Pig, Bridget says, pig, he was always a pig, he is in the right job. Mum says, ‘Bridget!’ Bridget groans, rubs her forehead wearily, asks, ‘What is the matter with him?’ Then, when she has lit another cigarette, she says, ‘Of course, it’s Paula.’ Mum leaps in, says it’s wrong to blame Paula, that Stuart is fifty times the stronger of the two and Paula has no influence whatsoever over him. Bridget says ‘precisely’ and that she should have, that men have to be brought to understand almost everything where feelings are concerned, that Charlie only does what he does and acts as he acts towards Grandma because of Mum. Mum denies this vehemently. She asks how can Bridget equate Charlie with Stuart. Bridget says she doesn’t but that still she doesn’t believe Charlie would be as supportive without Mum’s influence. I think about chipping in because of course Bridget is right, Mum is forever tutoring Dad who is indeed not like his big brother but on the other hand not the most naturally imaginative or sensitive of souls. But I keep quiet. Mum can handle this herself, which she does. She points out how like Grandma Charlie is – kind, benign but, like Grandma, oh yes like her, unemotional and a blocker-out of anything nasty. All Mum does, she says, is unblock him emotionally and he does the rest himself. Bridget, determined, as on so many occasions, to have the last word says, defiantly, that Stuart has nothing to unblock and Paula would need to give him a transplant. Mum says she is defeating her own argument.
I leave them in the kitchen, tired. All that energy going into these arguments, backwards and forwards. I know they have to do it, the problem is not invented, but why do they have to do it all the time? They make Grandma sound like a great big stone they are all carrying on their backs. I can’t stand it. She is only a poor, nice, harmless old woman and yet on and on they go. Surely it doesn’t have to be like this. In other countries, other societies, old women just sit in the doorway, don’t they, watching the world go by, a bother to no one. Grandmas just muck in. Nobody puts them in flats on their own and spends a fortune having them looked after. Very well, I say to myself, kindly answer these questions:
Do you think Grandma should be living here, in your family?
Yes.
Would you like her to be living here?
No.
Well, then, smart-ass.
*
The phone never stops.
’Ello.
Yes?
’Ello, is job please, I do it.
What? What’s your name?
Is for job, I do it, the forty pounds, I want.
Can I have your name and address?
I come now?
Can I have your name and address?
What do they think they are doing, these people? Nobody seems to give their name, it is no use Mum saying I must write that down first then their number and address. I don’t have conversations with them. The pips go in a second and they haven’t got telephone numbers and I don’t know what to say. I only seem to get the foreign ones and how could we let someone look after Grandma if her English is so poor she can’t even handle a phone call?
Mum has a list. It’s depressing. Fourteen calls in a day and most of them hopeless. Girls of fourteen, women of eighty, all dying to sleep the night with Grandma and pocket forty smackers. No experience, not the slightest idea of what the job entails. ‘We’re looking for someone motherly and kind,’ I hear Mum say. Everyone, but everyone, is both kind and motherly. They know they are because everyone has always told them. ‘But what about your husband?’ I hear Mum ask when, hurrah, someone is the right age and respectably married and a mother too. ‘And what about the children?’ Oh, the husbands will not mind, four nights is nothing (and four times forty in cash a very great deal) and as for the children, the husbands will be there and the children never wake and really it is ideal. Mum turns against married women. She and Bridget decide they want an unmarried woman of between forty and fifty. A divorcee is acceptable and a widow perfect. Grown-up children excellent but anything under eighteen not. Neither of them wants anyone who has a full-time job but part-time is all right with Mum though not Bridget. Bridget wants Grandma to be any applicant’s sole concern. Mum says she is being a trifle ambitious. The list of fourteen is whittled down to four:
Mrs Monro (47, divorced, no children, works three half days cleaning, loves old people)
Cathy Gibson (40, divorced, one son of twenty, afternoon job as dental receptionist, loves old people)
Mrs Callaghan (52, widow, no job, three children all grown up and not living with her, loves old people, especially those who wake at night because she is an insomniac)
Mrs O’Malley (60, Irish, married but no children, husband night watchman, loves old ladies because they remind her of her mother).
Mum says I can stay for the interviews if I like but I am to keep quiet. She says it will actually be helpful having my opinion and Bridget agrees. Mrs Monro is due at 4 p.m. By 4.15 she has not turned up. A bad start. Bridget is depressed already. But Cathy Gibson arrives early, at 4.25 for 4.30, and that is a good sign. Not much else is. Cathy Gibson never stops talking. Neither Mum nor Bridget gets any of their cunning questions in. She is quite bright, well-dressed and, as Bridget says afterwards, too good for the job. She can only be after the money. She asked not a single question about Grandma, nothing. All she did was boast. She left as Mrs Callaghan arrived. Mrs Callaghan is promising but is she fit enough? She is very fat and out of breath and generally exhausted-looking. But she has a nice smile and seems gentle and does ask about Grandma and tells us she used to work in an old people’s Home, one Bridget has heard of. She seems to understand about dementia and volunteers bits of information which show she takes an interest. Mum asks her if she thinks she could lift Grandma. Mrs Callaghan looks hesitant, says it would probably take her a little time but she thinks so. She is used to lifting. As soon as she has gone Bridget says it would be the blind leading the blind. Mum sighs. Mrs O’Malley is a fraction late but apologises, says she got the wrong number. She doesn’t look sixty. She is tall, strong-looking, definitely strong-looking enough to lift Grandma, very forthright, a bit clipped in fact, shades of dear Mildred here. Turns out she was a nurse so she and Bridget chat. She, too, knows about dementia and makes sympathetic noises. Mum asks her why she wants the job. Mrs O’Malley looks straight at her as she says she will not deny she needs the money. Her husband, the night watchman, does not earn much and she has failed to get any job she goes for because she is too old. Nursing agencies do not want people over sixty and anyway she is not up to it any more. Four nights would be perfect, it would be a godsend. Her own mother lived with her until she died, God rest her soul, five years ago. She still misses her, God bless her.
After she has gone, with Mum saying she will let her know tomorrow, Bridget is doubtful, to Mum’s astonishment. Mum says what more does Bridget want? Mrs O’Malley is ideal, much better than Mildred ever was. Bridget says she thinks Mrs O’Malley looks hard. She would not feel easy leaving Grandma with her. She has met those sort of nurses before – martinets, everything done by the clock. Bridget, Mum says, we cannot pick and choose. Mildred leaves on Monday. What are we going to do if we don’t take Mrs O’Malley? Bridget shrugs. She says she could take time off if necessary until someone better turns up. Mum asks where they are going to turn up from. Bridget doesn’t know but says she is not leaving her mother just with anyone. Mum is silent, but clearly angry. I say how about letting Grandma meet Mrs O’Malley, here, arranging for Mrs O’Malley to call round when Grandma is here. Then we could see how she handled it. Bridget beams, Mum beams, good idea, Hannah. Fortunately, Mrs O’Malley is the only one of the four on the telephone. Mum rings her, the appointment is made, same time tomorrow when Grandma will be with us.
*
Grandma looks so sweet. Bridget washed her hair last night, before Mildred arrived, and it looks startlingly white and beautiful. She is wearing her blue dress, the one Mum bought her for Christmas, the one that she feels important in. She preens herself a little, smoothing down the fab
ric with admiring, tentative hands. Her thick old nails gleam with bright pink polish. I don’t like Bridget plastering Grandma’s nails with polish: it’s tacky, yucky. But Grandma likes it. Every now and again she spreads her fingers out and puts them, fan-like, across her cheek and says skittishly, ‘Anyone seen my milkman?’ Then she laughs and laughs and says that’s what the young housewives used to do. No point in either trying to sort that one out or contesting it.
So Grandma, I swear, knows something is up. She can smell it in the air, feel it in the atmosphere all around her. She is expectant without knowing why. We are all tense, Bridget, Mum and I. We jump when the doorbell goes, jump so obviously that Grandma looks scandalised and says ‘in the name of God’. Mum goes. She brings Mrs O’Malley in. This could be worse than a Foreign Office test. It’s been agreed that we will let the candidate make all the running. Bridget will say this is my mother, Mrs McKay, and Mum will offer her tea and then she’s on her own. Bridget says her bit, Mum offers tea, Mrs O’Malley declines.
No tea? No tea? Dear me, what’s the matter with you?
I’ve just had tea, Mrs McKay, thank you.
Well, have some more.
One cup’s enough, thank you.
What a funny woman, one cup’s enough.
You’re fond of tea yourself, Mrs McKay?
Everyone’s fond of tea that knows what’s good for them.
That’s true.
How’s your mother?
I beg your pardon, Mrs McKay?
How’s your mother? I haven’t seen her lately.
She’s – er – well, she’s passed on.
Get away! You never know the minute. And I was only speaking to her yesterday.
That’s a nice dress you’re wearing.
Thank you. I bought it last week, terrible price.
It suits you.
I like red, always did, it’s cheerful.
Yes.
Do you fancy a cup of tea?
No, thank you.
No tea? No tea? Dear me, what’s the matter with you?
Mrs O’Malley is doing well if only she can have the sense to capitulate and at least pretend to drink tea. She does. Good. Grandma beams. She is gracious to Mrs O’Malley now. She engages her in conversation about the weather, how freezing it has been (the heat wave finished only a week ago, our Indian summer) how dangerous the icy pavements still are. Mrs O’Malley has got the hang of it. She does not actually accept the lies but she goes along with them, does not challenge them. Bridget watches Mrs O’Malley’s face intently: one flicker of expression revealing she’s got Grandma down as a loony or is laughing at her and that will be that. In the end, it’s Grandma who gets up to go, saying the men will be in for their tea. Mrs O’Malley goes.
Mum says come on Bridget, she was marvellous. Bridget says yes, she was bright enough but there is still something she does not like about Mrs O’Malley. Maybe she’s a drinker. A drinker, Mum echoes, amazed. Her nose was a little red, Bridget says. Mum says what rubbish, that Bridget is determined to find fault. She, Mum, wants to snap up Mrs O’Malley at once, we would be crazy not to. Bridget won’t actually agree. She starts moaning about the hell of breaking people in, getting Grandma used to them. Mum is silent. All right then, Bridget says, I suppose she’s as good as anyone. For that money, she should be.
Relief all round.
Jenny
YESTERDAY BRIDGET WAS upset. She sat down quietly, in itself unusual, and clasped her hands and told me that Grandma had been in a strange mood last night, that she had not quite known how to cope. She had seemed distressed all evening and when Bridget had asked her what was the matter she had said, ‘Everything is black.’ Bridget said it frightened her how calmly this was stated. She had asked Grandma to explain, to try to say what she meant. Did she mean she could not see? Was something the matter with her eyes? But no. Grandma had paused, and then said, ‘I’m doing things I shouldn’t do.’ Bridget said that though these words might sound innocuous they had made her heart pound – just the misery of knowing that her mother realised something of the state she was in, that she was not protected from that horrible knowledge. Bridget said she had never thought Grandma had any insight into her own condition. The only other thing she had said before she fell asleep was ‘Isn’t life disappointing?’
Today has been the first day I have not seen either Grandma or Bridget for a whole week. I am ashamed to feel so relieved. The to-ing and fro-ing and all the tension while Mrs O’Malley settled in has been ridiculous. Bridget works herself up into a dreadful state over nothing. I told her I would introduce Mrs O’Malley into Grandma’s flat and acquaint her with Grandma’s ways but Bridget insists on doing it. Then she flies here to relate yet another instance of Mrs O’Malley’s insensitivity or stand-offishness. Because Mrs O’Malley is basically not a talkative woman, Bridget has labelled her stand-offish. She says she has listened at the door and Mrs O’Malley sometimes does not speak to Grandma for twenty minutes at a time. At least Mildred spoke, if just to harangue Grandma. This silence, Bridget alleges, makes Grandma miserable, she looked miserable when Bridget went in the first day after Mrs O’Malley had slept there.
I really ought to have learned to ignore Bridget’s complaints. She cannot help making them. Hannah asked the other day, in some distress I thought, why Bridget seemed so excitable, she said she felt exhausted from just being in the same room. There is no answer to that kind of why but then the analytical Hannah, at seventeen, is expert at putting those kind of questions. It upsets her that Bridget is upset, she feels for her, realising how much she loves Grandma. I suppose that is why she attacked Adrian even though he was only asking what she herself had asked.
All Adrian said was that he did not know why Bridget was behaving like a maniac. This was after she had rushed in demented, shouting that ‘that bloody woman, Mrs O’Malley,’ had just rung her up to ask her if there was any vaseline anywhere because she had discovered a little sore patch on Grandma’s bottom and wanted to put something soothing on till the doctor could see it. ‘Bloody show off!’ Bridget roared. ‘As if I didn’t know there was a sore patch, as if I wasn’t dealing with it, I’m a nurse for chrissake, implying I don’t know my job, implying I neglect my mother –’ And Adrian looked up from his supper and merely said, ‘What are you yelling about, Bridget? How could Mrs O’Malley know you knew? What’s wrong with asking for vaseline? You’re paranoid.’ Hannah dropped her knife and fork and told him to shut up, he was a lout and stupid and what the hell did he know and Bridget was quite right, it was showing off, being virtuous: Mrs O’Malley was making sure Bridget realised how goody-goody she was. Adrian told her not to be so silly, Bridget said Adrian didn’t understand, Hannah said he had never even tried to – All our meals this week have been like that. ‘I wish Bridget wouldn’t come while we’re eating,’ Adrian said and I agreed. Hannah almost wept with shame at our callousness.
And in the middle of all this I have had Grandma seen again by Dr Carruthers and we, Charlie and I, have visited the Green Valley Home.
Dr Carruthers agreed Grandma has deteriorated. His little tests, the same he applied three years ago, show she has become much more severely demented. She does not know how many children she has and can name only Bridget. She does not know if she has any grandchildren. She does not know if she has eaten recently or what she ate. She could not recognise a comb, a brush, a jug. She cannot put her shoes on or a cardigan. She is disturbed at night. But, said Dr Carruthers, she is still not really severely demented. She is continent, she can walk and talk. I found myself asking him what I did not want to know, asking him if it was inevitable that my mother-in-law would become incontinent, unable to walk, unable to speak. He said it was, quite inevitable.
I had never realised that. Bridget with her talk of ‘little strokes’ had made me think Grandma was not actually suffering from senile dementia. She had not told me anything of the progress of the disease. She had led me to believe, or I felt she had, that with lov
ing care it could be arrested, go into remission, that Grandma might not ever, as Bridget put it, ‘get really bad’. She must have meant that she might die first of something else, if we were lucky, if she was lucky. Hearing Dr Carruthers hardened my resolve: Charlie is right. We cannot wait. If we wait too long then, when the time comes, we will not be able to get Grandma into a good home. Who takes the incontinent, the wheelchair-bound, the mute? Precious few, I should think.
I want to act now, to protect us all. And yes, I am afraid, afraid of what it will do to us all if we keep Grandma in our midst to the bitter end. But the Green Valley Home is impossible. It was highly recommended by so many people who swore their elderly relatives were blissfully happy there, never better looked after, wished they had gone there years ago, a pleasure to visit. I had been told, countless times, of the waiting list to get in, of the high fees not deterring applicants because it was such a high calibre place. I cannot wait to see again some of these people who raved about the Green Valley Home. They are either blind or deaf or wilfully wicked. Did they not see the six beds in a room, all jammed together? The lack of pictures, of any decoration, anything personal? Did they not see, at eleven in the morning, the twenty chairs in a circle in a silent, dark room, each with a motionless figure slumped on it? Did they count the lavatories, only two of them, both up flights of stairs? Did they not smell the urine, certainly not masked by disinfectant? Did they not hear the silence, the lack of activity? Did they not sense the utter despair? Maybe they did and told themselves it did not matter because Grandma or Grandad was past it, it did not matter because everything is the same to them. As long as it is clean (it was) and warm (it was) and the staff are kind (they appeared to be), then that was what mattered.
Have the Men Had Enough? Page 6
