Reality, Reality

by Jackie Kay

  I flicked through a lifestyle column in last Sunday’s paper. ‘What happened to that dress?’ I asked. ‘One night your father took me to the Locarno. I remember I was wearing it then. I felt good in it. I felt like a million dollars. We danced and danced and danced. Your father could move,’ my mother’s eyes filled with involuntary tears. That happened these days, these nowhere tears. ‘Aye, Billy was a wonderful dancer,’ my mother said. ‘Billy?’ I said. ‘Who is Billy?’ ‘Did I show you the chocolates Jimmy brought me?’ she said, gathering herself. ‘You did yes, very kind of Jimmy,’ I said. ‘Did you thank Jimmy for the chocolates?’ My mother looked wild, worried. ‘I can’t remember,’ she said. ‘Oh, I must thank Jimmy. Oh dear, I must thank Jimmy.’

  I went back to trying to read an article in the mag. It was an article on how well Meryl Streep has aged and how many different parts she’s played. ‘You’d never think Meryl Streep was just ten years younger than you,’ I muttered, though my mother’s face wasn’t very lined. ‘Botox! Is she on the Botox? Or is it the liposuction? What’s the difference again? Does one put things in and the other suck things out? That’s what’s happening to me. My mind’s lip sucked! Yep. My mind’s lip sucked!’ my mother said. In her own way, she was wildly funny. I sipped at my dram. ‘Maple syrup, maybe, anyone?’

  ‘What are you saying?’ my mother said. ‘It’s just gibberish. I’ve enough gibberish in my head without you talking gobbled gook.’

  ‘Gobbledy gook!’ I said. ‘Anyway, I think we need to get out and into the day before you start telling me it’s my fault your brain’s scrambled.’

  ‘We need to find him first or we won’t know where to go!’ my mother said.

  ‘Who?’ I said, blankly.

  ‘The doctor! That’s who. Doctor Who!’ my mother said, impatiently.

  ‘Just testing,’ I said.

  ‘You were not. Your brain’s addled. That whisky is not your friend. It is your enemy. Where’s Becky? She was always telling you to have dry days.’

  ‘Becky and I are finished, Mum. I keep telling you. It’s over.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ my mother said for the umpteenth time. ‘I was awful fond of Becky.’

  ‘She’s bought me out,’ I told her again. ‘That’s why I’m here. I’m waiting for my new house to come through.’

  ‘Are you?’ my mother said. ‘Are you staying with me? Is there no chance of reconciliation?’

  ‘No! No! NO!’ I snapped. ‘How many times? We’re finished. We’re so over. I don’t think we’ll even manage to be friends.’

  My mother had a look on her face that seemed already to be forgetting what I’d just told her, though her face still appeared distressed, but now the distress was unspecific, vague, a spread of general anxiety. She flicked through the Yellow Pages at a ferocious speed.

  I went back to my typewriter. Doctor Mahmud picked up the telephone on his desk. He’d already forgotten what he wanted to say. He looked at his notepad, confused. ‘Hello? Is that the Memory Clinic? My name is Doctor Mahmud from Springfield Practice. One of my patients seems to be losing his memory. What’s the procedure for making an appointment?’ My mother was still trying to make sense of the Yellow Pages, a hard ask for any of us, never mind those with dementia. ‘The letters seem all jumbled! Why do we have to suffer from old age when we are elderly?’ my mother said. ‘Because you’re old, Mother,’ I said. ‘Yes, but it’d be better to suffer from old age when you were young enough to cope with it.’

  ‘Oh, you come out with some loo-loos,’ I said. ‘Some real beauties.’ ‘It takes ages to remember what letters come where these days! When you were younger, the alphabet was a skoosh; mental arithmetic was a doddle. I blame the government,’ my mother exclaimed. ‘You’ve lost me,’ I said. I was trying to guess her meaning – The banks bail out? The recession? Student fees? Teaching standards? ‘They’ve made infants of the lot of us! Soon we won’t be able to eat without the food beeping. No one can do a bloody thing! You can’t get into your car without the bloody beeps coming on if you’ve not fastened your seatbelt. What if you don’t want to fasten your silly seatbelt?’ she shouted. ‘What if you’d prefer to take your chances? I’ll tell you . . . I’m telling you! . . . Did I show you the chocolates Jimmy bought me?’

  ‘Very kind of Jimmy,’ I said. ‘I’m quite peckish,’ I said, hinting heavily.

  ‘Can I test him myself?’ Doctor Mahmud was saying on the phone. ‘How can I tell if it’s Alzheimer’s or dementia or depression or a brain tumour?’ He listened for a minute. ‘I’ll try that and get back to you. Thank you. No chocolates the day! I’m not hungry,’ he suddenly blurted out. ‘Sorry, I was just talking to my receptionist there. Thank you for your help,’ Doctor Mahmud said and hung up abruptly.

  ‘Time for Mozart!’ I said to my mother. I’d read somewhere that listening to Mozart slowed down Alzheimer’s. At least I think I’d read that; I couldn’t be sure. I was forgetting things myself. I put on Mozart’s trio for clarinet, viola and piano in E Flat, K. 498. It consoled me that Mozart was said to have composed this during a game of skittles. My mother sat and listened with her eyes closed, the Yellow Pages on her lap. A little tear rolled down her face. Music moved her. I imagined my mother dancing, years ago, dancing in an elegant polka-dot dress. ‘Mum,’ I said, gently, ‘was my dad your only love?’ She didn’t open her eyes. I pressed pause when the piece was finished. Our lives had turned around: I used to love Watch with Mother; now I loved Listen with Mother.

  Music seemed to work every time. She always remembered what she’d just been doing. ‘Bishopbriggs?’ my mother said, pointing her finger at Springfield Health Clinic. ‘Why don’t we try the good doctors of Bishopbriggs?’ she said. ‘I like that,’ I said and made a note of it in my notebook. Even demented, my mother’s impromptu titles were better than my own. ‘Years ago I remember going for dinner in a place called Stakis in Bishopbriggs with my pal Nancy Henshaw. I had a gammon steak with pineapple and Nancy had scampi and chips. We were over the moon. We thought we were the peak of sophistication!’ My mother was laughing at the memory of herself when her hair was darker and her teeth her own and her mind, her mind agile, quick as a young hare running over a field of bluebells.

  ‘You remember years ago with uncanny detail,’ I complimented her. ‘Years ago is not the problem. Yesterday is the problem. Today is the problem. Years ago are piling up! Who do you think put gammon steak and pineapple together? I’ll tell you one thing, it wouldn’t have been the Prime Minister,’ my mother said. ‘It wouldn’t have been Cameron.’ ‘Maybe it was the opposition,’ I said entering into the spirit of things. ‘Maybe it was Clegg.’ ‘I get you!’ my mother said, nudging me fiercely with her right elbow. ‘Eh?’ she said elbowing again. ‘Opposites attract!’ I said, smiling. ‘Well, your father and I were definitely opposites,’ she laughed. ‘I was good looking and he wasn’t.’ The tears poured again. ‘Have you found him yet? This handsome doctor?’

  ‘The last Sunday of every month, I gave his eyebrows a good plucking, you know, to keep him shipshape,’ Doctor Mahmud blurted out in his surgery. He frowned and paced the room, shaking his head. He flicked through his medical books talking to himself all the time. ‘Blurting out random sentences?’ He sighed and rubbed his hands together. ‘Right! You can combat this. You’re young. You’re smart. You’re a doctor.’ He sat back down at his desk and ran his fingers through his hair. He picked up a pencil and showed it to himself. ‘What is this called?’ he shouted. ‘A pencil!’ he answered. He took off his watch. ‘And this?’ ‘A watch.’ ‘Repeat after me: no ifs and buts.’ ‘No ifs and buts,’ he repeated. ‘Repeat after me: ball, car, man. Spell WORLD.’ ‘W-O-R-L-D.’ ‘Spell World backwords!’ He stumbled a bit, and shouted out in frustration, ‘Bloody hell. D-L-R-O-W!’ ‘What three words did I ask you to repeat? Car, ball, man. Car, ball, man.’ The doctor’s relief brought him close to tears. He grabbed a sheet of paper from his desk, folded it in half. Knelt down on the floor and asked himself,
‘Can you draw the face of a clock?’

  ‘I was asking you something,’ my mother said.

  ‘You were asking me if I’d found the handsome doctor yet.’

  ‘That’s it! Well, have you?’

  ‘Well . . . we can’t tell if they are handsome from their names, unfortunately,’ I said. I smiled, a silly little smile; I could feel it on my face. I could feel the good heat from the whisky in my stomach. My stomach was nice and empty so that I’d get the full hit of it. There was a kind of a roar as it went down, like my body was a furnace and I was throwing the flame in. ‘Well, let’s take pot luck then. Someone’s got to know something,’ my mother said darkly. ‘You can’t just have words disappearing in the dead of night and nobody bothering their shirt! Someone’s bound to have noticed something! Somewhere!’

  ‘Ha!’ I said. ‘Absolutely!’ I was thinking what lovely company this Alzheimer’s was for my drunken paranoia.

  My mother was reading names out: Dr B. Gordon, Dr C. Berg, Dr I. T. McNicholl, Dr Robert Mair, Dr P. MacBrayne, Dr M. Mahmud. ‘How about we try all of them?’ I said. ‘How will I know which one to pick?’ my mother said anxiously. ‘It’s not you doing the picking! He’s already chosen you, this doctor whoever he is! He’s already got your thoughts!’ I said, feeling inspired. ‘Oh, you’re right,’ my mother said, gripping my arm. ‘You’re not wrong. What a moment of lucidity! Right, let’s get out there and find him. What have we got to lose? Isn’t life an awfully big adventure? Who was it who said that again? I’ve forgotten.’

  These days we were spending so much time standing in the street – my mother trying to remember where it was she wanted to go. The day before, she had been determined we went to her church for a bowl of soup in the church cafe. I had never been to her church and had no idea where it was. I was a non-believer anyway. She’d changed her faith when I was a teenager. We stopped and asked a policeman for directions; he leaned out of the window of his police car and looked into my mother’s eyes. If only we could go to Lost Property and claim her mind back I thought; if only it’d been left at Left Luggage. The policeman didn’t know; there were three churches nearby, and my mother couldn’t remember the name. So we went into her hairdresser’s at the corner of our street, and asked them. ‘Excuse me?’ my mother said. ‘Where is my church?’ The hairdresser shook her glossy hair and looked a little nonplussed. We left. ‘It’s like our own little pilgrimage,’ I said to my mother, consolingly. She was very agitated. ‘Oh, your father would be angry with me by now.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, it’s an adventure, our awfully big adventure,’ I said. ‘Who said that again? Did somebody just say that?’ she said. I put my arm through hers and we walked along the street adjacent to her house. The trees were losing their leaves, the birds were losing their feathers, the pound was losing its value and my mother was losing her mind. It was cold, freezing cold. ‘We’re in for a cold snap,’ my mother said. ‘I think it might snow later.’

  Eventually we found it, and we had our bowl of soup and she beamed with pleasure. ‘Nora enjoys a good bowl of soup,’ my mother said. She loved characterizing herself in this way, as if she was somebody else – perhaps she was now. The soup was religiously good – barley, carrots, potatoes, and chicken. ‘What’s the name of these wee soft bits?’ she asked me.

  ‘What was I going to tell you?’ my mother now said and shook her head, looking a little stunned, surprised at herself, as if on the edge of something uproarious.

  ‘Do you remember we went out yesterday to find your church?’ I asked her. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Well, did we find it?’ ‘Yes, we did and we had a bowl of soup.’ ‘Did we?’ my mother said. ‘Did we have soup?’

  Doctor Mahmud said to the young mother with the baby on her lap, ‘There’s nothing like a good bowl of soup. It warms up the old heart. Mind, you’ve got to cut the pieces wee enough. You dinny want to choke on your soup!’ Then he got up abruptly, troubled, and washed his hands. He washed his hands over and over again. The backs of his hands were very hairy. More hairy than usual? He wasn’t sure. It was no joke now. ‘I think she’s too young for solids,’ the young mother said. Her baby was ten days old. Doctor Mahmud ran his fingers through his hair. He would have to take some time off. He couldn’t go on like this. So far there’d been no complaints; but it was only a matter of time. The doctor would have to get to the root of it. You couldn’t practise as a reputable GP shouting at people in this manner! It was appalling. It was against everything he’d been taught. He turned back around and put his thermometer under the baby’s arm. The baby was crying, a high-pitched newborn’s cry. It set his teeth on edge. ‘Barley! That’s the name! Barley!’ he shouted over the din of the greeting bairn. The baby stopped crying instantly. Out of the blue, there was a lovely spacey silence in the surgery between the baby, the doctor and the mother. The doctor looked out of his window. Snowflakes drifted dreamily and the doctor said pleasantly, ‘Plenty fluids, no cause for alarm. You’re breastfeeding?’ The mother nodded, wide-eyed. Everything about being a new mum was terrifying. The world was suddenly a terrifying place. Even the doctors were scary. She found herself bursting into tears when she watched the news. What had she done bringing a baby into a world like this? ‘Doctor,’ she said, tentatively, ‘I’m feeling worried about the world.’

  ‘This is normal. All new mums want world peace!’ Doctor Mahmud said, laughing bravely.

  ‘I’m worried she’ll grow up in a world where she’ll never see a panda,’ she cried. The tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘Don’t worry.’ For the first time that day, the doctor could feel the other voice coming on. He had to get her out of the room before it spoke again. Maybe this was a good sign. Maybe it meant he could exercise some control. He ushered the young mum to the door.

  It was strange. It felt as if it was getting closer, and the instances were becoming more acute. He had a sense of what it must be like being in labour – the panic of the contractions coming quicker and quicker. The mum was still talking. ‘I’m finding I can’t sleep at night for worrying about what’s going on in the world. Bad news, bad news. It gets right inside my heid.’

  ‘Turn the TV off!’ the doctor snapped. ‘Jumpy mummy, jumpy baby eh? Your baby is fine. Keep an eye on the fluid intake.’ He held open the door pointedly. ‘But she’s growing up in such a cruel world. I’m feeling like we’re all doomed. There’s nothing to hope for. Pity you can’t write me a prescription for what’s going on in the world, for all the fear and worry.’

  The doctor put his foot in the door to keep it open. ‘Wish I could. If I gave you a sedative, it would sedate your baby. Druggy mummy, druggy baby, eh?’ The young woman left and Doctor Mahmud sighed with relief. He walked back to his desk, shook his head. ‘What day of the week is it?’ he asked himself. ‘Wednesday.’ ‘What is the month?’ ‘January.’ ‘What is the date?’ ‘January the . . .’ ‘What town are we in?’ ‘Glasgow.’ ‘What county?’ ‘Scotland.’ ‘No! What county?’ ‘East Dunbartonshire. We’re in East Dunbartonshire.’

  I took the sheet out of the Olivetti. It hadn’t quite worked the way I’d planned. The only thing that was consistent was the way the letter h was missing in the Olivetti, it tried to hit h, but then only left a ghost of an h there. The trut was I was terrified, terrified of losing my mot er, not of er dying but of losing er because s e was losing erself is ow t at sentence would look if I typed it out. It was ard to keep track of w at I was saying wit t e missing.

  Before we left for Bishopbriggs, my mother had a panic over her keys. I fastened my seatbelt and got ready for it. ‘What have you done with them?’ she asked me. ‘With what?’ I said, though I knew of course what she was talking about. ‘My keys, Diddy!’ she said impatiently. ‘I haven’t touched your keys. You’re always accusing me of hiding your keys.’

  ‘No one else is in the house. It’s got to be you. Why do you do it, Mary, why oh why oh why.’ My mother started to cry. ‘Don’t upset yourself, Mum,’ I said. ‘Anyway, I’ve got
a spare set.’

  ‘I want my own keys,’ my mother wailed like a baby.

  ‘Well, let’s see where you’ve put them this time.’ I hunted around for her keys. I’d seen her put them behind the cushion on the sofa earlier but I didn’t want to find them too quickly. My mother started the handbag scramble and I tried to take the bag and look for her. She tussled me for it and everything fell onto the floor, all the rubbish she keeps in there, the hairpins and receipts and old photographs and letters.

  ‘Now look what you’ve done!’ she said.

  ‘I am not going to steal from you, Mum, I’m your daughter.’ I was close to tears myself, filled with fury and frustration. It was all so hopeless. My mother seemed to notice and softened. ‘My keys have mibbe been burgled so that they can burgle me later,’ she announced.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Them,’ she said darkly.

  ‘Things have been moving about. They’ve been listening to me on the phone. They know when I’m out.’

  ‘I think we should go out now, before it is too late,’ I said. The afternoon will go and the dark will come down and then we won’t get out, and then it will be another day, I thought. I knew I was in for a period of darkness. My mother pulled the cushion back on the couch and discovered her keys. ‘Found them,’ she announced. ‘Why did you put them there? I would never have put them there,’ she said.

  ‘Never mind, you’ve found them now,’ I said. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘My keys need to go in my zipped pouch,’ my mother said.

  ‘Put them in your zipped pouch, then,’ I said, tired.

  My mother and I got off the train at Bishopbriggs. From Glasgow Queen Street to Bishopbriggs Cross was just seven minutes. We crossed over the railway bridge and walked down the slope at the other side. ‘Where’s Stakis? Can we find Stakis and have a gammon steak and pineapple?’ my mother said. ‘After the doctor’s!’ I said firmly. (I didn’t want to tell her that Stakis wouldn’t be there any more.) ‘Oh yes, the doctor’s. I forgot. I can picture him,’ my mother said. ‘He’s handsome. He’s Pakistani. He’s got a small beard. He’s tall. He’s kind. He’s got beautiful eyes. And a lovely set of teeth! His smile would melt an old woman’s heart.’ ‘Goodness! I hope he exists!’ I said wryly. I was starting to feel panicky. How would I get any new doctor to see my mother? How would I explain her thinking about her lost thoughts? It was crazy. I should never have indulged her. I’d gone too far. ‘He exists, all right,’ my mother said walking quickly up the road. There was nothing wrong with her mobility. She was faster than me. I was finding walking in a straight line a bit of a challenge. If my mother got her lost thoughts back, I’d give up whisky! That felt like a decent bargain. Three cars were waiting at the traffic lights under the old railway bridge. The lights changed.