by Anna Mansell
A text message pings and I reach for my phone.
Wear the green, animal print dress.
Leanne has obviously been thinking about this date way too much. I gaze across at my wardrobe, rammed full of clothes, some on hangers, some stuffed in the bottom, crumpled, uncared for. The dress in question pokes out of the bottom of that pile.
It needs ironing.
Then iron it! You lazy mare.
Call me tomorrow. I want to know all the gory details. Love you, bye.
Love you bye.
* * *
It’s ten thirty. Mitch pulls up outside my house and turns off the engine. He turns to face me, pulling me in towards him.
‘I had a lovely time,’ I say, between his kisses.
‘Me too.’
We kiss more. Like teenagers. It’s not the first time I’ve sat outside Mum’s house, snogging in a car. I didn’t imagine I’d still be doing it at my age though. Funny how things turn out.
‘You didn’t have to pay for everything though, you know.’
‘I know,’ he says, before really kissing me, one of those deep full-on proper snogs. It makes my knees all weak and wobbly. ‘You deserve to be treated. You deserve some loveliness in your life.’
I kiss him back, thoroughly intoxicated by the evening, by his attention. It started out with him arriving on my doorstep with cupcakes he’d made for Mum because he knows about keeping up her energy levels and thought she might like them. Then he drove me in his brand new shiny, fancy car that, whilst not being into shiny, fancy cars as such (and having no idea what it was other than shiny and fancy), has a heated, leather seat and I am down for heated, leather seats. We ended up at Rafters Restaurant in Sheffield and though I’d never heard of a Copper Maran Egg, when it’s served with aerated hollandaise I can confirm it is properly orgasmic. As was the rest of the meal. Including the ‘optional’ cheese course at the end because Mitch said, ‘How is cheese ever optional?’ and despite my stomach straining at the drop waist on my (ironed) green dress, I was not about to argue.
We kiss more. My heart rate spikes.
‘Do you want to come in?’ I ask, breathless. I run my hand up his (incredible) thighs but find his hand stops me going any further.
‘You should go in.’ He takes my hand to his chest like he did when I threw myself at him up at the park.
‘But…’ I kiss him again, doing that stupid movie groan because I have not needed anyone this badly for a very long time. Not since—
‘I think we should wait.’
‘Wait? Don’t you think that horse bolted last night?’
Firmly, he takes hold of both wrists now. ‘It did. But… you’re too special. I don’t want to ruin this.’
‘Right.’ I sit back in the passenger seat. Bruised. Aching. A teensy bit shameful.
‘Look at me.’ He drops my wrists and takes my face by my chin, pulling it round to look at him. ‘I mean it. You’re special. I want this… I want you…’ He kisses me in a way that makes the shame subside a bit and the butterflies return. ‘I just… I want to do things right. I want to give us a fair chance. I want to take you out, treat you like a princess.’
‘You may or may not have noticed, but I am very much not a princess.’
‘But you could be.’
I resist reeling off all the reasons why I could not now, nor ever, be a princess. Not least because he might not want to have sex tonight – and I am definitely not feeling great about that fact – but I would like the chance to do it when I have all my faculties about me, when he is next up for it.
‘I want to take it slow. We’ve both had a tough time. You’re still having a tough time.’
That much is true, I guess. He’s probably right. I’ve just never been very good at waiting. But maybe that’s why this is different; he’s different.
Mum hasn’t left the porch light on so I pull my phone out of my bag to turn the torch on for walking back up the drive. ‘Oh, no!’
‘What?’
‘My bloody phone!’ I look up at the house.
‘What about it?’
‘I don’t know. It keeps turning on silent. Or I keep knocking it, missing calls or messages or something. Look, Mum texted.’
‘Oh! Is she okay? Do you need me to come in?’
‘No, no. I think she’s fine. She was just asking how it was going. She’s as impatient as me.’ I flick my eyes up to him and he smiles. ‘It’s fine. I suppose it just makes me worry. What if she hadn’t been? I mean, the consultant said things can change really quickly now. A blockage, anything. She could be in real danger, really quickly. I could do without my phone playing up.’
‘Is it under warranty?’
‘What do you think? Are they ever? They always start failing when they’re out of warranty.’
‘Give her my number. Then at least when you’re with me, she can contact you.’
‘And what about when I’m not? I mean, we’re taking it slow, aren’t we? That’s what you said. And I agree, you’re right.’ He takes my hand. ‘You are right. You’re important to me too. Taking it slowly is definitely the right thing.’
‘It is. I know. Look, get in. Check she’s okay. Drop me a text and let me know, yeah?’
‘Okay.’
He leans across, putting my hand on his chest. He kisses me again and I try my hardest to be a bit passive to it, but he really does do something quite arresting to me. ‘Thank you, Calamity Jem, I had a lovely night. You are… just what I need in my life.’
He watches me walk up the drive. He watches me unlock the door and go inside. He waves as I close the door. He leaves as I pull the curtain across wondering what I did to deserve him, after everything I’ve done before.
47
A week passes in a blur of text messages and phone calls and me desperately wishing Mitch would finally give in and let me climb him like a tree. Leanne thinks it’s strange, but is, I think, quite impressed with him pushing for us to take our time. Mum keeps asking if I’m stopping out tonight, or if he’s coming over. She said he could always stay, if ever I wanted him to. I can just see it now, me and him squished up in my single bed. It’s not quite the kind of environment I want to entertain him in, if I’m honest.
That said, it’s also not quite so high on my agenda as it was a few days ago. Mum’s first appointment came through and we’re here today, waiting for the first meeting with a Macmillan nurse. Now that’s an appointment to kill your mojo. Macmillan. I mean, God, this is real. It’s happening. It feels so weird, so surreal. Is that how everyone feels when faced with this kind of thing?
Mum sits in her chair, waiting. She’s left the toast I made her but has knocked back her pills despite being deeply unimpressed by the variety she’s now required to take. As we wait, she’s browsing a Betterware catalogue that someone just shoved through the letterbox. There’s everything from a remote control ‘candle’ to a pair of American tan tights that comes in in sizes XXXS to ‘arse the size of Macclesfield’.
‘We should get one of these,’ she says, turning the page over after starring some product that I know will end up in the box, in the cupboard, never to see the light of day. Like that tofu press she bought. She doesn’t even like tofu.
I’m dusting. Something she laughed at when she saw me. Which is probably fair enough because I’m not sure I’ve ever actually dusted before. That’s a lie. I have. As a kid I’d get a great thrill out of dusting for some bizarre reason. Kids are weird. But as a grown-up? Nah. Dusting’s not for me. Until today, because in this light, you can see how thick with dust the video recorder has got. ‘How old is this recorder?’
‘God knows. Got it when they first came out, so must be thirty years. They don’t make stuff like that any more.’
‘It’s probably worth something. You should eBay it, then switch up and get a DVD player. Or just get rid altogether now we’ve got Amazon and Netflix.’
‘Then what would I watch all my old box sets on?’
&
nbsp; ‘They’re probably all online now, nobody watches videos any more.’
‘But I have them all in there, I don’t need them online. And it’d be such a waste to just throw them away.’
I open the video cupboard.
‘Look, there’s Friends, Sex and the City, Frasier,’ she says, reeling off her favourite TV shows.
‘Did you not watch British TV in the nineties?’ I browse the back of The Golden Girls collection.
‘Of course I did. There’s One Foot in the Grave at the back there.’ She stars another item, folding down the page. ‘I bet if you dig far enough back you’ll find a Brush Strokes. I used to love that guy off of Brush Strokes,’ she says, circling more useless (colour changing?) gadgets in her catalogue.
‘She’s late,’ she says, slapping the catalogue shut with a tut as she strains to look out of the window. Tiny rainbows appear on the wall as the sun comes out from behind a cloud and catches a crystal she hung there when she was into feng shui, until she realised the entire house would need remodelling if she was really going to live her life by it. ‘I hate it when people are late.’
‘I can call them, if you like?’
‘No, no. We’ll wait. I mean, I’ve got other things I could be doing, but it’s fine. We’ll wait.’
A car pulls up and I stand to peer out and see. ‘Next door’s Joanne.’
‘Ahhh. She’s lost tons on Weight Watchers you know. I couldn’t believe it when Pauline said.’
‘Has she? Good for her.’
She looks at her watch, tutting out of the window. ‘I suppose you never know, do you?’ she says, with a heavy sigh.
‘You never know what?’
‘Well, if they’ve got an appointment before us. You never know if they’re running late because someone is poorly. Or someone died.’
‘Mum!’
‘What? I mean, they’re Macmillan nurses, aren’t they? They’re visiting because people are at the end of their lives.’ She whispers that last bit. As if gossiping about people that aren’t her. ‘Very difficult job.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Still. Wouldn’t hurt to be on time.’
* * *
We wait another hour before a woman pulls up in a battered Corsa, lugging three bags about her person as she meanders up the drive. She’s got fizzy mad hair and wears layers of linen and round-toed shoes. Comfort and ethical procurement over style. Maybe that’s unfair. They’re probably stylish to her. I’m judging. Stop judging. ‘Morning, how lovely of you to come.’ I bite my tongue to stop myself adding over an hour late.
‘Morning, am I alright parked there?’ She doesn’t wait for my answer, or check if she has to take her shoes off as she wanders through into the lounge. I mean, it’s fine, I could tell her we operate a ‘shoes on unless you want to take them off’ policy because it makes people feel more comfortable, but I don’t get the impression she’s here to chat. Not to me, at least. Which is fine. It’s all fine. I’m fine…
‘Morning, you must be Mrs Whitfield.’
‘Please, call me Val.’
‘Lovely to meet you. I’m Deni.’
I head into the lounge to see she’s sitting in my space on the sofa. Which is totally fine. She can sit where she likes. She’s here for Mum. It’s all fine. ‘Can I get you a drink at all?’
‘Oh, that’d be lovely. Thank you. Yes. Tea, please. Peppermint if you’ve got it. Anything herbal really.’
‘I’ll see what I can find.’
48
I’m in the kitchen. Mum and Deni are talking about how she is and I want to be there to check if she really tells her everything or gives her the edited version she gives to most people. I flick the kettle on, popping to and fro to loiter, just in case.
‘Jem and I call it fuckety bollocks. All this stuff. It’s all a load of fuckety bollocks. Most inconvenient. I’m barely through my bucket list.’
Deni lets out a gritty laugh like someone who’s smoked Marlboro Red since exiting the womb. ‘Fuckety bollocks. I like it.’
‘Yeah, well. You have to keep a sense of humour, don’t you?’
‘You do. The whole process will be a lot easier if you retain that.’
‘Let’s face it, it’s all I’ve got left, eh, love?’
She glances over to me and I force a smile of agreement. ‘It is. Well, that and your hair.’
‘Yes!’ she says. ‘One of the lucky ones. It’s a shame really. I was sort of looking forward to getting some wigs and acting out an alter ego.’
The kettle clicks off and I retreat to the kitchen wondering if there’s any peppermint at the very back of the tea cupboard. We had some in, yonks ago, when Mum was on a health kick, just after her initial diagnosis. Until she was told that no amount of green tea and spinach was going to help her, and she binned the lot in favour of pulled pork and a stout. Protein and iron, she said. Can’t go wrong. How I wish it had been that simple.
* * *
The meeting with Deni takes an hour. Mum plays the model patient. Polite, agreeable, happy to be told what is in her best interest. Deni talks about the amount of steroids Mum is on, suggesting she needs to think about reducing them because they’ll shorten her life. I made a gag about the cancer doing that already, which made Deni laugh so loudly I thought she was going to cough up a lung. We went through a questionnaire in which she asked Mum how she was. You know. In her self. Deni made notes about various bits of equipment she thought Mum would need as she started to feel less able to get out of the house and more likely to spend time in bed. Inflatable mattresses to stop bedsores, a table with wheels to help her walk to the toilet and eat her dinner off – apparently they don’t advise you multitask this. She said there might be space in the hospice if we wanted her to try and Mum said she was stopping here until her dying breath and no mistake. I tried not to think about that too much. Deni gave us a whole host of forms to read and sign, including a Do Not Resuscitate form, which is when I properly stopped larking about because it’s all so bloody grim. Humour or no, it’s happening. I can’t even get my head around it but it’s happening.
Deni stands. ‘It’s been lovely meeting you both, thanks for the drink,’ she says, offering me the cup back, barely touched. ‘Shall I come back in two weeks and see how you are? I’ll bring those bits I’ve not got with me today and we’ll see how you’re getting on reducing those steroids. Thanks again for the tea, call me if you need anything before I’m here next.’ And out she swooshed, mad frizzy hair bouncing down the drive with her. It was like a really slow whirlwind had just been in the house and whipped it all up into a terrifying future, frightening frenzy. I feel disconnected. Discombobulated. I’ve never had cause to use that word before but that’s exactly how I feel, discombobulated.
Mum stands at the window, waving her off. She smiles broadly until she’s out of sight. Then, she turns to face me, exhaustion etched deeply across her face, and says, ‘Well, she could at least have apologised for being late.’
49
The doorbell goes and I leap up and run down the stairs to answer it, hoping Mum isn’t woken. Pretty much as soon as Deni left she took herself off to her room. I went up with a cuppa for her and could just hear tiny snores coming from her room. I think the intensity of it all got too much for us both and we needed space from one another.
‘Are you ready?’ Mitch says, as I open the door, half looking over my shoulder.
‘Oh! Hi! Uhm… am I ready?’
‘To go out?’
‘Oh, no, I didn’t realise… sorry, I thought you were going to call or text or something.’
‘I texted. Said I’d be here, now. I’m taking you to lunch.’
‘Oh!’ I look down at my comfies, which are not exactly appropriate for leaving the house in, never mind an impromptu date. ‘Are you?’
‘Yes! I did say. I’m sure the message sent.’ He checks his phone, flashing it at me. ‘Yes. I did. Sorry, I assumed no response meant you were getting ready. I didn’t think… ahh,
sorry!’
‘No, no! It’s fine. It’s my bloody phone. I need to talk to O2. Or Apple. One of the kids in the Genius Bar. Maybe they could fix it. But that does mean going to “Meadowhell” and who wants to do that voluntarily?’
Mitch pushes past me, kissing me as he goes. ‘Don’t worry about it. I should have made sure. We don’t have to go. We can stay here. What have you got in? Maybe I could whip us something up?’
‘No, no, I’d love to go. It’d be nice. I mean, I should probably get changed first,’ I say, picking at my T-shirt.
‘I don’t mind stopping in.’
I fling my arms around him. ‘No. Please, let’s go. Thank you. That’s really lovely.’
He grins. ‘Go on then. Get yourself ready. I thought we could take your mum down too. I checked with Ferndale and they have a couple of things I thought she could eat.’
‘That’s so thoughtful, thank you, though I’m not sure if she’ll be up to it, I think this morning rather took it out of her.’
‘Where is she?’ He calls out, ‘Val? Are you about? How do you fancy lunch down at the garden centre? My shout.’ I hope he’s not just jolted her from any sleep she needs but I don’t say anything because he’s being so thoughtful.
* * *
An hour later and we’re sat at the table with our drinks and a wooden spoon with our order number on. Mum looks tired. It took her an age to get from car to café and she was so desperate to sit down by the time she made it, she didn’t even ogle the cakes. I don’t know what’s happened to her, she’s suddenly slowing down. Like, out of the blue. ‘Busy, isn’t it?’ she says, glancing round at the other diners. Mostly women of a certain age with the occasional lap dog or shopping trolley. She glances down at the menu. ‘Oh. It’s O65s discount day, that’s why.’ She pauses, her shoulders droop. ‘There’s another thing I’ll bloody well miss out on. All these years spending a fortune in this café or on Christmas decorations and I won’t ever get ten per cent off a teacake.’
