Mum asks could her daughter have a quick tour of the rest of St Alma’s if it is not too much trouble. Matron says it is never too much trouble. As we walk quickly in and out of rooms, I think how utterly alien this place is to Grandma: it is pure Mum. Mum sees the beautiful paint, the flowered wallpapers, the rugs, the pale-patterned curtains, the polished tables, the loose-covered armchairs and she feels at home. Cleanliness, brightness, colour, a modicum of elegance and style – that is Mum. It is not Grandma. Mum must be mad. This place will not do for Grandma, even if they would take her. Its virtues would repel her. She likes shabbiness and mess and muddle and nothing too clean-looking because it will only get dirty. Grandma doesn’t even like light, the sort of light that comes through St Alma’s big windows. At home in Glasgow she spent her time crouching in her kitchen with lace curtains obscuring what light there was. But Mum is telling me to agree that everything is lovely, to join her in admiring the jugs of fresh flowers and the prints on the walls. And Matron is still smiling.
We are back at the front door. Matron says to come back at four o’clock. Mum says that if Grandma seems unhappy she’ll come at once and collect her. Matron’s smile broadens. She says there’s no question of Mrs McKay not being happy, that the problem is more likely to be getting her to leave at four. Mum blushes. Mum says, hesitantly, that Grandma does need reminding to go to the loo especially if she drinks a lot of tea. Matron says there is no need to worry, that tea is controlled and all the ladies are potted regularly. Good job Bridget isn’t here for that ‘potted’. We leave. Mum asks what I think. It seems cruel to tell her but I do. I say I think Grandma will hate it, that no one in their right mind could think she would be happy there. Mum gives one of her bitter little smiles. She queries ‘happy’. She says there are other considerations apart from happiness. She says she’s not going to crucify herself trying to ensure Grandma is happy because happiness isn’t measurable and can’t be guaranteed for anyone. She says that on the other hand she sees it as her duty to make sure Grandma is properly cared for and treated with respect and tenderness. My turn, I query ‘tenderness’. I say ‘tenderness’, from that Matron? Mum says OK respect and kindness. That’s all we can do.
As we drive home, the vision of those old women plonked in front of easels stays with me. I can see it’s a good try. I can see that it’s much easier to push twelve old women into chairs and leave them for the day. I can see St Alma’s deserves credit for trying. Maybe some of those old women will get pleasure out of splashing paint about, maybe some of them have wanted to all their lives and a great primitive artist will emerge. Maybe Grandma will think she’s back at her beloved school, except probably they didn’t have painting then, not in her kind of school. Who can know what Grandma will think? I say so to Mum.
Almost immediately I say I’m sorry. Mum says nothing for about ten minutes and then lets fly. She says what she is bloody sick of is criticism, that what she wants is constructive suggestions. What do I suggest? I say things seem fine as they are but Mum interrupts to scream that this is the point, don’t I see, can’t I understand, things are not going to stay as they are. We must plan, we must prepare, we are lost if we just wait for things to get worse. And she is the only one that sees it. Right. She has promised herself. There is to be a demarcation line beyond which she will not go. She will inform Bridget on her return. One, she will not clean Grandma up if she becomes doubly incontinent; two, she will not nurse Grandma if she becomes bedridden; three, if Grandma gets to the stage of not recognising her, she considers herself absolved from day-to-day care. She breathes deeply. She says all this will happen and it is better it should happen when Grandma is already in an institution because etc. etc. I switch off. There is no mistaking Mum’s distress, but I have heard all this a million times.
What I want to know is:
What am I going to do with Mum when she’s old?
Why is it all such a terrible problem and fuss?
Why doesn’t someone do something?
Mum goes on her own to pick up Grandma. I don’t want to go again nor do I want to be with Mum. She comes back quite cheerful. Matron said Grandma was very good and ate a good lunch and didn’t wet herself and it had all been a great success. Her name is down, together with fourteen others. Great. Grandma may get a scholarship to St Alma’s. Will Bridget be thrilled. Mum says there’s no need to be sarcastic nor any need to tell Bridget. St Alma’s is merely a contingency plan which she, Mum, is greatly relieved to have. Dad praises her, he says he’s delighted, he only wishes the waiting list was a good bit shorter and that he didn’t have a nasty suspicion that by the time Grandma got to the top of it she might not score high enough on her reassessment. Still, Dad says, it’s one small victory and a consolation. Grandma will be much better off when she finally gets into nice, bright, light St Alma’s and has company all day long and plenty going on.
I take Grandma back home after her exciting day. She seems very, very tired. She trudges even slower than usual and sighs and has not the energy to bend and examine an empty cigarette packet in the gutter. I ask who stole her scone but she doesn’t laugh.
Where’s that Bridget? Leaving me alone.
She’s on holiday, Grandma, and you haven’t been alone.
On holiday? What for?
Pleasure.
Pleasure? Whatever next, if we all thought of pleasure.
You should have done.
What?
Thought of your own pleasures in life.
That would’ve been a fine thing, who’d have done the work?
Other people.
Oh, aye, if you believe that you’ll believe anything.
What would’ve been your pleasures, anyway, Grandma?
I wasn’t wanting pleasure, I had my bairns.
But what pleasure would you have liked for yourself?
I’ve always had plenty of money.
This isn’t about money Grandma, it’s about what you would like to have had in life.
I have my bairns.
I know, but apart from that.
I never wanted anything else, women don’t do they, it’s the men always wanting, wanting.
I want plenty.
Oh hoighty-toighty, well I hope you get it.
I will.
Where’s Bridget, the hussy?
She called for Bridget as we went into her flat. Mary hobbled through, smiling, and was met by a glare. Grandma turned round and said she would be going home, the men would be looking for their teas etc. etc. Mary said the tea was ready, poured out and waiting, nice and hot and sweet. Grandma said she supposed she could rest a minute to drink it as Mary had poured it out but then she must be off because the men etc. etc. The tea was heaven, it was delicious, it was just how she liked it, what did you say your name was but anyway you can make good tea. Grandma’s feet are up, her kitchen is warm and cosy, it feels perfectly all right to leave her. There’s no need, now we have Mary, to linger outside the door eavesdropping, no need to wonder how Grandma is being treated. Mary is a saint.
*
We’re all going away tonight. Mum is so worried she’s thinking of not going, she says we shouldn’t all be away, because of Grandma. Dad is cross with her, he says he’s paying Mary a fortune to stay with Grandma and what is the point if it doesn’t free us. Mum says but what if anything happens, what if Grandma falls and Mary rings and no one is here, what then, what will Mary do? Dad says ring for an ambulance like anyone else. Under his breath he adds that it might solve a lot of problems. Mum hears, Mum pounces, Mum says what does he mean, it would create problems, not solve them, and what would Bridget say? Dad sighs, he says he will speak to Mary. He speaks. Mary says no one is to worry, she would cope. Dad does not ask how, he is triumphant, he repeats that Mary said she would cope. Mum doubts it, she says Mary is too good. Then she has a brainwave. She says she will give Stuart’s number to Mary. In an emergency Stuart would have to come, even if he never came again, even if he only did it once. Mum s
ays she won’t ask him, she’ll just do it. Dad says he doesn’t bloody care, just so long as she’s agreeing to go with him.
They are going to a Silver Wedding party in Cambridge. Dad’s best friend is a don there. Dad is looking forward to it no end, Mum not so much. Mum doesn’t really like Dad’s old Cambridge friends and she certainly doesn’t like the wife of this one. But it’ll be a good party, no expense spared, champagne until the early hours and all that. Dad is as greedy as Grandma though Grandma wouldn’t thank anyone for champagne. Adrian is going to the Barn, a place his school has in Somerset. He’s doing some A-Level Geography field trip, will be away all weekend. All I’m doing is going to stay at Frinny’s. I have to. I have no desire to stay at Frinny’s but they will not leave me in an empty house. I’ve stayed with Grandma, the odd night on my own but apparently that’s different. I say I’m seventeen, it’s ridiculous. Dad says it’s because I am seventeen that I can’t stay in an empty house. He says I’m vulnerable. His head is full of scare stories about burglars and rapists. He’s worse than Grandma. He goes on so much about the dangers of living in London that I sometimes think I should just go to bed and stay there until I am Grandma’s age. So I’m obliged to go to Frinny’s. She has a small bedroom and I have to sleep on the floor, and the flat her family lives in is too hot, always. I sleep badly there but I have to be grateful.
Frinny doesn’t know what I’m talking about when I go on about Grandma. One of her Grandmas is only sixty-seven and takes Frinny on holidays. She took her to Venice for a week last year. Imagine. The other is a bit older and bossy but spoils Frinny and her sister something rotten. She’s always buying them clothes, lovely clothes and she pays for their riding lessons. When Frinny’s parents go away it’s that Gran who comes and takes charge and does all the cooking and so on. I’m jealous. I would love a Gran to have fun with. But poor Grandma, it isn’t her fault etc. etc. I think if Mum’s mum had lived she wouldn’t have been much better either but I can hardly remember her. My children will be lucky. Dad will be great as a Grandad and Mum taking charge will be heaven for me. If I have any children. If there’s any point.
There was a postcard from Bridget this morning, from somewhere-on-the-Rhine. Bridget’s handwriting is terrible. I’m always intending to get a book on graphology to try to interpret it. All their handwriting is terrible – Bridget’s, Dad’s, Stuart’s. But what Bridget writes is witty. She mocks herself so beautifully, sends up her own ignorance. She’s having a wonderful time though ‘a little conspicuous because of my effortless German which naturally arouses comment’. No mention of Karl at all. The weather is great. Mum is pleased. She desperately wants Bridget to have a good time. It was such an upheaval for her to get away that it would have been too awful if she hadn’t enjoyed it.
I show the postcard to Grandma who’s having tea with us before we all go off. She handles it suspiciously. It is rather a lurid postcard, the blue of the Rhine a violent, unbelievable turquoise. Grandma stares at it.
It doesn’t look like the Clyde.
It isn’t Grandma, it’s the Rhine.
Rhine who?
In Germany, the River Rhine, Bridget’s on holiday sailing down it.
In the name of God – what does she want to do that for, what’s got into her?
She’s enjoying it.
Some people have funny tastes, no need for it, what’s wrong with her own country?
She’s seen it.
What?
Her own country. She wants to see other countries too.
Why?
Well, it’s interesting, different.
There’s nowhere nicer than the Highlands.
There is.
There is not.
It rains there and the food is awful.
You mind yourself, you’re ignorant.
I’m not. There’s nothing to do in the Highlands, nothing Bridget likes to do anyway.
To do? To do?
Look at the lovely blue in this card, you can tell it’s lovely and sunny.
It doesn’t look like the Clyde.
I’ve made her irritable. Criticisms of Scotland have always made her irritable. When anyone mentions statistics from newspapers about Glasgow being the worst city in the world for drunkenness or Scotland the worst country for lung cancer, Grandma goes mad. She says people will make up anything. She says she signed the pledge at ten and her father never touched a drop and she doesn’t know what people are talking about or why they tell these lies. If I want to be wicked I say Robert Burns himself was a drunkard and a womaniser. Grandma sniffs and says if I believe that I’ll believe anything, etc. I say these are facts, that Burns had at least five illegitimate children, including two sets of twins. Grandma says twins are bonny. She always ends up off the subject. Will never concede facts are facts.
But today I must keep her in a good mood so that Mary has no trouble. I take out the ironing board and become Mummy’s Little Treasure. Grandma loves that. She sits with her feet up, watching, feeling she’s doing it herself, I think. She hums ‘The Skye Boat Song’. I iron a skirt, a black and white swirly silky thing I got off a stall last week. Frinny and I are going to a party so we thought we’d shock everyone and wear skirts. Grandma says it’s nice, what is it, where did you get it, how much? I tell her. I tell her about the party. She says everyone goes to parties except her, it’s years since she went to a party. I smile at the thought of what Grandma would think of the party Frinny and I are going to, of her vision of what a party is. I ask what she likes best about parties. She says the sing-song and the jelly, she’s very fond of jelly, and it’s nice if there’s a fiddler or a piper. She sighs. She says nobody knows how to enjoy themselves these days. Everyone stays in their houses and they’re bloomin’ miserable and nobody cares. I say, Oh Grandma, and she says do not ‘Oh Grandma’ her.
Mum comes in to ask what I think of her dress for this Silver Wedding lark. It is black and she looks good. Usually, Mum goes for pale colours though I’ve told her and told her she looks awful in them, but tonight it’s black and her skin looks milky and smooth and her hair gleams. It’s a no-fuss dress, excellent. I ask where she got it. She says I’ll only sneer. I say I will not, the dress is beautiful wherever it came from. She says Marks & Spencer’s, so there (she knows I loathe M & S almost as much as I hate Laura Ashley). I say well, well, and what do you think, Grandma. Grandma says Mum will look very nice at the funeral but she will need a coat. Mum says it’s a party she’s going to. Grandma sniffs and says everyone except her is going to a party and she would have thought a nice red more like the thing. Mum realises all this is very tactless. She rushes off and comes back in her jeans and an old jumper and makes Grandma some more tea. I say I’ll take her home afterwards.
Mary has brought with her a tape of Scottish music, dance music. It is playing as Grandma and I go into the kitchen. Grandma’s delighted, does a little jig and Mary beams. Grandma says we could have a party, she could get some lemonade and crisps. Mary says that’s a very nice idea and maybe we will. It’s lovely to leave Grandma looking so happy. I make sure I tell Mum before she leaves.
*
I’m first back. I came back at noon the next day, Sunday. I’m going to go along and give Grandma her lunch. Mary will have left at eleven and won’t return until six and I’ve told Mum and Dad there’s no need to hurry, that I can look after Grandma until six. I will probably cheat. I’ll take my Walkman and homework and do a lot of ignoring. But first I have a long, luxurious bath and then I have a sandwich. I don’t like eating at Grandma’s. I don’t mind making her things but I don’t like eating with her.
Just before one, feeling a little guilty because I said to Mum I would go earlier, I trot along the street. Almost at once I sense there’s something wrong: the front door, the main front door which opens into a sort of small entrance hall, is open. The two doors inside are safely shut, one to the ground floor (Grandma’s and Bridget’s) and one to the first (the two actors we never see). But the front
door is open and that is so unusual I’m alarmed. I hurry. I use my key and go into Grandma’s flat calling her name. There’s no reply. She’s not there. I search thoroughly, including the garden, and then just as I’m beginning to panic the telephone rings. I dive for it. It’s Mary. She’s ringing from the hospital. She says it’s a long story, that she has had a dreadful time, she’s near to tears, she wants to know when my parents are back. I say not until late this evening but that I will come at once, but what’s wrong, what has happened. The money runs out. I hesitate, I wait, the phone doesn’t ring again.
I walk quickly to the hospital. It’s not far. I’m inside within twenty minutes but then I don’t know where to go. I give Grandma’s name at the desk and after a very long time I’m sent to the seventh floor, to Ward G5. Mary is sitting outside, waiting. She looks agitated, she’s clasping and unclasping her hands. I tell her that whatever has happened she mustn’t worry. And then she goes over it, in bits and pieces. I want to stop her but she obviously needs to tell me it all in this jumbled way. I want even more to ask her to begin at the end, to tell me how my grandmother is, but there is no restraining her.
This is roughly what happened: Grandma fell at three in the morning. Mary could not get her up, Grandma complained her leg hurt and Mary was afraid it was broken. She rang Stuart, as directed, and Stuart said ring for an ambulance, that this is what he would do even if he came over. Mary rang, the ambulance came and Grandma was brought in. Nothing was broken. Grandma was now sleeping peacefully. Mary felt a fool. Stuart had been already. He was coming back when Grandma woke up to take her home. Poor Mary. She feels she has failed Mum. She feels she acted hastily. She wishes she had not rung Stuart. She wishes she had not rung for an ambulance. She blames herself for all this bother over nothing. I reassure her. I tell her if there’s any blame attached to anyone, which there is not, it should be to us: we should not have left Mary to manage. I tell her my mother will be far more worried about her, about Mary herself, than about Grandma. I ask how she feels. I say she must feel shaken. She says yes, she does. She hesitates, then she says she’s not even sure if she can manage to do tonight, she feels so tired and – I jump in, I say of course not, no one would expect her to and one of us will take her place.
Have the Men Had Enough? Page 18
