geriatric childhood will continue until she can no longer walk or talk, and she’ll need to wear nappies and be fed with thickened liquids and spend most of her days asleep. The doctor told me that. He also told me I should put her into a care home now, before I become unable to cope. Easy for him to say. It’s not his mother. But I’ve agreed to have a look at some places, see which one I’d prefer. She’d prefer. I wonder whether, if our roles were reversed, if she was healthy and I needed to be cared for, she would put me in a home. Somehow I don’t think so. My mother would look after me. I suspect mothers love their children more than children love their mothers.
She’s licking her fingers, and as I catch her eye she beams another smile at me. I should be glad that she doesn’t suffer, that she has no awareness of what’s happening to her, but I feel frustrated, and angry, and helpless, for her as well as me. I can do nothing to stop her downward spiral, but I must try to keep her with me, with her family who love her, as long as I can. I smile back at her.
“Come on, Mum,” I say as I wipe her hands clean. “It’s time to go home.”
Sarah’s in the kitchen stirring at a pasta sauce when we get back. I can tell by her quiet, resigned smile that there’s been an argument with her sister about who should cook dinner. They’re both in the middle of exams, but Alanna’s, being finals, are deemed more important – by Alanna. I want to shake her and tell her to stop being so self-centred; I want to shake Sarah and tell her not to give in so easily. Instead I sniff the air:
“Smells delicious, doesn’t it, Mum? Spaghetti Bolognese. Your favourite.”
We all laugh, including my mother, who almost certainly doesn’t remember the last time we ate spaghetti: before I’d had time to cut it up for her she had pulled it out from under its sauce and tried to untangle it like a ball of wool before depositing it under the table.
“I think I’ll get Granny to lie down for an hour. I’ll feed her later.”
“Maybe I should have made something else...”
“It’s not the spaghetti. Really. Granny’s tired, that’s all. It’s been a long day for her.”
It’s been a long day for me too. I just want to put my mother into another room, out of my sight, so that I can be normal for a while, with my girls. An hour of freedom. Maybe I could stretch it to two.
“Come on Granny. Beddy-byes.” Alanna has taken her grandmother’s hand and is leading her out of the kitchen.
“Beddy.” She laughs as she totters along behind Alanna, and we all laugh with her.
Over dinner I tell the girls about the incident with the escalator in Marks and Spencer.
“Mega embarrassment” says Alanna.
“Poor Granny.” Sarah looks tearful. “It’s just not fair.”
No, it’s not fair. But there’s no court I can petition for a more just treatment in this scheme of things, no judge who’ll decree that my mother’s mind, her spirit, her very essence must be restored to us. I know I’ll never get my mother back. But I won’t let this sadness take hold.
“Do you remember the time she put those tins of tuna fish in her pocket at the supermarket? And the bottle of perfume in Boots? And those Christmas decorations?”
I continue to reminisce, leaving out the sad bits, the bad bits, and the girls are laughing, throwing in their tuppenceworth, not wanting to be outdone.
“And that time she put the ice cream cone in her handbag? We didn’t notice that till it started dripping out of the bag and down her skirt.”
“And remember when I took her for a walk in the Botanic Gardens, and she picked one of the best plants in the Orchid House? We had to make a quick exit.”
Our supply of anecdotes is soon exhausted, but we move easily on to other topics so that by the time dinner is over Granny is no longer uppermost in our minds. I shoo them both off to their rooms to study, and am gathering up the dishes when I hear a scream.
“No, Granny. No!”
“Mum! Mum!” Sarah sounds distraught.
They’re in my bedroom; my mother is standing at the bottom of my bed, in a tangle of underwear and a pool of diarrhoea. Alanna is holding her by the wrists.
“I tried to stop her. It’s all over her hands.”
Sarah looks as if she might faint. My mother smiles up at Alanna and tries to pull her hands away.
“She must have been trying to get to the loo.”
“Run a bath for Granny, will you Sarah?” I try to sound calm and controlled, and force myself to smile back at my mother. “Let’s get you in the tub. You like a nice warm bath don’t you?”
She’s still smiling as Alanna leads her towards the door.
“Bet you’re glad you put in that laminate flooring,” says Alanna, and we both laugh.
You’ve got to laugh. Haven’t you.
Hotel Riposo
Doreen wasn’t happy. At her bidding, the receptionist had sent for ‘someone with more authority’ and Robert could sense his wife girding her loins for battle as the young manager, in stylish jacket, open-necked shirt and tight jeans, now approached.
“I am Fabio.” He smiled all over them and shook their hands as if they were long lost friends. “What seems here the problem? You do not like your room?”
“It’s not what we paid for,” said Doreen, who always spoke for both of them. “We were supposed to have a balcony.”
Fabio swiped a sleepy cat from the desk and consulted the computer.
“I apologise deeply,” he said, “but there is not an empty room with a balcony.”
Doreen stood her ground.
“Well that’s just not good enough. The room you’ve given us is far too small, and the bedroom’s very dark. There’s only one small light – how am I supposed to put my make-up on? And we asked for a walk-in shower. I can’t clamber over a bath that high.” She paused to think of what else she could add. “And there are only four coat hangers in the wardrobe. What use is that to anyone staying a fortnight?”
They were only staying a week, but Fabio politely overlooked this small error. He reached down behind the desk and brought up a small handful of assorted coat hangers.
“Problem solved, no?” He gave a satisfied grin.
Doreen’s left eyebrow shot up – always a dangerous sign.
“We want a better room,” she said emphatically, snatching the hangers from the desk. “Don’t we Robert?”
Robert nodded but kept schtum. He usually said the wrong thing anyway.
Fabio sighed, defeated. He consulted his computer again.
“Ah! I have a very special room which is for families available. A very large room. But I am happy for you to use my families room if you wish,” he said proudly – though whether he was proud of finding a solution to the problem, or of his language skills, which were considerable, wasn’t clear. His English was certainly miles better than their Italian.
“No balcony for families though,” he added.
They followed him, Doreen panting in the heat, along a corridor and up one flight of stairs, where he opened Room 101 with a flourish.
It was indeed a large room. It was enormous – with a king-sized bed as well as a small double and two single ones.
“Italians are very large in families,” explained Fabio.
Doreen opened the door of a huge wardrobe where two coat hangers kept company with a spare pillow. She hung up the ones she held in her hand – now there were six.
Fabio threw open the door to the bathroom, and pressed a switch.
“You see? Lights.”
He sai
d this with an air of superiority, as if these were some newly invented contraptions exclusive to this hotel. There were indeed lights – one on each of three walls, four set into the ceiling and one above the wash hand basin.
“It’s like Blackpool Illuminations,” Robert joked.
Fabio smiled in agreement, taking it as a compliment. Doreen glowered at them both and went back to the wardrobe.
“Coat hangers.” She spoke slowly, pointing at the existing ones. “Not enough for my clothes. Com-pren-dey.”
“Si si si Signora. You want hanging. No problems.”
Robert thought he detected a smirk as the manager left the room.
By evening Doreen had an upset tummy and couldn’t face dinner. She blamed it on the meal they’d had on the aeroplane. Robert felt he should keep his wife company so went out and bought himself a sandwich and some wine to take back to the room.
The following day might have passed peacefully for Robert, in the garden perhaps, reading his book; but he had to minister to Doreen who was still feeling a bit seedy. He sat reading at the window overlooking the lake during the short periods when his wife was asleep, and tried not to feel put upon.
On Sunday Doreen was quite well again, and on the way back from breakfast noticed that a large party of Italian guests were checking out. She sent Robert to persuade Fabio into moving them to a now vacant room with a balcony and walk-in shower.
Fabio produced some more coat hangers from beneath the desk as soon as he saw Robert approaching.
“Women, eh?” said Robert. Fabio smiled in sympathy. He gave Robert the key to a Balcony Suite.
