The Woman Who Upped and Left

by Fiona Gibson

  Within what feels like minutes my phone trills by my ear. That’s good, at least: it’s come back to life. ‘Hello?’ I croak.

  ‘Audrey? It’s Victoria, Elizabeth’s daughter.’ My fuddled brain takes a moment to process that Elizabeth is, in fact, Mrs B. ‘D’you have a minute?’ she chirps.

  ‘Yes, yes of course.’ I sit bolt upright in bed and glance at the clock; it’s just gone 9 a.m. ‘Is everything okay?’

  ‘No, not really. In fact, it’s far from okay. That’s why I’m calling a staff meeting …’

  ‘Victoria,’ I cut in, ‘is your mum all right?’

  ‘She is now,’ she says tersely. ‘Everyone else can make it today at one … would you be able to pop over?’

  ‘Yes, of course …’ I lick my parched lips. ‘I hope it’s nothing serious?’

  ‘I’ll explain everything when I see you,’ she says primly.

  Having showered and dressed, I spend the morning glugging pint glasses of water and attempting to erase all traces of my appalling behaviour. The Tia Maria seems to have coated the entire kitchen floor, and it takes several attempts to obliterate the stickiness and lingering alcoholic whiff. As I scrub specks of blood off the sofa, it occurs to me that I have no right to feel cross about Morgan leaving a few crisp packets strewn about.

  I arrive at Mrs B’s to find everyone – Julie and Claire, the other carers, Rosa the cleaner, and even Paul – assembled awkwardly in the living room. There’s no sign of Mrs B, and clearly, we haven’t been summonsed here for good news. ‘Ah, here you are,’ Victoria says, as if I delayed proceedings. Paul gives me a quick, ominous glance. Victoria is pacing around, curiously ageless – although in her late fifties, at a guess – with her pale hair scooped up into a haphazard bun. Reminding me of a particularly unapproachable teacher, she is decked out in pastels: peach top, fawn trousers. Although I have only met her a handful of times, I gather that she favours a washed-out wardrobe. ‘Please sit down,’ she says. Paul moves up on the sofa to make space for me. ‘I’ll get tea and coffee,’ she adds.

  As she flits off I glance around at the others. ‘What’s going on?’ I murmur.

  ‘No idea,’ Julie replies, ‘apart from that something happened when they went out for dinner last night …’

  ‘They went out for dinner?’ I gasp. ‘Why didn’t they just eat here?’

  ‘Victoria doesn’t cook,’ Claire whispers with a roll of her eyes.

  Paul turns to me. ‘There was some kind of incident in the restaurant.’ He pauses. ‘You okay, Audrey? You look a bit peaky.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I bluster, ‘just didn’t sleep too well last night. So where’s Mrs B?’

  ‘Mum’s having a nap,’ Victoria announces, gliding back in with a tray laden with clinking china. I leap up and take it from her and busy myself by pouring coffees and teas and handing around delicate, rose-patterned cups. ‘The whole thing’s been exhausting,’ she adds, clutching at her brow.

  ‘You mean looking after your mum?’ I venture.

  ‘Well, yes. Honestly, I thought it would be a treat for her, for us to have some time together and go out for a lovely meal …’ She briefly closes her eyes. ‘So, we arrived, and she was terribly fussy about the menu and said something about fish …’ She blinks at me. ‘Do you often cook her fish?’

  ‘I do, yes. It’s her favourite.’

  ‘Hmm. Well, they did it for her specially – it had to be completely plain – and then she got a bone caught in her throat. She insisted she could still feel it, even after I’d given her dry bread to eat and water to drink, and she wouldn’t let it drop …’ She sighs, pushing back a loop of stray hair and looks around at us all. Apart from being on committees for various charitable institutions, I have no idea what she does. ‘So I had to take her to A&E for an X-ray,’ she adds as if this, too, had been a terrible chore.

  ‘So what happened?’ I ask.

  ‘Well,’ Victoria exclaims, ‘of course there was nothing there.’

  ‘Maybe it had shifted?’ Rosa suggests.

  ‘And left a scratch,’ I offer. ‘That can happen with fish bones. It scratches the throat so it still feels like it’s there, like a sort of phantom bone …’

  ‘Well, whatever it was, it ruined our evening. Three hours, we had to wait at A&E. And by the time we got home the bone – or the phantom bone or whatever it was – had gone.’

  ‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it?’ Julie remarks.

  Victoria flares her nostrils. ‘I suppose so, but the whole situation made it clear to me that this can’t go on.’ We all stare at her. ‘She needs constant care,’ she continues. ‘Someone at hand in case this kind of thing happens again …’

  ‘A fish bone sort of thing?’ Paul asks, raising a brow.

  ‘Yes, well, no – anything really. She’s far too vulnerable to live in this huge house all by herself and, as you know, I can’t be here permanently.’

  I swallow hard and glance at Julie. We all need our jobs, especially Paul; he lives in the grounds, for goodness’ sake. But more than that: this is Mrs B’s home, and the only way I’m leaving here is in a coffin. ‘Victoria,’ I begin hesitantly, ‘I know it’s a big house and a lot to look after, but your mum isn’t alone for much of the day.’

  ‘And I’m pretty much always here,’ Paul cuts in.

  ‘Yes, in the garden,’ Victoria says.

  He clears his throat. ‘Well, not always. Not these days. I always come in when the morning carer leaves, make her a cuppa, have a chat …’

  She peers at him. ‘She needs more than a cuppa, Paul.’

  ‘Yes, I realise that but we all pull together, we’re a pretty good team.’ He glances at me, a tinge of frustration in his dark eyes. ‘Audrey popped over the other day,’ he adds, ‘when it wasn’t even her shift …’

  ‘It’s still not enough,’ Victoria cuts in.

  ‘Could you increase her home care then,’ I suggest, ‘just to put your mind at rest? We could help you find another carer to cover the nights …’

  She shakes her head. ‘It’s not that. It’s just …’ She looks around at us all. ‘I need to look ahead and plan for the future.’

  I glance at Paul.

  ‘… So we need to get the house ready, which means a huge effort from everyone …’

  ‘What d’you mean, get the house ready?’ I blurt out.

  ‘I mean,’ she says firmly, ‘we need to start tackling this place, freshening it up, making it more appealing …’ My heart seems to sink. ‘Rosa,’ she continues, ‘perhaps you could increase your hours, start decluttering, set aside things you know Mum doesn’t use? We can go through them together, donate to charity, whatever …’

  Rosa has paled. ‘Er, okay, but why are we—’

  ‘Just do as many hours as you can and let me know. Cost isn’t an issue.’

  Rosa nods and looks at the floor.

  ‘And Paul,’ she goes on, ‘the main thing is to get the garden knocked into shape as quickly as possible.’

  He looks confused by this. ‘It is in pretty good shape. Mrs B was saying the other day that it’s looking the best it has in years …’

  ‘Yes, I know the borders are the way Mum likes them – crammed with flowers, untended and cottagey …’

  ‘Untended?’ he repeats hotly.

  She frowns at him. ‘I’m just saying they’re not to everyone’s taste. Plus, there’s that overgrown woodland area which would put anyone off. And if I’m going to sell the place—’

  ‘You’re selling the house?’ I exclaim.

  ‘Well, yes, that seems to be the best option. So, Paul, we need everything neater, trimmed back, tamed …’

  ‘Victoria,’ I venture, beyond caring about offending her now, ‘is your mum okay about all of this? You know how much she loves her home and garden, and she’s often said she absolutely refuses to move.’

  Her pale eyes beam into mine. A Latin teacher, I decide, that’s what she could be – not that I ever did Latin. ‘
Thank you, Audrey, but this is a family matter, and until I find suitable alternative …’

  ‘You mean a care home?’ Claire looks around at all of us in horror.

  ‘Well, some sort of supported accommodation.’ She pauses. ‘So, everyone, if you could carry on as you are, taking on extra duties if you can spare the time – the clearing, the sorting and what-not … I’d like us to move on this, please. I’m hoping to have the place entirely spruced up by the end of next month, ready for it to be surveyed and valued …’

  ‘That quickly?’ I gasp. ‘But surely it’s going to take more time—’

  ‘Not if we all pull together.’ She glances around the room. ‘I’m sure Mum will agree that this is the best plan for everyone.’

  If she were here, I’m sure she would not. Okay, she may have become a little hazy lately, but when it comes to things that matter – her home, her preferred biscuits – she is razor sharp.

  We are dismissed and wander outside, rather dazed. As we can’t be seen hanging around and gossiping – we are all rather scared of Victoria – we make our way to the gate.

  ‘Selling the place?’ Claire mutters. ‘You know she’ll never agree to that.’

  ‘Can Victoria go ahead anyway?’ Julie asks.

  ‘I doubt it,’ I say. ‘I mean, it’s Mrs B’s house.’

  ‘She seems determined, though,’ Paul mutters. ‘All that talk of planning ahead …’

  ‘… As if her mum’s already dead,’ Claire says bitterly.

  I turn to Paul. ‘What about you? What’ll you do?’

  He shrugs. ‘Move on, I guess. Victoria’s made it clear what she needs us to do, so we’d better just get on with it.’

  His bluffness stings me. ‘Not yet, though,’ I say quickly. ‘It could take months – years – to sell a house like this. Not many people have that sort of money …’

  ‘No,’ he says firmly, ‘I’m going to get the job done, get the garden tamed …’ He grimaces at the word. ‘And in the meantime I’ll definitely have to start looking for more work.’

  ‘Another live-in job, you mean?’

  He shakes his head. ‘That happened at the right time, when Jackie and I split up. I left her the house and needed somewhere to live and …’ He pauses. ‘I can get my own place now and there’s plenty of work around here. Maybe Morgan could help me out, just until I get the job done?’

  ‘I’ll mention it,’ I say, which should raise my spirits. But as I walk home I can’t help thinking that a part of my life – a part that’s far more important than a cheating boyfriend – has come to an end.

  Back home, I can’t stop thinking about Mrs B. It’s not that I have anything against care homes, or supported accommodation or whatever Victoria has in mind for her mother, if that’s what the elderly person wants. My own Granny – Mum’s mum – lived in a delightful place, Cedar Villas, that served afternoon teas and had quizzes and games and all sorts going on. Someone was often tinkling away on the piano, Granny was surrounded by friends and, as a little girl I always regarded visiting her as a treat. Maybe it’s because it was something Mum and I did together. When I try to remember being with her, before Brian Bazalgette happened, there aren’t too many memories to choose from.

  My birthday cards are still sitting on the mantelpiece: from Morgan, Vince, my friends, and Mum. To be fair, she never forgets my birthday, or Morgan’s, for that matter. There are never any presents, but I don’t expect any. I used to send her drawings Morgan had done – more like diagrams really – of the thrilling gadgets spies might use. It looks like the man is wearing a flower on his jacket, Morgan would write, but really it’s a weapon and tiny knives shoot out of it!! As Mum rarely responded, Morgan, understandably, gave up.

  I won’t, though. She needs to know that, at the relatively tender age of 65, she is going to be a great-grandmother.

  I find the pale blue Basildon Bond notepaper I haven’t used for years. Although it’s only A5 the page looks vast, and I have no idea how I’ll fill it. Chewing the end of my pen, and wondering if the lingering Tia Maria scent is just in my imagination, I curl up on the sofa and start:

  Dear Mum,

  I’m writing to tell you some exciting amazing pretty startling news. Morgan and his girlfriend ex-girlfriend sort-of-girlfriend are expecting a baby …

  Christ, no wonder people hardly ever write letters any more. And to think I suggested Morgan wrote one to Jenna! It’s excruciating and, as I hardly ever use a pen these days – does anyone? I’m amazed Morgan didn’t write that wish list on his phone – my handwriting is appalling.

  I rip off the page and start again:

  Dear Mum,

  I wanted to let you know that Morgan is going to be a dad.

  Love,

  Audrey

  PS Our landline number, in case you’ve mislaid it, is 01632 767294

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  A Hail of Falafel

  I pick up Morgan next day at York railway station. As he hasn’t eaten ‘for, like, hours’ – negotiating the buffet car must have been beyond him – I take him to his favoured 50s-style diner in the hope that the humungous portions will make him more open to a glittering career in gardening. ‘I’m not sure, Mum,’ he says, liberally dowsing his chips in vinegar.

  ‘What aren’t you sure about exactly?’ He looks less peaky, less light-starved having spent a couple of days with his father. I was hoping a blast of outdoor grafting might have ignited an enthusiasm for fresh air.

  ‘I’m just not sure it’s my thing.’

  ‘But it’s money, isn’t it? And it’s close to home, you could even walk there …’

  ‘Walk?’ he repeats suspiciously.

  ‘Well, yes, I mean I walk to Mrs B’s, don’t I? But if that’s the issue I’m sure I could arrange for you to be transported there by sedan chair …’ He shakes his head, as if I’m the exasperating teenager. ‘And Paul really needs some help,’ I continue. ‘So which part aren’t you sure about?’

  He bites into a chip. ‘The gardening part.’

  ‘You mean good, honest, physical work?’

  He laughs dryly. ‘You sound like Dad. Know what he had me doing yesterday? Building a wall!’

  ‘Well, that’s good. You’ll get fit, doing that kind of thing. It’s a useful skill to have.’

  ‘How is it useful, Mum?’

  I peer at him. ‘Well, virtually everything’s made from walls, isn’t it? Houses, shops, churches, factories—’

  ‘Yeah, but look at my hands,’ he exclaims, thrusting them, palms up, towards me. They are entirely unblemished and baby-soft, as if they’ve spent eighteen years shrouded in soft cotton gloves.

  ‘They look fine to me. In fact they’re perfect, love. They could be used to advertise hand cream. Now that’s a career you could think about – being a hand model. D’you know they really exist? People are paid vast amounts of money just to hold things in adverts, now that doesn’t sound strenuous—’

  ‘Mum,’ he cuts in, ‘will you stop thinking up possible careers for me? So far we’ve had builder, gardener and model and I’ve only been off the train about fifteen minutes. Got any more ideas?’

  My stomach clenches. Once upon a time, we’d have giggled about the hand model thing and come up with a list of the World’s Easiest Jobs. ‘That was a joke, actually,’ I mutter. ‘Being a hand model, I mean.’

  ‘Hmm,’ he grunts, turning his attention to his burger.

  ‘Anyway,’ I continue as he chomps and slurps, ‘sorry to go on, Morgan, but you say gardening’s not your thing. The problem is, nothing seems to be your thing. It’s been over a year now, and apart from those few weeks at the factory and hotel, you’ve done absolutely nothing at all.’

  ‘Please, Mum, give it a break.’

  ‘But you can’t live this way!’ I exclaim. ‘I can’t afford to support both of us and have you lying about the house and not bothering to help out there either. It’s just not fair.’

  ‘Yeah, but I don’
t wanna be a gardener, all right?’

  I peer at him, conscious of my heart galloping away. He’s right, I shouldn’t be getting on at him now, when he’s only just come back from his dad’s. But then, there’s never a good time to address it. ‘Okay,’ I say, trying to normalise my voice, ‘how about thinking about what you do want to do, rather than what you won’t even consider?’

  He slurps his shake. Its pungent laboratory banana whiff is detectable across the table. ‘Actually, I was thinking about this on the train.’

  ‘You were thinking, on the train?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He shrugs. Christ, maybe I should shovel him off to his dad’s more often. ‘And what I was thinking,’ he continues, tearing off a wodge of burger bun and stuffing it into his mouth, ‘is that I definitely don’t want a job where I’d need a briefcase.’ He gnaws away and takes another noisy slurp of shake.

  ‘A briefcase? What’s wrong with a briefcase?’

  ‘You know what I mean. They’re just … ugh …’ He shudders dramatically.

  ‘D’you mean an accountant or a tax inspector or something like that?’

  ‘Yeah, the kind of jobs where everyone hates you.’

  I laugh dryly and bite into my own burger. It’s bouncy, like the foam used for sofa cushions, and tastes entirely of grease. Wilton Grange feels a terribly long way away. ‘Okay, so what else did you decide?’

  ‘That I don’t want to work in an office.’

  I frown at him. ‘That rules out an awful lot of opportunities, Morgan. I mean, I know you think, office, boring, but it’s just a building with desks and telephones. It’s just a place …’

  ‘Yeah, but I don’t wanna work in that kinda place.’

  I blink at him. ‘I think you’re being too fussy. I mean, when I started out—’

  He groans loudly. ‘Please, Mum, don’t give me all that stuff about going out to earn a living when you were seventeen and having to wear brown paper for shoes …’