‘Help!’
‘It’s only me, Jessica.’
‘Help! They’re kidnapping me!’
‘Mum! Mum! Look at me. What is it? What’s wrong?’
Wandering in here, dragging me off. Wait till my father gets home. He’ll sort it out.
‘Papa! Help! Help!’
‘Having trouble, Jessica?’ It’s Mrs Big Feet. ‘Doris playing up today?’
‘She seems really agitated about something.’
Mrs Big Feet marches in. One, two. One, two. Quick march. She pushes the button. They’ve gone.
‘There. All gone, Doris.’
Gone? Who stole it?
‘Sometimes they get frightened by the folk they see on the telly. You know? Not bein’ able to make sense of ’em. Is that better, Doris?’ Mrs Big Feet is in my face. ‘Good show. OK, now all those other people, they’ve gone. It’s just your daughter here with her nice gentleman friend, so how about you sit down here like a good girl and I’ll bring you all a nice pot of tea and you can have a wee blether?’
Sad Eyes crouches. Too close. Don’t touch me. Don’t...
‘Mum, d’you remember Aaron? He’s come to see you again.’
‘Hello, Doris.’ Nice voice. Nice smile. Kind eyes.
‘George?’
‘No, I’m Aaron. But this is George. Look. George.’
George. Looking at me. Through the window. ‘George.’
‘That’s right. George. Your husband. He’s a handsome man, your George.’
George. George. George.
That Man is still sitting beside me. With George. Not touching. He knows. No touching.
‘Did I invite you?’
‘No, but I chose to come and see you.’
Kind eyes. Crinkly. Smiling. I smile.
‘That’s nice. You look very pretty when you smile. But I expect all the boys tell you that.’
I can see his teeth. White teeth. Not like…
‘Knock, knock. Only me.’ Mrs Big Feet. ‘Here we go. A nice cuppa tea. And special pink wafer biscuits today, Doris. Mind and share nicely, now.’
‘Thanks, Stacey,’ Sad Eyes says.
She pours the tea. My job. That Man watches her.
‘There you go, Mum.’
I taste it. Perfect.
‘Looks good.’ He’s still here.
‘Did I invite you?’
‘You’re very good about inviting people. A great hostess, I hear. I expect you make an excellent cup of tea as well,’ he says, smiling.
I smile.
He takes the cup. ‘Thank you, darling.’
Sad Eyes frowns. She’s pink.
‘You know, Doris,’ he says, ‘you and I have connections way back. So I’m trading on a long acquaintance in coming along to have tea with you.’ He leans forward, speaks slowly. ‘My mother went to school with your sister Beatrice.’
‘Beatrice?’ I ask.
‘Yes, Beatrice.’
Beatrice. Beatr… Shsh.
‘Do you remember, Mum?’ Sad Eyes is crouching down again. ‘Your sister, Beatrice?’
‘Beatrice,’ I say. I reach out and touch her hair. Soft waves. Pretty. Lovely eyes.
‘That’s right,’ That Man says. ‘My mother was Cecilia Clarendon. Known as Cissy. Cissy?’
‘Shsh.’
He leans closer to whisper. ‘Sorry, I didn’t know I was speaking too loudly,’
‘Beatrice.’
‘She said it again!’ Sad Eyes says. ‘I think she does remember.’
‘Cissy told me some very nice things about you. She said you were one of the nicest, kindest girls she’d ever known.’
They’re both grinning. I know they’re plotting.
‘But your daughter takes after you.’
‘Beatrice.’
‘That’s right. She’s your sister.’
‘It’s gone. Where is it? Gone.’ I have to find it… Let me out of here!
‘Sh, Mum. It’s all right.’
She reaches into her bag. She’s got it! She mustn’t…
‘Mum! Mum! Oh, look what you’ve done. Did you slop any of it on yourself? Are you hurt?’
‘She’s all right, Jessica. I think it was my fault. Let’s talk about something different and give her space. I’d love another cup of tea, if there’s any left.’
He hands me a duster. ‘How about you get ready for the party? You do the dusting. Jessica will do the tea.’
Good. We’ll be ready on time.
She gives him the tea. ‘Why does she do that?’ she says. ‘You think she’s fine and then, woof, off she goes!’
‘They say that memories, feelings, are triggered that were upsetting in the past but the person can’t access a mechanism for dealing with them. And that’s scary. So you’re supposed to find a cue that puts them back in a safe place – in this case cleaning the house in preparation for visitors – and they forget the troubling emotion. Or something like that.’
‘So what happened there?’
‘I have no idea. It was probably something I said. Or did. Maybe because I held her arm to steady the cup when she started to get up. Something simple like that. Or maybe because we were talking about Beatrice, she suddenly needed to find her… tell her something… make sure she was safe. Whatever. Anything can hold very different connotations for her. I don’t know. It would take somebody much more experienced than me to sort it out. But I do know it’s not her fault.’
Is she going to cry? He reaches out and touches her. Softly.
‘Did I invite you?’
Nobody answers.
‘I’m sorry, Aaron.’
‘Don’t be. I know it’s much harder for you. How about we take your mum out for a run in the car? It might break the cycle of what’s bothering her today. Shall we see if that’s allowed?’
Sad Eyes is dragging me along with her.
‘These pictures are nice, aren’t they, Mum? See, this photograph. It’s the Lake of Menteith. Beautiful, isn’t it? D’you remember when we went there? For your 70th birthday? Seventy. Doesn’t seem possible.’ She looks at me. Grey eyes. Sad eyes. ‘Little did we know then…’
He’s coming. Closer. Closer.
‘Hi, Doris. Morning, Jessica.’
‘Good morning, Dr Griffiths.’ Different voice. Who is she now?
‘I was wondering if I might have a word? Perhaps in my office? Doris can sit on the balcony in the sun.’
‘Has she been misbehaving again?’
‘We’ll talk about it in a minute, huh?’
Who’s this coming?
‘Oh, hi Frank. You just coming on shift?’
Frank! Get away! Don’t touch me!
‘Get away! Get away!’
Udders swinging. To and fro, to and fro. Veins bulging. Nipples dangling. Hands stroking. Smiling. Milk spurting. Your turn.
‘No!’
‘Steady, Doris. Steady now. Steady.’
The doctor’s holding me.
‘Let me go!’
Frank backs away. He shrugs. He knows.
He’s going.
‘Doris, I’d like you to make yourself comfy here on the balcony. Enjoy the sun, and the roses. Look, there’s Tom weeding again. Jessica and I won’t be far away.’
I close my eyes. I can only just hear them. They’re plotting.
‘So, how d’you think she is at the moment, Jessica?’
‘I can’t make out much of what she says now. Sometimes I think she remembers little things. She maybe smiles or looks sad in the right places. But… I don’t know.’
‘Right. Have you noticed anything else?’
‘Well, she gets quite agitated sometimes – like just then. But it must be so awful for her not being able to make herself understood. Is it the frustration or the drugs… or…’
‘Difficult to say exactly what’s triggering it, but we’re adjusting her medication gradually, till we find a level that keeps her calm.’
‘And the violence, hitting out, is that all part of this?
’
‘It’s all part of the dementia, yes. But hopefully this latest fine-tuning will help to calm things. We don’t want to give her too much and make her like a zombie.’
‘A friend was telling me about some technique, not drugs, where you find out what makes them feel safe and steer them in that direction when they start to get upset.’
‘Ah yes. It’s called SPECAL. We know about that. One of our senior nurses is going on a course to find out more about it and if it looks promising we could certainly try that with Doris. But until then we do need to manage your mother. Safely.’
‘I’m sorry – does she hurt people? I mean, I can understand if she pushes me around. But I feel bad…’
‘There’s nothing for you to apologise for. You can’t help it. Your mum can’t help it. So please don’t blame yourself. I’m only bringing you up to date with how we’re playing things at the moment.’
‘Thank you. I appreciate that. Is it anti-psychotic drugs you’re giving her? I know you know more about it than I do, only I read that they can have adverse…’
The soil is warm. It’s dark and damp where I’ve made the hole.
‘A few inches deeper, Doris,’ Mamma says. ‘So the roots can spread out. If you loosen them like this, see how they all unravel. The pot stops them growing straight so they curl around and around. But now when you put the plant in the soil, the roots are all free and happy and they’ll burrow down and down and down and find lots of food and water to make the plant big and strong.’
‘Will they keep on growing and growing?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right down to Australia?’
‘No, dear.’ Mamma laughs. ‘But keep digging. You never know what you might find.’
What I find is a matchbox. Funny. A matchbox in the soil. It’s all damp and soggy. Inside is a skeleton.
‘Mamma,’ I whisper. It’s like in church.
‘Ahh.’ She lets it out like a sigh. ‘That was Joey. Your first goldfish. I don’t expect you remember his funeral.’
I shake my head.
‘Let’s bury him again and then he’ll help your new plants to grow, shall we?’
This time I feel the weight of the soil crushing Joey’s bones as I shovel it back.
…
Lionel can’t breathe. All that earth… ‘No! No! No! Stop!’
‘It’s all right, Mum. You’re quite safe. You were only dreaming. Just go back to sleep.’
That’s nice. Her hand, stroking, gentle. Thank you, Mamma.
The floorboards squeak. ‘Sorry about that.’
My eyes are heavy.
‘How are you coping yourself, Jessica?’
‘I still worry – did I do the right thing putting her in here, instead of keeping her with me.’
‘That’s a common experience for relatives. But think about it. It takes a full team of staff with lots of training behind them, 24 hours a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year, to meet the needs of these patients. You’ve had no training, and on top of the demanding physical work, you’ve had all the emotional strain, the heartache of watching your mum turn into a very different person from the woman you’ve known and loved all your life.’
‘She’s still my mother.’
‘And you know her better than any of us. That’s really why I wanted to have this chat. We’ve tried to encourage the interests and connections you mentioned, but is there anything else you can think of that might improve her quality of life, or help to calm her, or maybe stir a latent memory?’
I can’t hear what she says. She’s mumbling. I need to know.
He’s crouching down. On one knee. Will you marry me?
She’s snivelling.
‘I’m sorry if I’ve upset you. You’re exhausted, I can see that. D’you think you could give yourself permission to come in less often? Could you take a little time out for yourself without feeling like a traitor?’
More mumbling.
‘You’re the most important person in her life, but you won’t be much use if you kill yourself in the process, will you?’
Killing? Who’s killing? See! I knew it. They’re trying to… the poor little kittens…
‘It’s not out of duty. I want to be here; I want to spend time with her.’
He’s standing up. Sitting down. Not killing.
‘I know you do. And we greatly admire your devotion, believe me. It doesn’t happen in all families.’
‘Would it have made a difference? If she’d had the drugs earlier, I mean?’
‘Well, in fairness the most successful cases are where the drugs are combined with support – memory clinics, things like that. And yes, the whole package might have given you a few more months. But these drugs aren’t ever a cure, it’s important to understand that. Nobody ever claimed they were.’
‘They wouldn’t give us the other drug, either, the one for later on.’
‘Ebixa. Yes, I’m afraid at that time the official recommendation was that Ebixa for advanced dementia shouldn’t be prescribed on the NHS. We do use it here, and find it much better than the narcoleptics we used before. It keeps people calmer and sometimes helps them get more interest out of life.’
‘I asked about those early ones for Mum, too. First of all they told me she wasn’t bad enough, she’d have to get much worse before she qualified for that kind of treatment on the NHS.’
‘Yes, indeed. And that too was received wisdom back then. The powers-that-be decided only to give what we call acetylcholinerase inhibitors –– Aricept, Exelon, Reminyl –– when patients had deteriorated sufficiently on the mini mental state memory test.’
‘But then they said she was too far gone for them to be effective.’ The voice has gone all quavery.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s not your fault. You’ve been very kind.’
‘Well, thankfully, even in England and Wales the courts later ruled that doctors could exercise clinical judgement and give the drugs in certain cases. And up here, I might as well tell you, lots of us doctors working in dementia found creative ways of getting the drugs to the patients we felt would benefit.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘And of course, your mum is getting all the medication she needs now.’
‘But then I sometimes think, maybe it’s the drugs that are making her do things out of character.’
‘Damned if we do and damned if we don’t, eh?’ There’s laughter running in and out.
Sad Eyes sighs. She doesn’t laugh.
‘D’you think she still knows me, somewhere inside?’
‘I suspect on some level she’s conscious of a familiarity, although whether she knows you’re her daughter, or what that means is questionable at this stage. But you know she’s your mother even if she doesn’t. All I’m saying is, try not to exhaust yourself.’
Mmm. Quiet. Peace… wishy-washy…
The voices fade in and out. Somebody’s playing with the machine again. Volume up, volume down. Up, down.
‘…she’s not aware…’
‘…because she can’t give her own informed consent…’
‘…it seems wrong to make that decision for her when…’
‘…in an emergency…’
‘Oh, I don’t…’
‘…maybe death isn’t…’
Reuben? Our Reuben?
‘I’m afraid so.’
Not our Reuben.
‘The police came. Don’t cry, Doris. It doesn’t help anything. Be brave. Come on. Chin up.’ My father’s chin is up. Showing Mamma. Showing me. That’s how it’s done.
He can’t have. He wouldn’t. Not our Reuben.
‘It stops us wondering,’ Papa says.
‘I always prayed,’ Mamma says.
‘Huh!’ Papa snorts.
Reuben. My big brother. He wouldn’t leave me. You don’t understand.
I have to find him. I know he’s only hiding.
Mamma has tears running down her cheeks. Mamma
? Crying? She never cries. ‘We have to be brave, Doris. He’s gone.’
It’s dark. It’s night-time. He knows I’m scared in the dark. He wouldn’t. He just wouldn’t.
‘Reuben! Where are you?’
‘Mum. Mum? Wake up. We need to move you. One of the other doctors needs to use this room.’
‘Reuben?’
‘Uncle Reuben’s not here, Mum. He’s dead. Oh, please don’t cry. It was a long time ago.’
No! Not my Reuben. He can’t be.
‘Remind me again, who’s Reuben?’ That doctor’s back. Go away. Don’t look at me. I want Reuben.
‘Her brother. Her oldest brother. She was very close to him. He died in his twenties. In South Africa. I shouldn’t have said that. I forgot. But they told me, for her, it’s like being told for the first time. ’
No, no, no! He can’t have died. Not my Reuben.
‘Mum, we’re going to go and find some lunch for you.’
‘Lunch. Diddlysquat.’
‘Did you hear that?’ Sad Eyes is staring at me.
‘What?’
‘She said, “diddlysquat”. It was one of her words. I don’t give a diddlysquat. I wasn’t worth a diddlysquat. And she just said it! I heard her! Oh Mum.’
I can hardly breathe she’s holding me so tightly. Help. She’s smothering me! Help! You’ve got to get me out of here.
She’s smiling at me like…
It’s catching. I smile.
Chapter 13
A year earlier
I’M NOT GOING in there. I hate the dark.
She’s pulling me.
‘Get off me. Help, somebody! Help. They’re trying to kidnap me!’
‘Can I ’elp you?’ Foreign. ‘Are you ’ere to see ze ’ome?’
‘No. Actually, we’re moving in today. If we can get inside the door, that is!’
She sniggers. ‘I am Eva. Eva Bergovinska. One of ze carers. Pleased to meet you.’
‘Jessica Burden. Good to meet you, too. And this is my mother, Doris Mannering.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Doris.’
Doris indeed! I must get away.
‘Hold on, Mum. Where are you going? No, this way. Let’s go in with this lady.’
It’s cool inside.
‘Please to wait ’ere. I vill get somebody to show you to your mozzer’s room.’
Mmmh. Nice smell. Good. Where’s my duster? There it is…
‘No, Mum. Leave it. Leave it. That’s somebody’s scarf. You’ve got one. See? Round your neck. See?’
Remember, Remember Page 11
