Have the Men Had Enough?

by Margaret Forster

  The nice bit is tucking Grandma up. She adores getting into bed. The electric blankets, under and over, have been on for half an hour and her bed is roasting. She clambers in and sighs with contentment and screws her eyes up in ecstasy and murmurs it is heaven, it is bliss, it is all she wants. Her white hair on the pink pillow looks so pretty and her face relaxed and happy without that old, ugly body attached to it. She says why don’t I get in with her. I say I’ve got some homework to do. I sit beside her for a while wondering why she can’t be allowed to say in bed forever. It’s the only place she wants to be. Mum has warned me not to be fooled. She says that when I leave the room, with Grandma vowing she never wants to leave her lovely bed ever again, I will barely have time to settle myself in the kitchen before Grandma will be padding through. She’s right. It’s unbelievable, but she’s right. I’m barely settled in a chair with Bleak House before Grandma does appear. She says she didn’t hear the alarm and she knows she’s late and none of those bloomin’ men up for their work yet. I take her back to the bed she swore she never wanted to leave. We go through the same performance again. This time I stay with her, holding her hand under the covers, until she snores.

  It’s only nine o’clock. I go across the hall to visit Bridget, tapping on the doors as I go in. Bridget is lying in bed reading. She gives me a lovely smile. It’s such a contrast to be looking at Grandma’s face young. I make some coffee and take it through to Bridget and sit down on her bed. She says, mimicking Grandma, I’m a little angel and won’t go to the bad fire now. I entertain her with an account of putting Grandma to bed, she entertains me with an account of Paula doing her Florence Nightingale stunt. Bridget says Paula even washed the television screen when she cleaned the flat. Paula, she says, hadn’t had such a good time for years, what with finding stale bread in the bin and the fridge door broken, because Bridget forgets to defrost it and it jams, and heaps of cigarette stubs stuck in unlikely places. Bridget says she almost offered Paula a peg for her dainty nose. But then she adds hastily that Paula was very good and did some shopping too and made her a lovely meal and really it was good of her.

  I badly want to ask Bridget about Karl but I daren’t. It’s not that it’s impossible to imagine Bridget with a man, not at all impossible, but what I can’t imagine is Bridget sharing. She’s independent, I’ve grown used to thinking of her as a person entirely self-sufficient. How would Bridget be with another person? A person on the same level as herself, not someone of whom she was in charge. Would it be, is it, a relief for her to lean on someone else? To be told what to do? To be planned for and organised and taken charge of? But maybe it isn’t like that at all, maybe Bridget keeps this Karl secret because hers is an affair of grand passion. Goodness what would Grandma say? And maybe that’s the explanation – Grandma would not like Karl whatever he was like. What I want to know is:

  Does Bridget hide Karl from Grandma?

  Is Bridget afraid Grandma will not like Karl?

  Is Bridget afraid Karl will not like Grandma?

  If Bridget had to choose which would she choose, Karl or Grandma?

  *

  I’m up before Grandma. It counts as a victory. I’m just thinking how lucky I have been, unlike Mum, how fortunate not to have been disturbed when I realise I may have slept through Grandma’s wanderings. I left the kettle on the cooker top but when I go into the kitchen it’s on the floor and there’s a puddle beside it. Suppose Grandma has been standing there in the night trying to make herself a cup of tea, and me asleep. I bend and investigate the puddle nervously. It’s only water spilled from the kettle. I can’t decide whether to leave Grandma or go through to see that she’s safely tucked up. It’s only eight o’clock, not an hour at which I’m usually up on a Saturday morning. I decide just to peep round Grandma’s bedroom door before I make myself some coffee. I peep. Grandma’s not there.

  I walk into the bedroom saying, ‘Grandma?’ but there’s no sign of her, no response. She must be in the bathroom having trouble with her famous bowels and not wanting to be embarrassed. She isn’t. I fly through the flat to the door that leads into the hall, terrified in case Grandma has got out and is looking for Bridget, but that door is locked and the key removed as I left it. This is ridiculous. I go through the flat calling and looking stupidly behind chairs and in cupboards. No Grandma. I’m a little frightened while telling myself not to be so silly, nothing can have happened to her. Then, as I come back into the kitchen for the third time I see a face peering in at the window. Oh, my God! I shout, ‘Grandma!’ rush to the back door and fling it open and she’s standing there, blue to the lips, standing shivering in her nightdress with nothing on her feet, standing with a crust of bread in her hand and little bits of it torn up and scattered round her on the ground. She says, ‘The poor birds.’

  It’s only when I’m trying to warm Grandma that she starts to feel cold. How long has she been out there? I have no idea. I’m going to have to tell Mum where I found Grandma and confess that I don’t know how long she stood in that cold garden. Surely it can’t have been long. She would have tried banging on the window or the door if she had been there long, surely? I feel so guilty. I tell Grandma she must not go out in her nightdress, ever.

  I wouldn’t dream of it, the idea!

  You’ve just done it.

  Watch your mouth.

  I found you feeding the birds in the garden in your nightdress and with nothing on your feet.

  Poor birds.

  Poor you, standing outside almost naked.

  I wouldn’t dream of it, the idea!

  But she appears terribly pleased with herself. She sings away as I make her porridge and every now and again, she says top of the morning to you. She drinks a big mug of tea with relish, saying it’s nice and sweet and that she’s a devil for sweet things. She asks what are we going to do today, shall we away a walk, she likes a walk, her father used to etc. etc., and her mother told him etc. etc., and suddenly there’s a new bit tacked on to the end. She tells me she had three aunts, all tall, who used to look like sailing ships as they crossed Glasgow Green. Isabella, Annabella and Mary. All tall, with long cloaks billowing out and they were like sailing ships. There is a silence. I bring the porridge to Grandma and look at her and she looks at me. Her eyes are clear, she is sensible. We hold each other’s gaze for a few seconds. I murmur very, very quietly, locking her gaze into mine, I say softly and encouragingly ‘Isabella, Annabella and Mary?’ and she repeats the names and says they were her father’s sisters, none of them married, and when the last one died they left her a hundred pounds and she was always glad of it and wished she had not laughed to see them crossing the Green in their old-fashioned cloaks. I hardly dare put the porridge down but the minute I do that’s that. She asks if her mother is back from church yet.

  Susan isn’t coming because it’s Saturday. Dad is coming instead and we will take turns, all weekend, unless he finds some assistance – an hour each, the four of us, a continuing rota. Tomorrow we’ll take Grandma to our house as we always do. Dad breezes in, pleased I’ve made the porridge. At least Grandma always knows who he is though, when Adrian is there with Dad, she sometimes asks him who his friend is. Dad has some tea himself which pleases Grandma. She says she was just about to fry some bacon, would he fancy some? Dad says, yes, please. He’s already deep into the sports pages of the newspaper he has brought with him. He’ll spend his hour drinking tea and reading his paper and will hardly address a word to Grandma, but then she seems quite satisfied with this arrangement. I give her a kiss and go.

  *

  There’s been an applicant for the job of caring for Grandma. Mum says as I go into the kitchen that the phone rang as soon as Dad left. I say good and Mum says she doesn’t know if it’s good or not. It’s a girl of only twenty, not much older than me. I say that I manage perfectly well so why should this Cynthia not manage too? Grandma likes young people. Mum says Cynthia is coming round at two o’clock when Adrian will be on duty and we three, Dad, Mum
and I, can all interview Cynthia. She lives just round the corner and she’s a student, studying anthropology. She says she’s looked after her own grandmother. She would be quite happy to move in full-time if we like. Mum doesn’t like the sound of this: she thinks it’s too willing by half.

  Cynthia arrives on time. She’s quite different from the middle-aged to elderly women we have used so far. She looks even younger than twenty and is very attractive – short, almost punky, blonde hair, stylish clothes, bright smile. She is unmistakably middle-class. What on earth would Grandma make of her? She tells Dad her father and mother are both doctors. This goes down very well: Cynthia is definitely onto a winner there. Her home is in Stratford-on-Avon. She agrees she wants to care for Grandma for the money. Then it turns out her up-market parents are divorced and there are arguments about who should pay her grant. She is having hard times. Mum runs through what Cynthia will have to do: make Grandma’s supper, sit and chat to her, undress and wash her, put her to bed. She stresses that Grandma can do nothing for herself and asks Cynthia if she realises what that means? Cynthia answers intelligently, as you’d expect. Mum says she may get woken several times a night or not at all, how would Cynthia cope with that? Cynthia says she doesn’t need much sleep. Dad jumps in to ask when Cynthia could start. She says tonight. Dad looks at Mum, Mum hesitates, Dad says shall we give it a trial run? Cynthia says fine. Dad says, ok, try it for tonight and tomorrow, no commitment either side and we’ll discuss it Monday.

  When Cynthia has gone, Mum asks Dad who is going to tell Bridget. Dad says Bridget doesn’t need to know, she’s out of the picture, so stop fussing. If it turns out satisfactorily, then we’ll tell Bridget. He’s firm. Mum seems to me pleased that he is. Then he says he has made an appointment to go and look at St Alma’s. He says he wants Grandma’s name down now, even if she is manageable for another year. It will be no good, Dad says, when a real crisis comes, trying to find a Home then. He has had enough of all this uncertainty, he wants the security of some kind of back-up. Bridget need not be brought into it. Mum says she doesn’t like the thought of going behind Bridget’s back. Dad sighs. He says this fear of Bridget is absurd. Who is Bridget to dictate what should be done about Grandma? He is Grandma’s son, he foots the bills, and bloody big bills they are too, and this gives him rights, surely? So, will Mum kindly shut up about Bridget.

  Adrian comes back from his shift glowing with virtue. He says he’s had a lovely time, no bother. Grandma and he watched the racing on television and drank cups of tea and she was fine. He then says he really doesn’t know why we don’t just have Grandma living with us, that it would be a lot simpler and cheaper and he wouldn’t mind at all. Mum just looks at him and says, ‘I beg your pardon?’ Adrian repeats that it seems silly to him that Grandma doesn’t live with us. He adds that we all act as if she was some horrible ogre instead of a lovely old lady. We could still have helpers, he says, but if Grandma was actually under our roof, wouldn’t it be better? She would like to be part of a family, that’s what she wants really. Adrian finishes up with a real gem by saying he doesn’t think old people should be shoved off, it’s a shame, in his opinion.

  Mum is fighting to keep control. She clasps her hands together in front of her to keep them from trembling. She is so angry with Adrian and he has no idea. Very quietly, she says in theory his idea is perfect. Yes, Grandma would love to be in the bosom of her family but, in fact, she would not like to be in this one but in Bridget’s. Adrian unwisely interrupts to say Bridget hasn’t got a family. Mum resumes, her voice not as quiet. She says that is precisely the point, that the only family Grandma wants to be with is Bridget and Bridget is a single woman who works and therefore that is not feasible. Grandma, as Adrian well knows, spends all her time wanting Bridget and without Bridget she is restless and discontented. It may have escaped Adrian’s notice but a great deal of time and effort and money is being spent trying to give Grandma as much of what she wants as possible without wrecking other people’s lives. Adrian jeers – ‘Wrecking? Wrecking? How would having Grandma wreck a life, anybody’s life?’ Mum takes a deep breath. She asks Adrian if he’s blind and deaf. She asks him if he’s aware of how much help Grandma needs, how she’s a danger to herself, how she has to be watched and guarded all the time. And the nights, Mum says, almost shouting now, does Adrian even begin to imagine what it’s like getting up three times in one night? Adrian becomes surly and aggrieved. He says all he meant was that Grandma could live in the same house and we would still have all the help. Mum almost screams I do not want Grandma in my house all the time. Well, I wouldn’t mind, mutters Adrian, if I was a woman and at home all day like you, doing nothing: I wouldn’t mind at all. And he goes out.

  I tell Mum just to ignore him, he’s a pig. Mum says Adrian is only voicing her own inner thoughts. She says she struggles with this one all the time; that it’s monstrous that she doesn’t want Grandma to live with us. Hoping to distract her from this kind of silly remorse, I say it’s just such a pity Bridget is not married with a family because then there would be no problem. Mum smiles enigmatically and says no problem, eh? I ask if she thinks there would be one. Mum says she sometimes wonders. She says she doesn’t think any husband of Bridget’s would ever have been able to stomach Bridget’s relationship with Grandma. He would always have felt excluded and he would never have been put first. And then, Mum says, slowly, there’s Bridget herself. It’s true she loves and admires her mother passionately but the sheer intensity of this adoration is a dead weight. Bridget once told her, Mum says, that it was when she was young that she craved Grandma’s love and Grandma never gave her what she wanted. She knew Grandma loved her but she wanted to hear that she did and Grandma never told her, she didn’t cuddle or kiss or use endearments and Bridget yearned for them. When they came, they came too late, when Bridget was grown up and out in the world. Mum says it was so sad, listening to Bridget. She said she hadn’t realised Stuart was the apple of Grandma’s eye for so many years and Bridget the one taken for granted. So, in a way, Bridget is giving now what she never got herself and she knows it. Bridget sees expediency in Grandma’s devotion to her.

  It seems a good moment. I ask about Karl. Who is he? Does Bridget love him? Why doesn’t she live with him? Mum says I must ask Bridget, just as she said before. Maybe, she says, it would do Bridget good to be pressed on this subject. Maybe she wants to bring Karl out into the open but doesn’t know how to do it. Ask her, Mum encourages. Is he handsome, I ask? Mum smiles. She says it depends what you call handsome. I tell her not to be annoying. She says, well, perhaps you would think him handsome. He’s tall, taller than Bridget, and rather heavy. Not fat, I scream. No, not fat, heavy, well-built, like a rugby player, a bit like Stuart. O, ma Gawd, I say. And he has blondish hair, very short, almost a crew cut – O, ma Gawd, I say again – and a square face with incredibly blue eyes. He is quite impressive, Mum says, and his English is excellent. You mean he’s foreign, I exclaim. Mum says he’s German. I’m getting quite excited by now, it sounds as if Bridget’s secret lover is no wimp, no boring ordinary dreary character, it sounds very much as though there are elements of Romance and Mystery. Mum has forgotten that she wasn’t going to tell me anything. I ask if this hunky Karl is married. Mum says no. Well then, I say, why on earth is Bridget not living with him? Mum says she has said too much already.

  It’s my turn to go to Grandma again. I decide that my being five minutes late won’t hurt Grandma and I let myself in to Bridget’s instead. Because she is ill and in bed and I have the key, I never think of waiting for her to answer the bell, which I just ping to let her know someone is on the way. When I go into the bedroom there’s a man sitting by the bed. Of course, it’s Karl. Bridget seems to let out a small groan and to half hide under the covers. Karl stands up and holds out his hand and says he is Karl, a friend of Bridget’s. I say hello, I am Hannah, Bridget’s niece.

  What I want to know is:

  How old is he?

  Jenny


  THERE IS IN my head a vision of the sort of Home I want for Grandma, the sort that would be perfect in my eyes if not in her own or Bridget’s. It would be small enough to be intimate and yet large enough to provide variety – a Queen Anne house, perhaps, with only two floors and a door in the middle with rooms either side of the hall. Everything would be light and bright but not institutionally sterile – I envisage pretty wallpapers and soft pastel colours rather than blinding white everywhere. It would have an old-fashioned kitchen with an open fire and a big table and several rocking chairs. There would be no dormitories. Each old lady would have two rooms and her own bathroom and only share at meals and for company in a communal sitting room. There would be one member of staff to every inmate, their own personal helper. Families would come and go whenever they liked and stay overnight if they wanted. There would be some sort of entertainment every day, visiting choirs and the like, and the best of all the activities on offer at the Day Centre.

  We pulled up outside St Alma’s. No Queen Anne house but a perfectly attractive post-war, double-fronted mock-Tudor dwelling. The paintwork had been freshly done – a good sign, said Charlie, who is absolutely determined to find good signs – and the brass knocker on the front door gleamed. A woman in a pink-spotted dress opened the door, beaming. Charlie beamed back – another good sign. We went first into the Matron’s office. Fresh flowers on her desk, a worn but colourful rug on the polished wooden floor, pretty blue curtains at the window. She said first she would tell us about St Alma’s and then we could tell her about Mrs McKay. Both exchanges of information were quickly made. Matron seemed to me a little too eager to emphasise how caring her staff were and Charlie a little too keen to enlarge on his mother’s sweetness. He said nothing about the beginnings of incontinence, the waking at night or the paranoia. Then Matron took us on a tour of St Alma’s and, on the whole, it was very cheering. There were no silent circles of old women in dingy, cold rooms. Wherever we went, people were active and talking and there was a general atmosphere of bustle. One woman seemed to be having a birthday party. Her relatives, or those I took to be her relatives, were clustered round her chair, holding out a cake with nine candles on it. Matron stopped and explained it was Kitty’s ninetieth birthday and that she was St Alma’s longest resident. ‘She’s been in ten years come March,’ said one of the relatives, ‘and she loves it here, loves it, don’t you Kitty?’ Kitty did not speak or show her love for St Alma’s in any way.