Does knowing make any difference to me? It can’t change anything that’s gone before, that’s for sure. I can’t go back and reject responsibility. I can’t reclaim my career, my freedom. But… should I be the one to hold her power of attorney? Should James? Or should someone else manage her affairs? Who could do it? Who would?
And what about her will? Maybe I’m not entitled to decide to sell the house. Is this why she stipulated it can’t be seen until after her death?
Mother’s always been a force to be reckoned with. Physically strong too. Five foot one and slim she might be, but she could wield an axe or dig a plot as effectively as any agricultural labourer. I can see her yet, out in all weathers, manhandling stones for the rockery, sawing off branches in the orchard, up to her thighs in the pond, clearing the blocked drain. Father was altogether gentler and less driven.
It was Mother’s vision and hard graft that created the amazing garden of our childhood years, so it was a shock finding out that she’d sold the first tranche of land without consulting any of us. Five-storey flats replaced the orchard; a sprawl of garages covered part of the vegetable plot. The uninterrupted view to the Pentland Hills which we once took for granted as our birthright, was no more. But Mother’s ‘excuse’ was, she needed ready money and she needed it now.
It all began with a letter. Her brother, Jack, writing from America: the doctors had given him three months at most. Long since separated from his wife, Betty, he was on his own. Mother flew out that week and nursed him through his final weeks.
Less than a year later, Eugene got married and settled in Australia. Mother instantly set about lessening the distance between us all. And in time a second swathe of the garden was bulldozed. Two bungalows stood where once we had scampered over the rockery and scavenged for tadpoles.
Mother refused to waver: ‘Nobody owns this earth. We only borrow bits of it. And people are much more important than possessions.’
From the conservatory today I look out on what’s left of the land Mother owns. James has been practical, paring things back to the essentials. Ready for a modern family. But he couldn’t bring himself to take down the old apple tree.
‘Our first swing hung from that. I remember Dad pushing me high enough to see into the kitchen window. Gran was making scones for our mid-morning snack. She wrapped them in fancy serviettes and popped them in little bags with funny faces on them, and we ate them down by the stream, still warm.’
‘Happy days,’ I sighed.
‘They were, Mum. Gran was brilliant. Remember the time she took Pandora and me to York and we missed the train home? We had hours to wait and she invented such great games we were almost sorry to leave that magical platform!’
‘And she was always telling you stories.’
‘And she taught us to knit.’
‘And remember the special wee plot in her garden for you children?’
‘Which was always bursting with colour, as I recall.’
I laughed. ‘I rather think she stuck flowers in when things were getting a bit dreary, to keep you enthusiastic.’
James grinned. ‘Probably, knowing Gran. Maybe that’s why Pandora can’t tell a dahlia from a daisy! Pansies probably appeared where she’d planted poppies.’
We savoured the memories in silence.
Mum kept an album of photos taken in the garden over the decades. My favourite ones were of the summer Dad was 40. The garden was stunning that year and we held the party outside. And there was Mum, surrounded by her family and her flowers, undisputed queen.
Nowadays it’s too painful to look at those shots. The contrast is too sad. There’s the gate covered in her favourite rambling rose – she left it unlatched and Karah toddled out into the road. There’s the holly tree we raided annually – scorched to death by the bonfire she made to burn the cot and the baby clothes; the twin junipers, background for so many close-ups – linked by her red scarf the night she wandered down the street leaving the gas on, unlit, and the front door wide open.
And now we’re preparing to hand over what’s left of this garden to strangers.
When Aaron rings I’m still at Bradley Drive.
‘You sound weary, sweetheart.’
Just sharing the news about Pandora helps. He says all the right things.
‘And how’s the conservatory looking?’
‘Lovely. Especially in the sunshine. James fixed the radiator last night, so I’ve only got to sweep up and wash the floor, and then get the tiles down.’
‘Why don’t you leave that for me? I’ll be up again at the weekend.’
‘Thanks, but I’m happy to do it. Stops me moping. That’s why I’ve stayed late. Besides, I’m hoping to be finished by the weekend.’
‘You’re amazing. And don’t forget, once it’s done – you agreed – you’re coming away on holiday. No more excuses. Two whole weeks of having you all to myself, I can’t wait.’
‘Me too.’
‘I won’t hold you up right now, but I wanted to tell you how much I love you.’
I have all the time in the world for that.
I didn’t expect James tonight. He arrives as I start the tiling.
‘Up you get. I’ll do that.’
‘But…’
‘No buts. You’ve done enough. I could murder a cup of tea, though.’
I leave him to the job and hoover through the finished rooms. The end result has exceeded my expectations. So why do I feel so low? That’s what James wants to know when he finds me in tears in the sitting room.
‘Mum? What’s up?’
‘Oh, nothing… I expect I’m just tired.’
‘Well, that’s nothing new. Come on. What’s up?’
I hardly know myself.
‘Aaron hasn’t run off with a leggy blonde half his age, has he?’
I can’t help but smile. ‘If he has, he hasn’t told me! No, it’s not Aaron.’
‘Pandora?’ he prompts.
It’s enough. He listens while I tell him about his sister, his aunt… and his grandmother. All the things (except one) that are preying on my mind, stopping me enjoying the triumph of the almost-completed house. He sympathises but is phlegmatic as usual.
‘“God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; the courage to change the things I can; and the wisdom to know the difference.” You’re not going to change Pan, or Aunty Adeline, or Aunt Beatrice. Nor Gran. But you’ve got to find the courage to get away on holiday, Mum. You’re exhausted. That’s why everything’s getting on top of you.’
Before he leaves he turns and asks, ‘I nearly forgot, how was Gran today?’
‘Subdued. They’ve changed her medication. Again.’
‘For?’
‘What they call “challenging behaviours”.’
James surprises me with a bellow of laughter. ‘What a hoot! Trust Gran.’
‘What’s so funny about that?’
‘Gran still challenging people. She was ever thus.’
‘No. This isn’t a nice kind of challenging. This is a what-on-earth-are-we-going-to-do-with-this-old-lady kind of challenge. She can be quite horrible at times, James. I hate to say it, but she can. Vicious even.’
‘Needs an ASBO, does Gran!’
‘It’s not amusing, James. She’s strong enough to hurt people, you know. She’d be appalled if she knew.’
‘Ahah. You’re back to the should-we-shouldn’t-we thing, yes? That’s what’s upset you.’
‘Well, wouldn’t she be better off… dead.’
‘Is her life so awful?’
‘Who knows. We can’t get inside her head.’
‘If it was you, what would you want?’
‘I’d have wanted to opt out right at the beginning.’
‘Would you?’ He’s looking at me intently now.
‘Definitely. And if it happens, that’s precisely what I intend to do.’
‘I hope you don’t mean that.’
‘Oh I do, James. There’s no
way I’m going to let you go through what I’ve had. Absolutely no way.’
‘But I wouldn’t want you to – opt out, I mean.’
‘Not even to avoid all the humiliation, the distress?’
‘For your sake, maybe, but not for my own. No, course not. You’re my old mum. Ain’t got no other. And I love you so!’ he sings to disguise his emotion. I’m not fooled.
‘And I love Gran too. I don’t want to lose her either. But is this shell really still my mum?’
‘Can they sort her out so she’s placid and just pottering along, not hurting anybody or anything?’
‘They don’t know. That’s what they’re trying to do, only they don’t want to turn her into a zombie.’
‘But there again, the worth of your life doesn’t depend on how you behave, does it?’ He isn’t expecting an answer. ‘She’s still my Gran. And I’d miss her.’
The silence spills out over the garden as the first duskiness of evening settles over the shrubs we’ve planted for the next incumbents.
‘What does Aaron say?’ he asks.
‘He thinks we should respect her previous wishes, when she was competent to decide.’
‘Spoken like a true lawyer!’
I reach across and pat James’ hand. ‘Thank you, love.’
‘What for?’
‘Accepting Aaron like you do.’
‘He’s exactly what you need.’
How true.
‘Besides which, I like him.’
Chapter 10
I CAN’T PROCRASTINATE any longer. Pandora answers the phone on the seventh ring, just when I’m starting to think she’s not in.
‘Hello, love. How are you?’ I say.
‘Fine, we’re all fine. How about you?’
‘I’ve had a good day. Gran was better than she’s been for ages. I think it’s the new medication. I’m sure she remembered Grandpa’s rose arches, and the lad from down the road stealing the flowers to sell in the market.’
‘She said all that?’
‘Well, no. Not exactly. I reminded her about it, and she smiled as if she still thought it was funny.’ Thanks to Aaron. I owe him so much.
‘Oh.’
‘Well, I guess you had to be there.’
‘You sound tired. So, when are you coming down, Mum?’
‘Well, there’s a slight complication.’
‘Mum! You promised.’
‘I know, dear. It’s just that…’
‘You can’t leave Gran. I know. But, Mum, the way you’re going you’ll be in a loony bin, and she’ll still be pottering up and down those corridors, wetting herself and asking if she invited you!’
‘She can’t help it.’
‘No, but you can! We need you too, you know. It was going to be a surprise, but I may as well tell you: Karah’s got a big part in her drama group play. And Mrs Galsworthy’s having a little concert – exclusively for parents and grandparents. Max’d be so chuffed to have his nana there to hear him play his guitar. Please come.’
‘I will, dear, for a few days, but…’
‘OK. That’s settled. It’s time somebody spoiled you.’
‘Well, actually, Pandora, there’s somebody else who’s spoiling me now.’
‘Who?’
‘His name’s Aaron.’
‘That man? The one on the phone?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re seeing him?’
‘Well, yes. And now… he’s taking me on holiday.’
Long after she’s put the phone down I’m staring blankly into space. I haven’t the energy to move. 65? I feel 95.
‘Listen to your own heart. You’re important too. What you really want.’ Aaron’s wisdom seems to come to me so often these days.
And what does my heart say? No question. I want to be with him, to be a normal woman. To love someone who wants me for myself, not for what I can do for them. Who can still my conscience as far as Mother is concerned. And he’s right. I do need a holiday. I’ve agreed to one.
‘A measly 14 days, that’s all. Far too short for me, but I’ll settle for that for the time being.’
‘But what if something happens when I’m not there?’
Aaron shakes his head at me. ‘It’s all documented. No heroics. You need a break now. Not n years from now.’
James has promised to pop in to see her while we’re away. And like Pandora says, my mother is well cared for. The staff are kind and attentive. I’ve never seen any unkindness or impatience to speak of. How they do it is beyond me. Day in, day out. One patient nearly killed me.
But before we go there’s one thing more to decide. What if Aaron wants an answer?
I thought I had it all buttoned up – ‘before’. No one was going to listen to me going round in ever-decreasing circles… or haul me back from scaring some motorist half to death by wandering naked along an unlit road… or find I’d smeared smoked salmon and prawn medley all over their raspberry cheesecake… or know the urge to stuff my mouth with the resultant goo and tie a tablecloth very tightly over my nose and mouth… or to stick my head in the lavvy pan and pull the flush. Over and over again.
Oh yes, I’ve been there. But not James. Not Aaron.
So. My answer? Let’s enjoy today but not commit to tomorrow.
But that was ‘before’. Now I have no idea at all what time bombs lurk in my genes. So is there any reason not to say yes to Aaron if he asks while we’re away? I don’t want to be swayed by the holiday atmosphere. I need to decide when I’m as close as I can be to real life.
I’m not sure…
I must get on. These endless mental acrobatics are more exhausting than all the hard graft.
It’s the last lap. The cupboard under the stairs. If I crack on, I’ll have time to fit in a trip to the dump before it closes.
Judging by the smell, I’d say this door hasn’t been opened in years. It’s as well Pandora isn’t here with her allergies.
Old brooms and dustpans, baked beans, rags, crystallised figs. Nothing of any moment until… an ornate box wedged in between two cereal packets. The case is crested, lined with satin. Ah. That’s where they went.
‘My grandmother’s pearls,’ Mother explained, when I was about 10. She bit one, to ‘show they’re real’, and I shivered at the sound. I didn’t want to touch them; I wanted sparkly jewels, the princess sort, not dreary old pearls that make faces sad.
I put them on one side. Are they worth the expense of valuation? Aaron will know.
Behind all the detritus there’s a neat stack of boxes; the work of a methodical mind. The first one weighs a ton.
Grandmamma’s treadle machine! It always stood in her hall, with its tapestry cloth, an aspidistra, and a black pot full of buttons and coins and pins and bits of elastic. It belonged to her mother before her… it’s at least a hundred and thirty years old. And I know it made the wartime wedding dress in those two black and white photos – ‘the only ones we had taken’.
‘Look at those terrible seams. Makes me cringe now,’ Mother said. ‘The tension had gone on the machine, you see. Thick flannel, parachute silk, it was all the same.’ She sighed. ‘But Mamma had begged and borrowed to get that material. We sewed it together, by the light of a Tilley lamp, using an old dress as a pattern.’
‘Did you mind, at the time?’
She shook her head. ‘Folk make too much of weddings nowadays. All that money, all that fuss. For a few hours of show. There’s more to marriage than a perfect dress. The kind of attitude my mamma had – that’s what gets you through the hard times.’
I sigh, now, thinking of Pandora. A fabulous dress. An expensive leather album of photos… Yes, there’s more.
‘Rainy day’ it says on the side of the next three boxes. Each one crammed full with curtains and sheets – Mother’s insurance against another war.
I’m deep inside the bend under the stairs now, my knees complaining. But only four suitcases to go, and then I’m done.
The first on
e bears the initials J.J.G. embossed in gold on the battered brown leather. Who was J.J.G? Would my mother have known before the holes in her brain grew too large to retain anything? Inside are piles of newspapers. The war recorded for posterity. James might be interested. I slap on a post-it.
The second case is sturdier, reinforced at each corner. It has a sliver of a label stuck on one side, all the identity torn away. I gingerly peel back several layers of paper.
My heart races.
Encrusted fabric, fine pleating… the feel of privilege and wealth. What place has this in my mother’s life?
I drag the case out backwards into the hall. The light from the stair window glints on beads and spangles as I lift it out with infinite care. Antique black, a ballgown made for someone an inch or two shorter than me… breathtaking in its elegance and craftsmanship. I hold it against myself and smooth the voluminous folds, then hang it on the door and turn back to the case.
More layers of smooth paper, something very like a flannelette sheet, and underneath that the softest duck-egg blue jacket, black frogging accentuating the shape – full bust, tiny waist.
I slip it on and strut in front of the hall mirror.
‘Well, good afternoon, m’lady.’
‘Good afternoon, Holmes. Is the master in?’
‘He is indeed, m’lady. In the drawing room. Shall I serve afternoon tea?’
‘If you please, Holmes.’
Kid gloves… a reticule complete with silver pomander… riding boots… a buttonhook…
How did such opulence come to be in my mother’s possession?
The penultimate case is completely empty. No marks. Nothing to distinguish it. Except its quality.
The last one is dark green leather with a faulty catch. I take it out into the conservatory where the light is brighter.
Photographs. Dozens of them. Higgledy-piggledy. Exquisite portraits alongside blurred snaps with heads lopped off. My adoptive family. I’m so lost in weaving my own histories, that I hear nothing until I feel a kiss on the back of my neck.
Remember, Remember Page 9
