46
Friday, 25 December 2015
I open the door to Mum’s room and find her propped up in bed with Emma leaning over her. A metal object glints in Emma’s hand.
‘Just tidying up your mum’s fringe,’ she says, stepping back and dropping a pair of nail scissors into her tunic pocket. ‘Can’t have you being a scruff on Christmas Day, can we, sweetheart?’ The bell on her green elf hat tinkles, as she reaches across to the wastepaper bin and deposits a sprinkling of white hair.
Mum responds with a weak smile.
‘She didn’t sleep much last night,’ Emma says. ‘Bit of a cough and she’s got a temperature again.’
‘Hi, Mum.’ I kiss her cheek. She smells of lavender soap and face cream, and Emma has attempted to brighten her up with a coat of pink lipstick.
‘Hello,’ Mum croaks. I’ll have to check with Kegs to see if Mum’s cough could signal another chest infection. She looks feverish and her breathing sounds shallow.
‘Sorry I’m a bit late,’ I say. ‘No trains running today so I had to take a coach.’ As I shrug off my coat and hang it on the back of Mum’s door, Emma reaches into her pocket and pulls out a card.
‘Merry Christmas, Grace.’
‘Oh, Emma,’ I say when she hands it to me, ‘I feel awful. I haven’t done any cards this year.’ Christmas cards have been the last things on my mind.
‘S’all right,’ she says. ‘I do them for everyone.’
‘Well, thank you.’ The flimsy, cheap card has a jolly Santa on the front and inside, Emma has scrawled: Have a fabby Crimbo. Love, Ems xx
‘Suppose you got one from Brenda too?’ she says and we have a laugh about that. When I arrived at reception, Brenda handed me a blank Christmas card from the stack on her desk and wished me a Happy Christmas on behalf of Armstrong Investments.
‘Are you going to have some Christmas lunch later?’ I ask Mum, who nods. The odour of boiling vegetables and roasting meat hit me as soon as I stepped into Birch Grove and has now seeped into Mum’s room.
‘She’s not eating much at the moment,’ Emma says, ‘but we’re going to try a few mouthfuls, aren’t we, Polly?’
‘Try,’ Mum says.
Emma informs me Kegs has left several bottles of sherry in the visitors’ kitchen for relatives to help themselves to.
‘Great.’ No way will I risk a visit there, just in case John appears. Last night, I texted to warn him I’d be here today. Better keep your wife away, for everyone’s sake. Do you know she came to my work? He replied straight away. Don’t contact me again. Ever. Furious as I am at what’s happened, it upsets me to think of the miserable Christmas he and his family must be having. Does the person who took those pictures realise what they’ve done?
‘I’m gonna pop next door and see if Len’s dressed,’ Emma says, ‘but I’m on till five so you’ll be seeing a lot of me.’ When she leaves, I deposit her card in my handbag, next to the envelope containing the photographs. The memory of the images floating down among my students makes me shudder. Thank God I don’t have to face anyone for two weeks. Linda e-mailed to ask how my visit to the police had gone. Not much they can do at this stage, I replied, which is possibly true. After leaving the police station, I went home and decided to take charge of the situation myself. On a piece of paper, I wrote down the dates the pictures were taken and when they must have been delivered, along with estimated dates for the arrival of the Mother’s Day cards and the mug. This list I placed in the envelope with the photographs, determined to add to it any new incidents that might occur. No point going to the police without solid evidence to show them.
Now I’m back in Birch Grove, I wonder if anyone here might have known about the affair? Apart from our laundry room encounter, John and I were discreet. Only Memory saw us together that day, and even if she’d guessed our intentions, she doesn’t seem the kind of person to get involved in someone else’s business.
From the bedside table, the carriage clock broadcasts its loud, second-by-second reminder of lost time, making me even more aware that this could be the last Christmas I will ever spend with my mother. After moving abroad, I didn’t return home for five years. Then I visited every alternate Christmas, but our festivities remained sad and strained. Dad’s absence still hurt, and, although we never mentioned it, the child I did not keep was always there between us, in one way or another.
Today has to count. My own problems will have to wait. I open my backpack and take out Mum’s gift.
‘Ooh,’ she says when I hold it up. ‘Is it my birthday?’
I shake my head, blinking back tears. ‘No, Mum.’ I unwrap the gift and show her the bottle of Opium, the perfume Dad used to buy her every year. I pull the lid from the ornate bottle and spray the inside of her left wrist. She takes a sniff.
‘I miss him,’ she says.
How different our relationship might have been if Dad had lived. He would have supported me over the termination, and he might even have smoothed things over between Mum and I. Maybe grief drove her to treat me the way she did? Maybe grief stopped her putting her rigid beliefs aside for my sake? Loss changes people and not always for the better.
‘Tired,’ Mum says, her head lolling to one side. Her small skull reminds me of a spent dandelion head, her white wisps of hair like the fluffy seeds waiting to be blown away.
She points at the TV and I switch it on, muting the sound as always. Footage of a flooded village near York appears. The obligatory shot of unopened Christmas presents swirling in dirty water.
I settle in the spare chair. Mum sighs, her eyelids closing and opening. The clock ticks, and I think of all we will never recapture. I think of us in the kitchen that day, when Mum warned me I would be punished. I shared my fears, begged her not to let me go through the procedure alone. I hoped she would choose me over her unformed, unborn grandchild, but she didn’t.
Now, here we are. Myself and my mother on Christmas Day with only the ticking clock for company.
***
Best. Christmas. Ever. As Emma would say. Apart from my grandmother’s poor form, everything was all Ding Dong Merrily on High. Even before my mother arrived, I was enjoying myself. Everyone at Birch Grove had made a real effort to make the day special. Christmas music blared out in all the communal areas—Wham, Slade, Kylie. All the cheesy, fun tunes Isobel and Quentin thought too tacky for their house.
Us care assistants and the nurses wore elf hats, and Kegs had everyone in hysterics when he pitched up in a full Santa outfit. Even Memory donned a pair of angel wings. Surinder wasn’t working today, but she popped by with her boys who were, to quote Emma, too cute. She paraded them round all the residents and made them hand out sweets and Christmas greetings.
‘Call me, Grandma,’ my grandmother said when she saw them. I tried not to be annoyed. She couldn’t help getting confused.
By mid-morning, I’d scoffed half a box of Celebrations and whizzed along with the tea trolley in record time. Was I really about to spend Christmas with my mother? I’d often fantasised about this day but never thought it would take place in an old folks’ home. Funny, how things turn out. Quentin called last night and declared himself proud of me for sacrificing my Christmas Day for others. He said Isobel would have been proud too, but I cut him off before he could get too emotional.
I half expected another text from Ryan, hassling me about his phone, but none came. After the debacle at the museum, I’d discovered his mobile in the pocket of the duffel coat. He must have changed his code because I couldn’t get into it. Later, he’d texted me from Nick’s phone to ask for his mobile back. I told him he’d have to wait until after Christmas to come and collect it, as well as all the other crap he’d left at my flat. He wasn’t happy, but what could he do? Crazy of me to get involved with him in the first place. How could I have a relationship with anyone until I’d sorted out my relationship with my mother? With John and Ryan out of the way, my mother and I could at last focus on each other.
The
morning rushed by. Most of the residents had gifts from friends and relatives to open, and I helped them tackle the tricky wrapping paper and fiddly ribbons. Len received two cartons of duty-free Rothmans, which made him happy. He threw a tantrum though when Kegs took the cigarettes to the office for safekeeping and promised to dole them out as required.
My mother looked haggard when she arrived. Never mind, I thought, Christmas would cheer her up. However, my grandmother didn’t exactly inspire festive joy, bless her heart. My mother sat with her for ages, looking more and more despondent. I offered to read out some of the festive passages I’d found underlined in my grandmother’s Bible.
‘No, thanks,’ she said.
At lunchtime, she cut up Grandma’s Christmas meal into tiny pieces and persuaded her to swallow a few mouthfuls before giving up and getting Santa Claus in for a chat. Kegs assured my mother that if my grandmother didn’t improve overnight he’d get the doctor out tomorrow. Ho, ho, bloody ho.
‘I think I will have a sherry,’ my mother said when I took the dinner tray away. A few minutes later, I peeked into the visitors’ kitchen and saw her knocking back a hefty glass of the stuff. She exited the room with another full glass, and that’s when she saw John.
He had his daughters with him, which meant his wife had at least permitted him access for the day. My mother stopped and he stopped, and for a moment I thought they might cause a scene. I’m not sure who gave whom the dirtiest look. Then he grabbed each girl by the hand and thundered off down the corridor.
My mother sought out the wall for support. I interpreted their stand-off as a positive sign, an indicator that both sides would get over the scandal of the photographs. None of it would matter once my mother knew the real me. I would tell her today, once I’d figured out the right time to do it. Christmas Day and we would be properly reunited. It was perfect.
After the carol singing—a raucous hour led by a local man on a portable synthesiser—I popped out the front for a fag. My mother appeared with her coat on, ready to leave.
‘That you off?’ I said, disappointment leaking into my voice. ‘It’s only two-thirty.’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t want to be here and I don’t want to go either.’ Her eyes looked swollen, as though she’d been crying. ‘Mum’s asleep so there’s no point hanging around.’
‘Are you going back to London or staying over here?’ I asked. She said she couldn’t decide. She sounded giddy, not quite in control of herself.
‘What are you doing tonight?’ she said.
‘Staying in by myself. Nothing else to do.’ I stared at the ground, as if the thought made me sad. In the silence that followed, I could almost hear her thinking.
‘Fancy coming round to Mum’s house later?’ she said. ‘If you’re not doing anything else, we could get some more packing done.’
I looked up. ‘That would be great.’
She laughed. ‘Well, I don’t know about great, but I’d rather keep busy.’
‘Better than doing nothing.’
‘Okay,’ she said, ‘I’ll stop at the corner shop and get us a couple of pizzas and some wine. If you like wine?’
‘Only really sweet white stuff,’ I said, staying in character.
‘A Christmas packing party. It’ll be fun.’
I giggled. ‘What a pair of saddos.’
She smiled. ‘Aren’t we just?’
47
Friday, 25 December 2015
Emma and I sit on the living room floor, surrounded by packing boxes. Emma, cross-legged, reaches for another slice of Margherita from the plate in front of her.
‘This is well tasty,’ she says, plucking a stray lump of melted cheese from her pink jumper. She has scoffed more than half of the pizza, while I’ve only managed a few mouthfuls. My bottle of Shiraz, however, is vanishing fast, and Emma has almost finished one of the bottles of Lambrusco I bought her.
At least she’s more relaxed now. When she first arrived, she appeared startled by the new alarm system I got fitted two days ago. She eyed the control panel beside the front door with suspicion and asked why I’d had it installed. Had I been burgled or something? I told her the house was totally secure, more to reassure myself as I’ll be staying here tonight.
‘She is such an amazing dancer,’ says Emma, pointing at the TV. The Strictly Come Dancing Christmas special is on, a whirl of long legs, white teeth and sequins. I own up to not recognising the skinny blonde Emma is obsessing about. Emma rolls her eyes. ‘She’s in loads of stuff.’
‘Oh. Right.’ I take another gulp of wine. My last Christmas Day with Mum has turned out to be the worst Christmas Day of my life, and here I am, finishing it off with a care worker less than half my age. A girl I invited here because I’m lonely and scared.
‘This is great.’ Emma pours herself more Lambrusco. ‘Much better than sitting at home on my own.’ Poor girl is acting like I’m doing her the favour. At least she’s enjoying herself.
I nibble the cold, stodgy tip of a pizza slice as Strictly comes to a close.
‘Oh my God,’ Emma says when the next programme is announced, ‘I love Call the Midwife.’
I grab the remote and switch channels. The theme music for Dad’s Army fills the room. ‘This is a classic,’ I say.
Emma bursts out laughing. ‘That’s proper old fogey TV.’ She glances around the room. ‘We’ve done loads in here. Why don’t we start on upstairs now?’
‘You’ve done enough,’ I say. ‘Just relax. I can put another pizza in if you’re still hungry?’
She springs up, glass in one hand, bottle in the other. ‘We’re on a roll, we shouldn’t stop now.’
The combination of wine and Emma’s eagerness gets to me. ‘Fine.’ I haul myself up with a groan. ‘Let me go to the loo first.’
The lengthy time it takes me to pee signals I’m more drunk than I thought. Afterwards, I splash my face with cold water. When I emerge from the downstairs toilet, I hear Emma thudding around overhead.
‘Started without me?’ I say, one foot on the bottom stair.
***
My mother froze when she entered her bedroom and saw me searching through the large box of her things.
‘There’s tons in here,’ I said. ‘What are you going to do with it all?’
‘I didn’t want that box opened.’ She surveyed the curls of masking tape littering the carpet. ‘You shouldn’t have opened it.’
How could I not?
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, ‘I didn’t mean to do anything wrong.’ I put on an Emma face, confused and vulnerable. My mother’s face softened in response.
‘It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. You weren’t to know.’
No, Emma wasn’t to know. My mother had invited her here, taking advantage of her good nature and then had the cheek to berate the poor girl for not knowing which box to open. Kind, sensitive Emma needed to be more assertive sometimes.
‘Wow,’ I said, reaching into the box and pulling out an armful of books. ‘You must have been well clever.’
My mother sat on the single bed beside me, her eyes glassy, as if hypnotised. She examined the books and read the titles on their cracked spines—Impro, The Empty Space, An Actor Prepares. She couldn’t resist the past. Who could?
Next, I pulled out a load of vinyl. The Pixies, The Smiths, The Violent Femmes. My mother reminisced about the long-gone record shops of her youth and the gigs at which she’d seen her idols live. I swigged from the bottle of disgusting Lambrusco as she talked, drawing on all my acting skills to fake liking the stuff. I’d already thrown my full glass and most of the bottle down the bathroom sink. My mother glanced at the bottle as I drank, keeping tabs on my consumption, but I had full control of myself. She had wine-stained lips and an air of unsteadiness about her. She got so wrapped up in a long-winded account of a Pixies gig in Bradford, that she didn’t notice me retrieving a large photo album with a grey cover from the box. I had it lying open on my knees before she could stop me.
; ‘Check these out,’ I said, peering at pictures from her drama school days. Images of my mother and other students in costume. Beneath each one, she’d written the name of the production and the names of the cast members. ‘You look so young.’
‘It was a long time ago.’ She looked straight ahead at the wall, avoiding the pictures, twisting that silver ring of hers round like she did sometimes.
I turned the page and found a picture that startled me. Four students in black jeans and black shirts. My mother and three men, one of whom I recognised. A handsome, blond guy with piercing green eyes. Underneath the photo my mother had written: Les Enfants Terrible—Me, Pete Browning, Dan Thorne, Johnny Deacon.
‘I’m sure I’ve seen that blond guy on the tele,’ I said. ‘Is he famous?’
My mother glanced down at the album and flinched as I pointed to him.
‘No,’ she said, ‘he’s not.’
No, but he was the blond man I’d seen arguing with her outside her block that day. Same eyes, same bone structure. I’d have to check the picture on my phone later, just to make sure.
‘I honestly recognise him,’ I said. ‘What’s his name?’
‘His name’s Dan and he’s not famous.’
Dan Thorne, I thought. The man’s name was Dan Thorne.
My mother pulled the photo album off my lap and slammed it shut. ‘Let’s forget this stuff for now,’ she said.
***
I leave Emma repacking the books and records into the box and retreat to the kitchen, desperate for a cigarette. The new pack I bought earlier should be in my handbag. Where is my handbag? I find it hanging on the back of a kitchen chair and search inside for the fags, my fingers brushing the envelope with the photographs in it. I glance at the window, reassured by the white blind I pulled down earlier. I can’t see out, and no one can see in.
I slump into the chair, light a cigarette and top up my wine. Emma’s tiny feet patter round above my head. I shouldn’t have reprimanded her about the box; she only wanted to help. The theatre books released a rush of memories, and I had to keep talking so Emma didn’t sense my anxiety. I wish she hadn’t found that picture of Dan, although I can’t blame her for fixating on his looks. I used to.
She Chose Me Page 18
