The message was waiting for me on the answerphone.
‘Hello, Jessica. This is Aaron. Aaron Wiseman. I’m up here visiting relations and wondered if you were available, maybe for a coffee? For old times’ sake.’
He hoped I was free.
Free? Free of what? For what?
I need hard work. I’ll get started on the sitting room.
Just holding the brochures about homes for people with dementia is painful. We rated them, James and I together, then visited those within a thirty-mile radius that scored four or five stars. There were only three.
No competition. The Morningside won five stars from the outset. Person-centred care was their watchword. Space, flexibility, privacy, respect, realising full potential – bespoke caring, writ large. The welcome we’d received there clinched it. And the views from what would be Mother’s room. If you had to put your relative behind locked doors this was the door you’d choose, if you could afford it. Even James gulped when he saw the prices, but he recovered immediately.
‘It’ll be worth every penny to have peace of mind.’
‘And it’s her money,’ I said.
I toss the brochures into the recycling bag. It’s done. There’s no going back.
‘I hope you’re free.’
Just hearing Aaron’s voice… I give myself a mental shake. Get a grip! Don’t read something into nothing.
Glasses, china, vases, bubble-wrapped and packed into the boxes James left in the hall. There’s only one set of champagne flutes I intend to keep for myself, bought for her 70th birthday. Expensive, beautiful and, I suspect, never used.
Why did he ring?
I stack pictures back-to-back and think of the gems uncovered on Antiques Roadshow. Maybe I could consult Aaron. Paintings were one of his passions. It would be an excuse… No! If someone somewhere finds a treasure, good luck to them.
All the rooms have cupboards built into the walls, and for as long as I can remember, the bottom section in the sitting-room recess has housed Mother’s collection of Christmas decorations. Most of the familiar things are still there, but in her recent squirrellings she’s added a couple of magazines, an electricity bill, a leaking biro, a Brownie camera, sweets, old coins, about a hundred second-class postage stamps – the fact that they’re a special Christmas issue gives her action authenticity. I like to think her brain registered the connection.
I trickle the tinsel through my hands, seeing her darting hither and thither creating a wonderland for her children out of the same strands and balls, year after year. I salvage two lengths of tinsel, a box of glass baubles, and the all-important glittery ball which always hung from the centre light. Maybe they will strike a chord in her memory if I put them up in her room… the first year she won’t be with the family.
I can’t bear it. I turn too abruptly and stub my foot against the TV stand. At least now I have a legitimate explanation for the tears. I slump down onto the settee, nursing the injury. Mother is there, sitting beside me. Not so very long ago. Watching TV was one of the last companionable things we could share. She loved costume dramas and medical soaps and anything starring Judi Dench. Keeping up Appearances made her laugh even on the umpteenth re-run. Seeing them in this room gave the experience added spice. For this was our ‘special occasion’ room. Most of the year it was austere, kept ready for unexpected visitors, but when birthdays, Easter, Christmas and the New Year came, Mother transformed it. And we could romp to our hearts’ content.
But I must press on.
Seven photo albums stack the shelves in the window.
The first one I open brings a welter of mixed emotions. Especially today, now that Aaron has been in touch.
Lewis was a handsome groom, towering over me by 10 inches, neat, tanned. I thought so then, when he was 26; I think so now.
I was already established, teaching English, when Mr Burden came to give lessons on the oboe to a handful of pupils. He was a gifted soloist, less successful with children. He occasionally sought refuge in the staff room while he waited for his next student to arrive and I took pity on his shyness.
Conversation with Lewis was hard work, but I saw it as a challenge. There must be more to this man. Gradually I learned that he was an only child whose parents died when he was in his teens. What must it be like to stand completely alone in the world? Who did he tell when he was successful, who shared his disappointments? Where did he go for Christmas?
He took me back to his cold bedsit and I saw for myself how few possessions he had.
He was slow in his reactions, gauche in his early attempts at affection. But I felt protective. I willed him to succeed.
The honeymoon was a disaster – well, for me.
Lewis had taken care of all the arrangements. He’d booked a room in a down-at-heel guesthouse in Brighton. On the fourth floor, no lifts, smelling of cigarette smoke, shared bathroom. Twin beds with dubious stains on the mattresses and pillows. He wasted no time in pushing the beds together and stripping off his clothes. I saw him naked for the first time. The implications of his haste began to dawn on me when he climbed into bed, flung his leg over me, fumbled beneath my nightie and entered me with no foreplay of any kind. The pain made me clench my teeth. Afterwards, he thanked me, rolled over and went to sleep. I remember staring into the darkness contemplating a future devoid of finesse and conversation. I felt so alone. And there was no one I could tell.
The damage of that first attempt at intimacy (what a travesty of the word!) made every subsequent night of the honeymoon – and three mornings too – a misery for me. The innuendoes from the ancient waitress who doubled as chambermaid merely added to my doubt. Was there something wrong with me?
Once we had given Brighton Pavilion and the hardware shops a cursory look, Lewis wanted to spend the day dozing on the beach or strolling along the pier. The things I’d anticipated – the Regency architecture, the magnificent crescents and squares, the arts scene – held no interest for him. Nothing tempted him to explore beyond the narrow road between the guesthouse and the sea. His contentment was a reproach. How could I want anything more than the company of my new husband?
I close the album and let the years soften the edges of my disappointment. For Lewis wasn’t a cruel man. It was more that my imagination had different expectations.
The desire to understand the inner person wore thin over time and I sought intellectual stimulation elsewhere. Sex was another issue altogether, for I’d been breast-fed on the principles of chastity and faithfulness. During all our years of marriage it was always on Lewis’ terms, always swift and silent.
But it’s thanks to Lewis that I have my children. James reminds me of him most. And through him I’ve grown to appreciate Lewis’ gentleness and patience. Father and son have shared the same ability to accept me exactly as I am – my terrier tendencies, my restlessness, my analytical approach to everything. I must take my share of responsibility for the fault-lines within our marriage.
I found a treasure for James today. ‘You bought this for Gran when you were knee-high to a grasshopper. With your own money.’
He cradles the china wren in both hands. ‘Winkled out of my piggy bank with a knife.’
‘It was the very first time you went into a shop all on your own. Gran loved it. It was always in the front of her cabinet. It’s a souvenir of how special you’ve always been to her.’
‘Thanks, Mum. I think the kids might like to know that story. They won’t ever know her as she really was.’
‘Like the staff up at the home. To them she’s simply a daft little biddy.’
He laughs with me and Lewis’ deficiencies fade further into the past.
‘Being here brings her back in a way,’ James says softly.
‘I know. But it’s sad too, knowing she’ll never come here again.’
‘Mum, you did far more than most people would. She’s lucky you are her daughter. Think of Davy Lockhart down the road; the way his daughters treated him. And there were tw
o of them, but he was skin and bone, covered in sores and bruises, when the social services got in on the act.’
I shudder. ‘Poor old Davy.’
‘Gran had those sisters to tea once, didn’t she? They were perfectly respectable ladies before the old man came to live with them. Before he drove them crazy. So don’t beat yourself up.’
‘I know, love. But it still hurts. Other families manage. Maybe I should have fought harder for extra help to keep her at home.’
‘No guarantees there either. Grace Campbell, in the room next to Gran – her family spent a fortune buying in carers, but the old lady hated it, said they were unkind to her.’
‘Maybe if I’d done things differently…’
‘Maybe, maybe. Look. You tried. Nobody can do more than their best.’
‘Well, you make sure you get hold of a hefty dose of rat poison as soon as I start showing signs!’ I say.
He rolls his eyes. ‘Which things did you find hardest to put up with?’
‘The repetition. Definitely. The same question a million times.’
‘Did I invite you?’ he mimics, not unkindly.
‘Squeaking her shoes together, flicking her nails, gnashing her teeth, scraping her spoon on her dish. Silly little things, but maddening when you have to listen to them over and over and over again.’
‘It’s a form of Chinese torture, that.’
‘Enough to tip you over the edge into insanity, if you had time to stop and think about it. But, of course, she was always off again getting into some other scrape – usually something I hadn’t even thought of taking precautions against. She was nothing if not inventive, your grandmother.’
‘And you must admit, we’ve had our laughs too.’
I smile. ‘Remember when she thought you were Nelson Mandela?’
‘And that time Prince Philip was responsible for the Chinese kidnapping her daughter.’
‘And when she maintained that Jesus had popped her knickers in the birdbath.’
He laughs. ‘My favourite was when she marched off down the street in the altogether with a tea cosy on her head, and I met her and had to walk back with her because she flatly refused to get in the car – “that instrument of the Devil”, she called it.’
I giggle. ‘And she wouldn’t let you cover her up with your jacket.’
‘“Get that filthy rag away from me. Can’t you see it’s covered in fleas?”’ He mimics her gestures as a well as her scandalised voice.
It’s funny now. It wasn’t then.
‘So,’ James says, giving me an arch look, ‘make sure you’re as amusing when you start to go doolally.’ He glances at his watch. ‘I need to watch the time today. Margot’s going out, so I must get back for the kids.’
‘You go, dear. I’ll manage.’
‘Don’t be silly. You’re already doing way too much. I see the skip came. I’ll start chucking stuff into it in a mo but first, a cup of tea. I’m parched.’
He brings chocolate-coated shortbread biscuits in with it.
‘Where did they come from?’ I ask, leaning closer, suspicious in this house.
‘They have not been nibbled, or dunked in pee, or been open for 10 months. I bought them in Sainsbury’s on my way here. There you go. Sell-by date three months hence.’
‘I shouldn’t. My diet has gone totally to pot since I started on this house.’
‘Rubbish! A sugar rush is exactly what the doctor orders.’
‘Oh, I’m not talking about that kind of diet. I mean anti-oxidants and everything. To help prevent loads of things, not just Alzheimer’s.’
‘You sound just like Margot! Gorge on fruit, veg, pulses and fish. Lay off the dairy products, meat and alcohol. Stock up on blueberries and walnuts and seeds. Nothing about shortbread biscuits.’
‘Well, no point in inviting trouble.’
‘You think too much! You’re as sane as anyone I know, and you need the energy from proper food. This is hard labour.’
‘Well, maybe just the one then.’
I don’t tell him that the very smell of shortbread makes me retch. My mother once did something unspeakable with it that will be forever etched on my senses… unless I too develop Alzheimer’s.
Maybe there are advantages after all!
Not until we’re busy again do I broach the subject uppermost in my mind.
‘James, did you by any chance contact the man I told you about?’
‘Which man?’
‘Aaron Wiseman.’
‘No. I’ve no idea where he lives.’
‘Well, you might have found out. From the lawyer or something.’
‘No. Why would I?’
‘I just wondered.’
He stands stock still. ‘Has he got in touch again?’
‘Mm. That’s why I thought…’
‘And?’
‘He left a message. That’s all.’
‘Saying?’
‘He wants to meet for coffee.’
‘And I hope you said, “Yes please, and can I bring my son along to vet your suitability”.’
I can’t help but smile.
‘You did said yes, didn’t you?’ James’ voice follows me as I leave the room.
‘I haven’t replied yet.’
‘Mother! For goodness’ sake!’
‘I will. When I get the time.’
‘Does he live locally then?’
‘No. He’s up visiting relatives.’
‘Well, all the more reason to phone him straight away.’
Before I lock up that night I let my gaze wander over the architecture of my growing years. This room, that has been variations on the same theme since 1945, that houses the ghosts of family celebrations over six decades, will soon be a blank slate. A hint of eggshell blue on the walls, but mostly white.
As I close the door I fancy I see a fleeting figure scampering down the garden barefoot in the frost, her nightdress flapping round her knees. Running away for the umpteenth time. Running away was her specialist subject. Masterclass level!
Five times she escaped from the day centre, in spite of their so-called security. Three times she eluded the carer sent to give me a ‘shopping break’. Now, I like to think her behaviour was one of the few expressions left for her native wit. Her brain had to be functioning logically to some extent to plan and execute such feats, and outwit her keepers.
In the end I changed the locks – on the garden gate as well as on the doors of the house. But that was after all the phone calls to say she was whizzing around on a roundabout at the local park at 2 a.m., or that she’d walked into some stranger’s house, or hopped onto a bus to Berwick, or was shrieking blue murder in a police station.
It’s been good remembering the happy times with James. But recalling her as she was, makes her present predicament the more poignant. Step by step she has sunk down into the basement of her being, and she will not return.
Aaron looks exactly as I remember him. I’m glad of a few moments before he looks up; the feelings are powerful.
And then he’s striding towards me. I can’t move.
He takes all the decisions I’ve agonised over out of my hands.
‘Jessica! It is so lovely to see you again.’ His hands around mine are firm. His lips touch each cheek for exactly long enough.
‘And you.’ I only need to receive.
He has chosen well – as he always did. The restaurant is discreet, our table apart without being too intimate.
He launches straight into enquiries about my mother and once he knows, I feel the weight slide from my shoulders. It’s done. I don’t ask if he’s still single – but he reassures me anyway. From then on conversation is easy, we both know so much about each other. And this time there’s no danger of any emergency to whisk me away.
He’s in Edinburgh for four days. I truant from Mother’s house for parts of every day and decline all offers of help with the renovations. I don’t want this time tainted.
But he insists he w
ants to see Mother again.
It’s peaceful visiting with him. He fields the repeated ‘Did I invite you?’ calmly and manages to turn the conversation to things that seem to hold her attention.
I drop in the question as he prepares to leave. ‘Can I ask you one more thing?’
‘Fire away.’
‘According to my aunt, your mother and she didn’t exactly get on. But you said that your mother had a huge admiration for my mother. Why? What did she do?’
‘She was… kind and unselfish.’
I know he’s prevaricating. ‘I’d really like to know.’
There’s a long pause.
‘Please don’t misconstrue this, but it’s not mine to tell.’
‘Aunt Beatrice wouldn’t tell me, either,’ I say. It sounds petulant and I instantly regret it.
He puts out a hand to touch my arm. There’s something guarded in his eyes.
‘Are we dependent on that old story?’
‘No. Of course not. I just don’t like to think there’s anything… not quite right in the background.’
‘There isn’t. Not between you and me.’
Chapter 6
ALL THIS EMOTIONAL TURMOIL is making me ultra sensitive.
I hear warning bells even in Pandora’s recorded message. ‘Can you ring me, Mum?’
She knows I’m working at her grandmother’s house till late. Why didn’t she ring me there? Is it too late to ring her back?
It isn’t.
‘Can you come over, Mum? I’m on my own this week. I could do with some company.’
‘Is anything wrong?’
‘No, but Karah’s away at Brownie camp and there’s just Max and me. It’d be great to have a good natter. Like old times.’
Before I realise it I’ve agreed to go over on Friday after she gets home from work – the evening I’d pencilled in for James to go through the papers from the box under the sideboard with me. But he’ll understand. He knows I’m anxious about his sister. Perhaps on Friday I’ll find out if I have reason to worry.
And it’s the best week to go, as far as the house is concerned. It won’t hold up progress. Because a 24-foot drop over the stairwell is not the place for a five foot two woman in her 60s. Last time the staircase was decorated Lewis did that corner, while I papered the bits I could reach with nothing more lethal than a stepladder. Standing on his tiptoes on a plank balanced between a ladder and a chair on the stair, one false move away from a broken leg, my husband grumbled, cursed and vowed never again. Time proved him to be right.
Remember, Remember Page 5
