Remember, Remember

by Hazel McHaffie

  ‘No, I will, James. I will.’

  ‘Have you talked to her about it?’

  ‘I’ve tried.’

  ‘She did it,’ I tell him.

  ‘Did what?’

  ‘The whole wedding. All that food!’

  ‘Did she indeed. Who’s “she”?’

  ‘Princess Di.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘Did I invite you?’ I ask him. Did I?

  ‘No, Gran. But listen, I can come and visit you anywhere, can’t I?’

  ‘James!’ Why is she shouting?

  I’ve got to get away. I hate shouting.

  He’s strong. He’s got me. Help!

  ‘Let me go!’

  ‘Now, steady on. I’m a lot bigger than Mum. You can’t escape from me, so just you calm down, huh, and we’ll talk about this rationally.’

  ‘No, we will not!’ she says. She’s cross. She reminds me of… What have I done? Am I in trouble?

  ‘Please, Papa. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’ll let you go if you promise to behave, OK? Right. That’s better.’

  ‘See what you’ve done now!’ she says.

  ‘I’m sorry. But you’ve got to move on this before something tragic happens. You’d never forgive yourself.’

  ‘I know. And I will.’

  ‘When? When will you?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Why don’t you let me do it for you? I could go there after work today and check availability and everything in person.’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘No, it’s something I have to do myself.’

  ‘Well then, phone now to book a time. I’ll come and stay with Gran.’

  He follows her out.

  It’s peaceful. Nobody shouting. Just the hum of…

  Humming. The whole shed’s humming. I love the sound.

  It’s like the pulse of the farm. Throbbing. Carrying the life-blood. The milk froths into the tubes, the tension goes out of the udders, the veins stop bulging fit to burst.

  From where I’m crouched I can see all the bony bums of the cows all pointing the same way, tails swishing occasionally, the sound of chomping. A tail lifts; dung splatters the concrete, the sickly smell rising above the disinfectant Uncle Frank scrubbed into the ground only two hours ago. His big muscles contract and extend, his hobnail boots clatter on the ground. The stiff brush scuffs the water and the milk and the dung out of the cracks as he ‘puts his back into it’. If a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well. He doesn’t stop until it’s all hosed down and you can’t see any animals have ever been in here.

  Uncle Frank learned the hard way, Mamma says. Farming’s not in his blood. It’s in Aunt Annie’s blood, though.

  ‘Love me, love my cows,’ Papa says. I hear him. Laughing. I’m up in the hay loft; they don’t know.

  ‘Aye. You’ll not prise our Annie from her farm for love nor money. No, that lassie’s bin rising at 5 since she were 10-year-old. Aye, that she has. She’s maybe no oil painting, but she knows cows inside out and back to front like they were her bairns. Many’s the time she’s coaxed one of ’em to drop a calf while the menfolk stood back shaking their heads. Up to her armpits inside ’em. It’s all in a day’s work for our Annie. And up she’d get every hour to feed that little mite like it was the fullness o’ her own milk that waked her. And you’ll not get a faster worker this side o’ Berwick and that’s a fact. She’ll have the milking done and the place all scrubbed neat as a pin, and still have the bacon and sausage on the table afore eight. Aye, she’s a good lass. She’ll make your Frank a good wife. But it’ll be on her terms, mind. The farm goes wi’ her.’

  …

  Uncle Frank’s wedding is so noisy.

  He’s old. Approaching 40, Mamma says. I don’t ever want to be that old.

  I’m so hungry. But they keep talking. Funny accents, funny smells, stories about animals – jokes that make the men-folk roar with laughter. Mamma tuts. Several times. She tweaks the sash of my brand new white dress with the blue bolero.

  ’Just you close your ears, Doris.’

  It goes on and on. After the cake and everything. I wish I could go home. It’s boring.

  …

  Holiday times we go to the farm so’s we get to ‘know about the country’. The kittens are my favourites. Outside they are, all weathers. They’re ‘working animals,’ Aunt Annie says, ‘not for petting.’ But the kittens, well, catch them with their eyes still sewn up and you can carry them round in your pocket and stroke their little bodies and feel the purring right into the middle of your tummy, it’s that gorgeous.

  And we get to scamper round outside all day too, like the kittens. Reuben and Jack, they’re allowed to drive the tractor. Imagine! The wheels are so big they’re nearly as high as Uncle Frank. He puts the boys on his lap and hollers at them to grab hold of the steering wheel with two hands and off they go bumping all over the fields, squealing and shouting and feeling like regular farmers. Sydney and Derek and me, we aren’t allowed near the big machines but we get to feed the chickens and pick up the eggs for Aunt Annie.

  …

  The cows skitter over the yard, their hooves all clickety clack on the stone, going into the milking parlour like they’re on invisible ropes, knowing where to stand. Like they’re in a hurry to be emptied out. And I’d be in a hurry too, lugging all those bottles of milk inside my udder – if I was a cow, I mean.

  Going into the milking shed’s my secret. Sydney or Derek, they’d only spoil it, getting bored. I just want to watch that milk being sucked out.

  Uncle Frank likes udders. He strokes them, washes them, holds them. Even when they’re all clipped up and the milk’s racing down the tubes, he walks up and down feeling one after the other, smiling a funny kind of smile. Pleased.

  ‘You feel that, Doris. See. Give me your hand. Feel how hard it is all full up of milk. And the nipple, see, pink and long. Just right for a baby’s mouth. And we pop the nipples in here like that and we switch on and she loves it. See she’s smiling now. Aren’t you, Constance, old girl? She loves it. And that’s why she comes dancing in here twice a day. She knows Uncle Frank will make her feel like a princess. Don’t you, my beauty?’

  I like that. Watching the cows loving it. Seeing all that milk.

  …

  ‘And look at this one, Doris.’

  No! You’re spoiling it! Leave me alone, Uncle Frank. You can’t!

  Now I’ll never get to drive the tractor.

  Who put this thing on me? You can’t drive tractors in pyjamas! Don’t they know anything?

  I hear them whispering. I know they’re plotting.

  ‘She isn’t necessarily asleep.’

  ‘What kinds of things?’

  ‘All dressed up in loads of jumpers and coats, it was a devil of a job to get them off her… she screams the place down. God knows what the neighbours think. A couple of nights ago I woke to this apparition beside my bed, stark naked, staring down at me. I didn’t know what she was going to do.’

  ‘Sounds like the mad woman in Jane Eyre. I don’t know how you’ve tolerated it all this time. A break is long, long overdue. I know I make a joke of it but I do sympathise. Really I do.’

  ‘I know. Sorry if I’m snappy sometimes… I’m so tired.’

  ‘That’s a strong contender for the understatement-of-the-century prize! By the way, the new post-it on the fridge: “This is a fridge. It’s only for food. It’s cold inside.” And the story is?’

  ‘Oh, she only squeezed a whole tube of toothpaste into the mug she keeps her teeth in, diluted it with some bath oil – and then emptied it onto a meringue gateau I’d put on the top shelf. And then jammed the door open.’

  ‘I hope it wasn’t something you’d slaved over for hours.’

  ‘My days of slaving over any food are long gone. I haven’t got the energy.’

  ‘Well, I’m looking forward to a return of the old Mum
, best apple pie maker in the whole of the UK – once Gran’s settled. I’ll give you a day or two to recover first but then I’m expecting great things. But I’d better scoot. I’ll be here at 9.15 in the morning.’

  ‘Bless you, James.’

  ‘Right. I’m off for now, Gran. You behave for Jessica, now.’

  ‘You’ve got to get me out of here.’ I hiss in his ear so they won’t hear.

  ‘I will. I promise. Very soon. It’s all arranged.’

  Chapter 15

  A year earlier

  WHAT AM I doing here? I don’t like this place. They’ve kidnapped me.

  They got Uncle Stanley, I know. Poor Uncle Stanley. Smart in his uniform. Off to war. But they got him.

  He’s in the albums. She makes me look. I hate it.

  ‘Who’s this? Remember him? Which one’s that? Tell me about him. Remember when you…’

  Questions. Always questions.

  ‘Who’s the prime minister?’ ‘What year is it?’ ‘Where do you live?’ ‘When were you born?’

  Tricks.

  ‘Going to ask you again later on.’

  She made me sit there and go through it. Made me!

  Stupid questions. ‘Where are you now?’ ‘What was that address I asked you to remember?’ It’s so exhausting.

  ‘Is she asleep?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Do we have to keep putting her through all this?’

  ‘The point of these tests is to see if there’s any change, Mrs Burden.’

  ‘And is there?’

  ‘I’m afraid there’s been a steady deterioration now over the last three tests. In her memory and her mental agility.’

  ‘She tried to keep her brain active. Crosswords, reading, Sudoku.’

  The light makes me squint.

  Where’s my purse? Who’s taken it? They’re always taking things.

  ‘Where’s my purse?’

  ‘Who knows?’

  ‘They’ve stolen it.’

  ‘Nobody’s stolen it. It’s probably where you last put it, but that might be anywhere under the sun and quite frankly, I have better things to do than hunt for your dratted purse!’

  ‘Where’s my purse?’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Mother!’

  ‘I need to go home.’

  ‘You know, you really are infuriating. Whenever the doctor or the nurse are here, you smile and behave as if butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth, but the minute they go – oh, what’s the use!’

  ‘I need to get my purse? It’s Reuben. Reuben’s got it.’

  ‘Reuben’s dead.’

  ‘Have you got my purse?’

  ‘I don’t know where your purse is! I don’t care where it is! Pandora’s coming today and I have so much to do, I don’t know where to start. So either sit there and be quiet, or I shall have to lock you in your room again. D’you hear me?’

  There’s no need to shout. Why is she shouting? What have I done?

  ‘And throw away the key.’ Why is she whispering? She’s plotting. I knew it.

  ‘Where’s my purse?’

  It’s quiet in here. But I don’t like it. Let me out.

  The handle rattles. Why won’t it open?

  ‘Let me out. Help!’

  ‘It’s for your own good. You’re driving me to distraction and any minute now I shall do something dreadful if you don’t shut up!’

  ‘Where’s my purse?’

  Nothing.

  ‘Where’s my purse?’

  Nothing.

  ‘My purse.’

  Nothing. It’s hot in here.

  The attic’s cramped and hot. And smells of dust. But I don’t care. I want to see all these treasures before they go.

  I sneak a look at Mamma. Is she cross? Or sad? I think it’s sad. ’Cos she’s throwing away Grandmamma’s things. And ’cos her mamma’s dead.

  But this is like… history in boxes. Better history than we get at school. Much better. Specially when Mamma tells me all about life back then, when she was a girl. First it was the treadle sewing machine, then the rocking horse, and the case with the gold letters on it…

  But the dress is the best thing of all. Mamma smooths the folds like it’s a cat or something. The spangles glint in the light. I love all the little pleats on the sleeves, the gorgeous black beads.

  ‘It belonged to your grandmother when she was a young lady. May, her name was,’ Mamma says, crying inside but not outside.

  ‘It’s a duchess dress,’ I whisper.

  ‘Well, your grandmamma was almost a duchess. Her father owned a lot of land, and they lived in a very grand house, with servants.’

  ‘My grandmamma?’

  ‘Yes. And it was all to be hers one day. You see, May’s father, your great-grandfather, didn’t have a son to inherit it; he only had daughters. Two daughters. And the eldest one, Augusta, died when she was only six months old, so Grandmamma was the only surviving child.’

  ‘Like in the fairy stories.’

  ‘Yes. And like in the fairy stories she ran away. She left it all behind.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she fell in love with a poor man. A minister’s son. Albert Edward Hawksworth – Bertie.’

  ‘Like Queen Victoria.’

  ‘Except that Victoria’s Albert was a prince and May’s Bertie was as poor as a church mouse.’

  ‘She must have loved him very much. It is like a fairy story.’

  ‘But this story really did happen. May married Bertie. And after a while they had a little girl. And that was me! And we have the dress to remind us that she was once a very grand lady.’ She touches the black skirt. Her fingers are like feathers. ‘This was the only dress she took with her. She wasn’t going to need clothes like this once she was married to her Bertie.’

  ‘Didn’t she ever wear it again?’

  ‘Only once – on her wedding day. There was no one there to see her except Bertie and the minister who married them. After that she packed it away in a case and never looked at it again. And when I was seven, the same age you are now, she showed it to me and told me this story.’

  It feels like we’re in a church now. Nobody speaking. Looking at the dress, thinking about that wedding with nobody there.

  The squeak wakes me. They’ve come for me. Help!

  ‘You lock her in?’

  ‘It’s for her own safety. I can’t have her wandering off as soon as my back’s turned. Turning on the gas, leaving taps running, grabbing knives, boiling kettles dry, striking matches – you name it, she’s done it.’

  The door’s opening. Two women stare in. The old one… I know her. And… who’s that? Did I invite her?

  ‘Oh Mum!’ The young one wrinkles up her nose.

  ‘I know,’ the old one mutters.

  ‘It’s not sanitary! You can’t live like this.’

  ‘Hello. Do I know you?’

  ‘You should do. I’m Pandora. You’ve known me all my life.’

  ‘Did I invite you?’

  ‘No, Gran. This is Mum’s home.’

  ‘Pandora’s brought her two little ones, Mum. Let’s get you freshened up and then we’ll go down and see them, shall we?’

  Don’t! Don’t do that! Leave me alone.

  ‘Open your legs wider. No, wider. It’s only me, Mum. No, don’t put your hands in there. Mother! Don’t! Look, you hold onto this rail. Two hands. And open your legs for me… no! Don’t do that! Stop it! You’re hurting me. Please!’

  ‘Gran! Stop it! Let go of Mum’s hair.’ The other one’s grabbing me. ‘Now look what you’ve done! You’ve made her cry.’

  ‘I’m not crying, Pandora. She pulled my hair, that’s what made my eyes water. She doesn’t mean it. She doesn’t know what she’s doing.’

  ‘Oh, Mum. You shouldn’t have to put up with this.’

  There are two children in the room.

  ‘This is Karah and this is Max. Say, “Hello, Granny D”.’

  ‘Hello, Granny D.’

&nbs
p; ‘Hello.’

  ‘Brilliant. Well done, Mum. Now, you come and sit over here in your special chair. You have a wee chat with Pandora and I’ll get us all a drink.’

  ‘Karah’s learning to play the flute, Gran. Remember Dad used to play the oboe? Well, the flute’s something like it.’

  ‘It is not!’ the girl on the floor says. ‘The oboe’s gross! I wouldn’t be seen dead with an oboe.’

  ‘I know, darling. But Granny D…’

  ‘I thought you said she…’

  ‘Shsh, Karah. Not in front of her, OK?’

  ‘And Max is in a rugby team. He’s very good.’

  ‘He is not!’ Spitting.

  The old woman comes in, carrying things.

  ‘Here we are then, a nice cup of tea. I’ll put yours over here till it cools a bit, Mother. Karah, mango juice, dear? Max? And how about a chocolate biscuit?’

  ‘Oh, you remembered. Mango. Max’s favourite. Thanks, Mum.’

  Everybody’s drinking. Whhssht. It’s poison!

  Chocolate, mm. I like chocolate.

  ‘Oh, look at you!’ Sad Eyes grabs my arm. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have. Give me your hand. No! Don’t do that. What a mess. There we go, let’s wipe that all off your hair. Pandora, could you fetch her a plain Rich Tea, from the biscuit barrel on the first shelf in the kitchen?’

  The children are snorting. Poison. I knew it.

  ‘There you are, Gran. A biscuit. Put it straight in your mouth.’

  Do I know her? Pan…?

  ‘Children, why don’t you go outside and play in the garden for a while. I want to talk to Nana for a bit.’

  They’re still making weird noises. Not dead yet.

  The little one shuts the door hard.

  I close my eyes.

  ‘Is she asleep? Can we go somewhere?’

  ‘I can’t leave her, Pandora. There’s no saying what she’ll get up to when she’s in this kind of mood.’

  ‘Mum, you have to get help.’

  ‘It only makes her worse. She didn’t like strangers in the house. She needs routine. And familiar faces.’

  ‘What about a day centre or something?’

  ‘We tried that. She hated it. They had to prise her off me. It was horrible. And when they did get her inside – by force really – she kept trying to run away. And she was much worse at home too. It was like she was scared the whole time they were going to take her away. It simply wasn’t worth the hassle.’