by Sandie Jones
‘Hello Elise,’ he said cheerily as we walked into the brightly lit reception. ‘You’re looking good.’
The girl, younger than me, giggled coquettishly and immediately touched her hair. I’d not yet seen him converse with another woman and his effect was obvious. She was yet to register my presence and I waited for him to introduce me.
‘Where is she today?’ he said instead.
‘She’s in the common room,’ Elise replied, her eyes still alight.
He led the way down the carpeted corridor, the smell reminding me of my grandparents’ house. Whatever that smell is, it’s not good or bad; just old, much the same as when you walk into an antiques shop or a second-hand book store.
I immediately regretted not bringing some flowers as we walked into a large room with windows for walls and individually coloured and styled upright armchairs. There were vases on the little tables between them, each holding a sorry-looking bunch of flowers, carelessly arranged. I hoped it wasn’t an indication of how the vulnerable residents were treated.
I followed him over to the corner, where a dot of a woman sat peering longingly out of the window at the gardens beyond. Just looking at her broke my heart and I selfishly hoped she wasn’t who we were here to see.
‘Mum?’ called Thomas, warily. She immediately looked up at him, her eyes searching for some kind of recognition. ‘It’s me.’
She smiled and nodded.
‘This is my friend, Beth.’
I stepped forward and offered my hand, but she wasn’t forthcoming. I looked at him, fearful that I’d done something wrong. He winked at me and shook his head.
‘Come and sit down,’ she said to me, patting the chair beside her. ‘You get a beautiful view of the garden from here – it’s my favourite place to sit.’
‘It’s gorgeous,’ I said.
‘Don’t tell anyone,’ she said, leaning in conspiratorially. ‘But I often come down here when everyone is still asleep, even the nurses. You see so many wonderful things at that time in the morning; the squirrels come out to find their nuts, the blackbirds have a squabble in a puddle. Sometimes I can even see a rhododendron as it opens up throughout the day. Slowly, slowly, its petals stretch out towards the sun . . .’
‘So, what have you been doing since I last saw you Mum?’
‘Well, Frank’s been in to see me,’ she said quietly. ‘That was nice.’
‘What, Dad?’ Thomas asked, shooting a glance at me and raising his eyebrows. ‘What did he have to say?’
‘Oh, you know. We were talking about the days when we went dancing. He’d take me to the Rivoli Ballroom and we’d be the first on the floor and the last off.’ She gave a little laugh, her eyes lighting up. ‘I said to him about the time that The Beatles were there, but he doesn’t remember it. I mean, how can you forget seeing The Beatles?’
She reached across to me, placing a hand on my lap. ‘You remember The Beatles, don’t you Sarah?’
I went to correct her, but thought better of it. ‘Of course, they were the best.’
‘Exactly, see, there you go Frank,’ she said. ‘Helen remembers it. My parents wouldn’t let me go, would they Frank?’
She giggled like a naughty schoolgirl and I wanted to pick her up and pop her in my pocket. Get her away from this sterile environment, where no matter how hard they tried to make it look any different, it still resembled God’s waiting room.
‘So, he’d come over and skulk about in the back lane, waiting for me to get changed out of my nightie and into my itsy bitsy miniskirt.’ She laughed to herself. ‘My father was incensed when he saw me in it the first time: “You’re not going out dressed like that.” So, I’d storm off upstairs and come back down in something that covered me from my neck to my ankles. “That’s more like it,” he’d say. He never found out that I’d just shove my teenie weenie skirt into a carrier bag, along with a bottle of wine that I stole from their drinks cabinet.’
She laughed again, and I couldn’t help but join in her merriment. I could happily listen to her all day and was already working out a way to come and see her more often.
‘Your Aunty Sheila came to see me,’ she said, looking at Thomas. He threw me a sideways glance, careful to keep his smile painted on. ‘She’s very unhappy at that place she’s staying,’ she went on. ‘Says that they’d treat a dog better than they treat her.’
Thomas sat there, sadly nodding his head.
‘I didn’t like to boast and tell her how wonderful my son is,’ she went on, giving me a nudge with her elbow. ‘I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him. Anyone else wouldn’t bother; they’d just put me in one of those terrible places that she’s in and leave me to rot. But not my boy; he looks after his mum.’
I felt my heart lift as I looked at him. ‘He’s a good man,’ I said.
She patted my hand.
‘Now, you see next to the purple rhododendron bush, there’s a delphinium, well that was one I planted in the springtime and look at it now. The gardener said to me, “Joyce, you shouldn’t put that there, it’ll get overshadowed by the hornbeam.”’
‘Mum loves her plants,’ Thomas said, smiling.
‘But I stood my ground,’ she went on. ‘And look how beautiful it is.’
She certainly seemed to know her stuff, as the window perfectly framed the wild English flowerbed she’d helped create.
‘That’s why I always like to sit here. This is my special place.’ She looked out wistfully, seemingly lost in thought.
‘What did you have for dinner last night, Mum?’ asked Thomas.
She smiled. ‘We had a tea dance yesterday afternoon, so we had sandwiches and scones and a band came in to play. Oh Frank, you would have loved it; they sang all our favourite songs. Do you remember that song we had at our wedding? ‘Raindrops Keep Fallin’ On My Head’. Well, I danced to that with Eileen, because you weren’t here, but I imagined it was you.’
‘I remember,’ said Thomas, throwing me a rueful glance.
I looked at him, suddenly aware of how painfully difficult this must be. Who could possibly imagine that the woman who had rocked you in her arms, snuggled down beside you in bed to read you a story, been the only person who could comfort you when you fell and hurt yourself, would ever mistake you for someone else? Or at times, stare straight through you as if she’s never seen you before. The cruelty of the disease rocked me to the core and I felt a new sense of love and respect for Thomas as he pretended to be the husband his mother had separated from over twenty years ago.
‘And what was that song we used to sing to our boy?’ Joyce went on. ‘You know the one . . . dom, dom, where it began . . .’ Thomas shrugged his shoulders and looked away, embarrassed, as she sung louder. ‘You can’t begin to know it . . .’
‘“Sweet Caroline”,’ called out her nearest neighbour, whose head I couldn’t even see over the top of the chair.
‘That’s it Maude, join in.’
Joyce picked up my hand and we swayed our arms above our heads, as the impromptu singalong gained momentum. Clearly Maude was of the loudest voice, despite her feet not being able to touch the ground.
Even one of the nurses, who was administering tablets in little plastic cups, was singing her heart out. I couldn’t help but smile as I joined in the chorus, the scene reminiscent of something out of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.
‘Why don’t you join in with your song?’ I teased Thomas, as he looked increasingly uncomfortable.
‘Now would be a good time to go,’ he said, smiling and rolling his eyes. ‘We’re going to head off now, Mum,’ he said over the din.
Suddenly her eyes narrowed as she looked at him. ‘Who are you?’ she said, abruptly. ‘What do you want?’
‘Mum, it’s me,’ he said as he knelt down in front of her, taking her hand in his.
‘Get away from me,’ she shouted, physically pushing herself back in her chair. ‘Nurse, nurse, help. Somebody help me.’
Her panic was increasing with
every syllable and I moved out of the way as two uniformed nurses rushed towards her.
‘It’s okay, Joyce,’ one of them said as they restrained her. ‘You’re safe.’
‘But he’s here, he’s here.’ She was screaming, her hands shaking as her arms flailed.
‘You should go,’ one of them said, turning to us.
I couldn’t stop tears springing to my eyes, my confusion seemingly akin to Joyce’s own.
‘We need to calm her down,’ the nurse said. ‘It would be better if you went.’
She was still screaming, ‘He’s here, he’s here,’ as we quickly walked away down the corridor.
22
‘I’m sorry about that,’ Thomas said as we drove away from the care home. His jaw was twitching involuntarily, making him look like he was struggling to contain his true feelings.
‘Are you okay?’ I asked.
He bit down on his lip and turned away. ‘It’s so difficult to see her like that,’ he said. ‘She was such a different woman when . . .’ His voice cracked. ‘When she was my mum.’
I put my hand over his, resting on the automatic gearbox. There was nothing I could say, even if I could get past the lump that was lodged in my throat.
‘She was incredible,’ he choked. ‘She was the woman who remembered everybody’s birthday and had a card and the perfect present wrapped and ready the day before. She was the wife who turned heads whenever she walked into a room, on the arm of her proud husband. She was the mother who stayed up all night to make me a Gremlin costume, only to get to school the next morning to find that it wasn’t fancy dress until the following week!’
I sensed an uplift in his tone. ‘I trust she took you home to change?’
He shook his head and smiled. ‘No, she figured it would do me good – make me more aware. It was the hardest lesson I’ve ever had to learn – imagine sitting there, amongst my uniformed friends, wrapped in fur with huge cardboard bat wings for ears. I’ve never got my days muddled up again.’
‘I was speaking to my mum this morning,’ I said. ‘I don’t know if it’s of any interest, but she’s got some cognac, whisky and a few bottles of wine that she said you could take a look at – you know, if you’re free sometime . . .’
‘Seriously?’ he asked, his eyes widening.
‘Yes, maybe we can pop over there, when you next come down.’
‘Why don’t we go now?’ he asked, excitedly. ‘She doesn’t live too far away, does she? Will she be home?’
‘Well . . . yes, probably, but I don’t think . . .’ I started, as I struggled to comprehend how we’d gone from the disappointment of him not meeting my friends, to now, me meeting his mother and the possibility of him meeting mine. Things were moving at a whippet’s pace and it thrilled and terrified me in equal measure.
‘Why don’t we pop into Maria and Jimmy’s instead?’ I said, playing for time. ‘They might still have some sausages sizzling.’
‘Would you mind if we didn’t?’ he asked, his eyes on the road ahead. ‘I’m not really in the mood for a party. I can drop you off there though, if that’s what you’d prefer.’
I didn’t want to be anywhere without Thomas. ‘No, let’s go to my mum’s then,’ I said hesitantly. ‘I need to pick Tyson up anyway.’
He looked across at me. ‘We can leave it – if you think it’s too soon . . .’
How could it be, when I’d just met his mother?
I texted Mum to let her know we were popping over and she texted back: I’d better put the icing on that cake then!
‘Crikey,’ mused Thomas, as we turned into the gates of my childhood home. He whistled through his teeth as we drove along the drive, the house not yet in view.
I squirmed, embarrassed by our perceived wealth.
Mum was at the door when we pulled up and I hurried in, expecting Thomas to follow. Instead he was looking around, agog at his surroundings.
‘Mum, this is Thomas,’ I said, in an effort to shake him out of it.
‘Mrs Russo,’ he said, almost jumping to attention. ‘So very pleased to meet you.’
I watched as Mum gave him the once over and could tell from her expression that she was quietly impressed. I let out the breath I’d been holding in.
After the niceties were exchanged, I said, ‘Thomas can look at that wine whilst he’s here.’ I picked up the last remaining crumbs of lemon drizzle and popped them in my mouth. It was sacrilege to leave even the tiniest morsel. ‘If you want him to?’
‘Well, only if you’ve got time,’ she said, already up out of her chair and walking towards the cellar.
I rolled my eyes and tilted my head at him to follow, whilst I helped myself to another slice of cake.
‘So . . .?’ I whispered as she scuttled back in a few minutes later, clearly as eager as I was to convey her thoughts.
‘Ooh, he’s lovely, Beth,’ she enthused. ‘A real gentleman.’
I smiled and felt warm inside. That’s how much Mum’s opinion mattered.
‘Is it serious?’ she asked.
I nodded. ‘I think so . . . I hope so. I really like him.’
‘And he really likes you,’ she said, knowingly. ‘I can tell by the way he looks at you.’
I giggled like a schoolgirl, only pulling myself together when Thomas reappeared in the room. It was so obvious that we’d been talking about him and I felt myself flush as he raised his eyebrows questioningly.
‘So, do you want the good news?’ he said into the awkward silence.
Mum and I both nodded.
‘You’ve got a really good collection there, Mrs Russo.’
‘Please call me Mary,’ she said, her voice akin to the put-on telephone voice I used to tease her about when I was younger.
‘Some of them are worthless,’ went on Thomas, ‘but you’ve got a few there that I’d love to sell for you.’
We looked at him expectantly.
‘I would hazard a guess, at a conservative estimate, of five thousand pounds.’
‘Five thousand pounds?’ Mum and I shrieked in unison.
‘There’s some vintage cognacs in there and one or two whiskies that someone will pay handsomely for. It might even go higher.’
‘Wow,’ I said, looking between him and her. ‘You’ve been sitting on a treasure trove.’
‘Goodness, I can’t even begin to get my head around it,’ she said. ‘So, would you be able to sell them for me? They’re no use to me here.’
‘If that’s what you want, then I’d be very happy to sell them for you.’
I looked at Mum and we both nodded.
‘Okay, so let me go and catalogue them all properly and let’s see what we can get.’
‘Are you okay for him to do this?’ asked Mum, under her breath. ‘They say you should never mix business with pleasure. I don’t want him to feel awkward if they don’t fetch as much as he thinks they will.’
‘It’ll be fine,’ I said. ‘He’s very professional. I’ve seen him deal with clients and he knows what he’s doing. If it doesn’t reach that figure, it’s no loss, is it? They’ve been sitting there gathering dust for over twenty years, so anything we get is going to be a bonus.’
Mum nodded thoughtfully.
‘Okay, so I’ve got everything I need,’ Thomas said when he walked back in the room. ‘I’ll see who’s in the market and get you the best price I can.’
‘So, this is what you do for a living?’ Mum asked.
‘Yes,’ he said, smiling.
‘That must be interesting. I had no idea such a thing even existed.’
‘It’s a growing industry,’ he said. ‘Back in the eighties, it was something you did to be flash and pretentious, when everybody thought they were Gordon Gekko.’ We all laughed, remembering Michael Douglas’s character making unethical get-rich-quick deals.
‘But it’s got a bit more serious in recent years,’ Thomas went on. ‘Now, it’s actually about the wine and the genuine connoisseurs, who know what they’re buyi
ng. It’s real money now, being used to make real investments, by people who are passionate about what they’re doing.’
‘So, they’re making a living out of it?’ asked Mum, slightly awestruck.
He nodded. ‘They are. I am. For some people it’s just a game they like to play, alongside their proper jobs. But for me, it’s a very real business.’
We both watched as he walked slowly towards the French doors that overlooked the garden. I couldn’t help but feel embarrassed by the cracked panes and peeling woodwork, remembering how they used to be the feature of this once-impressive drawing room.
‘So, this is all yours?’ he said as he looked out. It was more of a statement than a question. ‘Where does it end?’
Mum got up to join him. ‘Well, it’s as much as the eye can see really. It disappears into a valley beyond the horizon and then runs straight down to the river at Godalming.’
He whistled through his teeth.
‘Of course, it’s not what it once was,’ she said. ‘We used to have a livery over on the right, so there were always horses in the field, and the swimming pool was the centre of many a party, adults and children alike.’
‘I bet you had some good times,’ he said.
She nodded. ‘It was a very social house, always full of people, even though we were only a family of three. There would always be somebody here; family, friends, colleagues. We even put up friends of the church in the pool house one year. Do you remember that?’ she asked, looking at me.
‘Vaguely,’ I mused. ‘Weren’t they refugees that Father Michael brought over?’
‘Yes,’ said Mum, with a laugh. ‘Your father thought I was completely mad, but I couldn’t turn them away. It’s not in my nature.’
‘Wouldn’t you like to get the place back to how it was?’ Thomas asked Mum, as I waited with interest for the answer.
‘Of course, but it would take an awful lot of money to do that,’ she said.
‘But we could at least make the house more comfortable for you,’ I said. ‘You’ve got the money – it’s sitting there doing nothing.’
