*
Charlie was furious in the morning. Not, as you might think, because I had gone instead of him but because I had gone at all and because Bridget had rung in the first place. ‘If she’s going to start that,’ he said, ‘then I’ve had enough.’ I went through Bridget’s reasons, pointing out, as she had rightly pointed out to me, that if Susan found Grandma on the floor – but Charlie cut through all that. What concerned him, he said, was the future. It was time Grandma went into some sort of Home and the sooner Bridget faced up to this the better. ‘Bridget,’ I said, ‘will never, ever, put your mother in a Home.’ Charlie said, ‘If I withdraw my support and you do too, then she’ll have no alternative.’
It was the truth, but hardly worth stating. He would never withdraw his support and neither would I. How could we? Bridget already bears the brunt: compared to her we do hardly anything. What do I do, after all: I bring Grandma along here for two hours three times a week; I shop for her; I do her laundry; I look after her on Sundays; I supervise the helpers. What does Charlie do: he pays the bills and looks after the flat. But Bridget, Bridget sleeps with her two nights a week and lives beside her, always on the alert. Her life is dominated by Grandma. And most of all Bridget suffers, whereas we do not. We suffer tedium and irritation and boredom. Bridget suffers real pain. She cannot bear to watch Grandma disintegrate, to see her helpless and lost, wanting only the love of her family. ‘Men,’ Bridget says with Grandma about Stuart and Charlie and now even Adrian, ‘Men.’
*
Today I rang Dr Carruthers. It was Charlie’s suggestion. Dr Carruthers is a geriatrician. He has already seen Grandma, when she first came to live here. Bridget says he is useless but grudgingly admits he is highly thought of among her colleagues. She resented him being brought in, saying there was nothing wrong with Grandma that a few weeks’ loving care could not put right, but Charlie insisted. It was Charlie the neighbours had rung because only Charlie had been thoughtful enough to leave a number with them. ‘She’s wandering at night,’ they reported, breathless with the weight of their own virtue, ‘wandering up and down the street in her nightie at two in the morning. Anything could happen.’ And she shouted, opened her front door and shouted pointless things like, ‘Awa’ wi’ you all.’ Her milk bottles piled up on the doorstep and newspapers were never taken from the letter box. So Bridget went up and was shocked. There was food everywhere, a trail of buttered toast across every surface and puddles of tea poured onto the carpet and cushions. Then Charlie went up and together they brought her down from Glasgow because Bridget could not bear it. It seemed to her the only solution and no amount of Charlie’s reasoning could persuade her otherwise. It would never have happened, Bridget said, if she had not left home.
And that was the point. She had left home, at the ripe old age of thirty-five. She had finally made her break for freedom, a trifle late, and the guilt was awful. She had left Grandma alone and thought of herself for once and the hurt inflicted had been cruel. Not that Grandma stood in her way. There were no scenes, no recriminations, absolutely no attempts at moral blackmail. Grandma was courageous, which only made it worse. She encouraged Bridget to go. She told her to enjoy herself. She announced firmly that she was independent. Bridget, in desperation, said she did not really want to go but would be promoted. She would be a Sister, if she went south, a Sister in the children’s ward of a very famous teaching hospital. She only wanted to go for the experience and then she would return. Grandma told her to go and do well for herself. Bridget’s parting words were that Grandma had to promise that if she wanted Bridget to come back, then she would write and tell her so. Grandma said there was no need for that, ‘Get awa’ wi’ you.’ But she did ask. After five years of loneliness, five years in which Bridget went back to Glasgow only for three separate weeks a year, Grandma said to Bridget, ‘Remember you said I had to speak up if I wanted you home?’ Bridget told me she felt faint at the dreaded words and could only nod. ‘Well,’ Grandma said, ‘your bed needs warming. You’ve been gone a long time.’ And that was it. Bridget blustered, said if she left her job the ward would suffer, that she couldn’t just walk out, it was not like an ordinary job. She would come back as soon as she could decently leave and as soon as a comparable post was vacant in Glasgow. Grandma was satisfied.
I do not know if Bridget even went through the motions of either giving notice here or applying for a post up there. I suspect she did no more than run an eye over Appointments Vacant in the Nursing Times. But she marks that moment when Grandma asked her to come back as the beginning of her mother’s decline. If she had gone home, she is convinced things would have been different. That is why Charlie called in Dr Carruthers. He wanted to know if Grandma was ill or merely depressed. Bridget, with all her medical knowledge (though she had never nursed the elderly since she finished training) could not tell us. She thought Grandma might have had ‘a little stroke’ but there was no evidence of this. Grandma’s own doctor told Charlie it was unlikely. Dr Carruthers agreed. He came and spent an hour with Grandma on his own and then he wrote a report. Bridget said she could have written it herself, it was so obvious, but we found it helpful. Grandma, the report said, was suffering from moderate senile dementia. She knew her name, her age, the names of her children and grandchildren, and where she was living. She could feed herself, toilet herself and walk unaided. But her sense of time had gone. She did not know the date or the year or who was Prime Minister or Queen. She did not know whether she had eaten today or not. She had no sense of direction. The prognosis was carefully worded: with the family support she was getting it was perfectly possible that the dementia might get no worse for several years. Charlie rang up Dr Carruthers to ask the crucial questions: was it inevitable that eventually it would get worse? Yes. And how long did the process usually take? Five years. What happened after that? Death.
The first thing Dr Carruthers asked me today when I finally got through to him was how long it was since he had seen my mother-in-law. It was four years. ‘She’s done well then,’ he said. I agreed but I said we felt there was a change, and we would like her re-assessed. We made an appointment. I checked the rota first – oh yes, we have a rota, it is essential – to make sure Bridget would not be about. Bridget would know what we were up to. And we were, because then I rang the only Home I had ever heard spoken of with any respect. I asked if I could look round with Charlie. It was extraordinary how, just by making two appointments, I felt I had achieved something. For too long we had bowed to Bridget’s passionate conviction that her mother could never go into a Home. We had never even looked at one. We accepted her word, her word which was all the more impressive because she was a nurse, that all Homes were appalling. We needed to see for ourselves. I feel pleased that I am acting and not just thinking. But I also feel guilty, for going behind Bridget’s back, and apprehensive. Suppose Dr Carruthers confirms that Grandma is much worse and likely to deteriorate rapidly? Suppose we find that this Home I have made an appointment to visit is a good place? What then? What will Bridget say? What dreadful quarrels are we moving towards? What right have we to do what we are doing?
Hannah
MUST BE SOMETHING going on, both of them grim-faced, whispers every five minutes, mysterious phone calls, Mum jumpy. Whatever it is, it passes over Grandma, as most things do. She looked sweet when I came in today, sitting at the kitchen table with a pile of potatoes to peel and a bowl of water to wash them in. She loves scraping potatoes. She has such strong wrists and she holds each potato so surely, almost caressing it. She doesn’t look so sweet now. The idea is supposed to be that she scrapes the potato, puts the scrapings on one side onto a piece of paper, dips the scraped potato in the water and then pops it into the waiting pan. No chance. I eat my doughnut and drink my hot chocolate and watch. The potato is scraped all right but then the scrapings are put into the pan and the knife in the water. ‘Where’s my bloomin’ knife?’ Grandma asks. ‘Who’s pinched my knife?’ I take it out of the water and hand it to her
when I’ve dried it. She starts to eat the potato and asks Mum if she has any sugar. Mum puts a bowl of sugar in front of her and Grandma dips the potato into it and sucks it and beams. I say to Mum I’ve got masses of homework and such a headache.
I never had headaches at your age –
What a daft thing to say.
Hannah!
How can she possibly make a statement like that?
Just ignore her.
It gets hard.
I never had headaches at your age.
Well, lucky old you, I say to her but if you didn’t have headaches, which I do not believe, then you must have had bloody awful toothache. Grandma says language as Mum says Hannah. I carry on, annoyed, fed up with humouring Grandma. Your teeth must have been rotten from the beginning, I tell her, with all that disgusting sugar you ram into yourself, ugh. Grandma mimics me, thrusts her face forward and repeats ugh, ugh and then asks who stole my scone. I fidget with fury.
Have you got a flea?
No I have not. More likely you have.
Hannah!
Well, she’s always scratching.
She can’t help it.
She can’t help anything according to you.
Have you got a flea?
Then we have the saga, about her mother and how she had a phobia about fleas and would make you take your clothes off if you scratched so that she could minutely inspect you. I remember when we went to the Highlands etc. etc. I mimic her this time, saying I remember, I remember. It is a mistake.
I remember, I remember the house where I was born.
Oh god, not that crappy poem.
It’s a lovely poem.
It’s rubbish.
Mr Fairfax taught it to us.
What a pity he couldn’t have taught you a good poem.
I remember, I remember the house where I was born.
She does, just. Can’t remember where my Dad was born but she remembers the rooms in Glasgow where she lived till she was twenty. It sounds hell. Two rooms and one kitchen, each with a bed in an alcove, and seven of them, three boys and two girls and their parents, no bathroom or inside lavatory. She speaks of these Buildings lyrically. Dad took us once, just to look at the outside. Great tall dirty buildings, no gardens, no greenery, narrow streets and at the back the wash houses and lavatories, all communal then, not used now, and over everything the shadow of the bing, the slag heap, where Grandma says they ‘had good times’ playing. Great. But why on earth I want to attack her memories I can’t imagine. Let her keep them, paint them, embroider them, wrap them in glittering paper, why should I care.
Adrian slams in. He kisses Grandma. She beams up at him.
Have you worked hard?
I’m worn out, Grandma, a twelve-hour shift.
Of sitting on your arse.
Hannah!
Somebody has to bring home the bacon.
I can’t see it will ever be you, you wimp.
Have you worked hard?
Grandma tells Mum to give the man his dinner, he deserves it. Adrian sits down while the kettle boils and chews some of Grandma’s raw potato. She looks at him admiringly. Adrian looks how Grandma thinks real men should look. Grandma is appallingly sexist. Men should be tall, men should be broad, men should be strong. If I ask her why, she says feeble things like ‘for working’. It’s no good asking what if a man is a hairdresser or a dress designer or a vicar, what if his work needs no physical strength? Grandma just says it will come in useful all the same. Adrian meets with her entire approval. He looks disgusting but Grandma adores him. Adrian is tall, Adrian is broad, Adrian is strong. He doesn’t look like Dad, who is rather slight and weedy, but like his dear Uncle Stuart. Adrian looks tough. He isn’t, he is a rotten coward in my opinion, but he looks tough. It makes me feel ill just to look at him – all brawn and, however brilliant his exam results, virtually no brain.
Adrian slobbily asks Grandma if she would like a cup of tea. I point out that there are two cups of cold tea untouched in front of her. Grandma glares at me and says she was just going to drink it and yes she would like some fresh. Adrian makes it with the maximum fuss. Then he says he had better go and rest before the next shift. Grandma says he’s done well and he’s a fine worker and to get his head down at once and she’ll wake him for his dinner. Very slowly, when he’s gone, she gets up and lifts the pan of water into which she has mistakenly put the potato scrapings. She carries it carefully to the sink while Mum and I watch. Slowly she puts it down, accurately, on the draining board and then starts searching. Neither of us ask what she is looking for. We know she wouldn’t be able to tell us. It becomes quite fascinating watching as drawer after drawer is opened, cupboard after cupboard inspected. She is in a trance. Probably she’s already forgotten what she was looking for, but no. She locates a sieve. That’s it. Back she goes to the sink and strains the potato scrapings through the sieve then lifts the pan onto the cooker. She sighs with contentment and tells us the soup will not be long, it’ll be ready when the men come in.
She is quite exhausted. She staggers and both Mum and I rush. I am ashamed; I wish I had not snapped at her. I take her next door and settle her on the sofa and stay with her. She murmurs ‘the bairnies cuddle doon at nicht’ and goes to sleep. But only for five minutes. She complains her back aches. I get a hot water bottle and wedge it against her shoulders where it pains her most.
All women have bad backs.
No, they don’t. It’s all that carrying you did.
The bairns have to be carried, the shopping has to be carried.
You should have looked after yourself.
Ours not to wonder why, ours but to do or die.
Oh Grandma!
All women have bad backs.
I must not attack her again. I pick up a book. Grandma sighs and yawns and says it is very quiet, are they all in their beds, there aren’t many people here tonight, where have they all gone to? Who, I ask. Them, she says. Who’s them, I insist. The men. Which men? The men. Then she says we are best without them anyway.
It is a silly thing to say but I am always doing it, always trying to force Grandma into thinking. Nobody else does. They all say to humour her, ignore her, go along with her but nobody ever says make her think. I’ve had it explained, this senile dementia, and I’ve looked it up myself and I understand it but it still seems to me that, just as exercise helps the body, whatever condition it’s in, then it must help the mind. It must, surely. So I often try to exercise what is left of Grandma’s mind. I ask her what she had for lunch. She says nobody gave her any. I say they did, what was it. Mince? She guesses. I say I have no idea. She states it was mince, confidently. I ask what kind of mince was it. She says it was done with carrots and onions and a few wee potatoes. She gets quite animated, describing the flavour the mince had, searching for the right words. It may all be made up but she has enjoyed describing the mince. I comment that of course she made mince dishes a lot and she agrees she did and I ask why and she says it was nourishing and cheap. I say how hard it must have been, with no money, feeding her family. She sits bolt upright suddenly, indignant.
I had plenty of money.
Oh, Grandma, you did not.
I always paid my bills.
I know you did but –
And we had food in our bellies and a fire.
I know but –
I had plenty of money.
Amazing. She won’t have it that she scraped and saved and performed economic miracles with the little she had. It is no good being sarcastic and saying, well, of course you had so much money you could buy a mansion and have a Rolls in the garage and how many weeks a year did you say you went to Monte Carlo for? She just repeats ‘plenty of money’ over and over.
I like Grandma whistling. She has her hands behind her head now and, for her, looks comfortable, given that she is the most awkward-looking person in the world. She sits, usually, on the corners of chairs and then is surprised when they tip over. Even in bed she screws her body i
nto odd shapes, ‘all to one side like Gourock’ as she puts it herself. But now she is quite relaxed, lying on the sofa, pillow at her back, hot water bottle behind her shoulders, whistling ‘Charlie Is My Darling’. It soon tails off into aimless notes. Sometimes no sound comes out, the lips remain pursed, and then she resumes. Where she lies she is facing the window looking out into the street. All she sees is the houses across it and a little sky above. She stops whistling to comment, ‘Not many there tonight,’ and then carries on until the next thought occurs to her and she says, ‘I don’t think I’ll go to church tonight, I’ve a bad back.’
She’s Scottish Presbyterian, as you’d expect. It’s an awful religion. Grandma used to take me when I was little and I was terrified – all bleak and dour and colourless. If I want to annoy Grandma, I say so. I say if I was religious, I’d be a Roman Catholic and have some beauty and glamour. I don’t know about Grandma and church anyway. She is fond of telling me she always went to church, always. If I ask her why she just looks astonished and clicks her tongue in exasperation and tells me not to be silly. Trying to get Grandma to talk about religion is like trying to get her to talk about love or, worse still, sex. It is indecent, it is not a suitable topic of conversation, it does not need talking about. I don’t attempt it this afternoon. I upset her enough earlier but that is one of the few advantages of Grandma’s dementia, she forgets bad things at once as well as good things. Now, I just want her to be comfortable and to whistle.
Sometimes, in moods like this, I can catch her eye and know she is sane. Everything has to be right, as it is now. She is comfortable, the room is quiet, the sun is filtered through the leaves of the tree outside and splits into fragments of light which mesmerise Grandma. Mum is in the background, moving about in the kitchen. There are delicious smells as something cooks in the oven. And I am sitting in front of Grandma so she can see me and know she is not alone. I have my feet up too. I pretend to be reading a book. And I look up and stare at Grandma and for a moment she catches my eye and I hold my breath. It is there: sanity. If I move, if I speak, if there is an unexpected noise it will go. What can I do with it? It is so precious. I want to scream for Mum to come quickly and look, look. She is there, she really is, she knows, she communicates, what shall I do? I smile. Grandma raises her eyebrows. Then Mum drops something, there is a bang, Grandma blinks and she has gone.
Have the Men Had Enough? Page 4
