Imprisoned by Love

by C. S. Brahams

  Neither of us sleeps. Olivia invites me into her room and I reluctantly take up the offer. I still haven’t returned to school and still haven’t talked. My parents need to return to Hove as they have their own appointments to attend. Time is running out. In the morning, after breakfast, Eddie takes Michael to the Day Centre in West Hampstead. We need him to be taken care of; out of the way; anywhere but here. They walk there, as it’s not far, and Michael is always fid­gety and restless. Eddie has a calming effect on his father; there is less anger when he’s next to him. I pack up a snack for my third adult child; it’s two of his favourite chocolate biscuits wrapped up in foil. And some blueberries though this superfood is probably too late to have an impact on him. He doesn’t need a packed lunch; the Day Centre will provide this, thankfully.

  When Eddie returns, we meet at the Premier Inn Hotel as I can’t bear to have “the conversation” at home. My face is a bit blotchy and there are a couple of mottled blisters forming near my chin. I have swallowed painkillers but they’re not strong enough. I might phone Daniella (our friendly GP) and ask for something stronger but I know that my needs will not be met until Michael’s are; this is how it is living with dementia. I wish she could inject me with morphine, any­thing to reduce the discomfort of being me. Henry, Sheila and Olivia are already assembled in the hotel’s restaurant. It is clear that Olivia has already briefed my parents about the glass incident. Unusually for them, they don’t open the con­versation with a comment about my appearance. As we wait for Eddie, I look at my school emails; there are 513. This is a new record. Somehow, nothing seems important to me any­more. I have to return to work after this meeting: how can I? I am in no fit state to teach, let alone conduct interviews with ten and eleven-year-olds hoping to be offered a future in our school. My parents seem more concerned about my career than they are about my face. They know that I have made sacrifices to be in this position.

  By the time Eddie has arrived, I have already reported last night’s incident to Social Services, albeit half-heartedly. They are sympathetic but business-like. Uncomfortable questions are asked of me including any other experiences of my husband’s violent behaviour. I feel utterly disloyal but with some nudging from my “support group”, I come clean. I feel dirty. There is nothing cathartic about informing on the person that you love. We finally have the conversation – the elephant in the room that is called dementia. My children are understandably anxious that they may inherit the con­dition. I explain that although having a test would give them a definitive answer, the consultant neurologist thought it was a one in a five million chance; in other words, this form of dementia is not genetic. My parents are visibly relieved. We don’t have dementia in our family. We have cancer and Parkinson’s disease instead. My mother asks the waiter for a piece of paper and pen; he returns with a stack of hotel sta­tionery for which he is both thanked and tipped. My parents have always been generous in that way.

  My mother makes list of five care homes in the London and Sussex areas. We systematically telephone them to see if they have a spare bed. My children take some persuasion and insist on viewing the homes before we commit; I know this is essential. There are homes and there are homes. We only phone the ones with good ratings. Some of the images on Google are disturbing; particularly the ones with “smok­ing gardens” and cigarette butts strewn across the lawns. At least your father will be safe. I keep repeating this although I know that it sounds like an excuse to get rid of him. I am not entirely in control of my mind; it isn’t disintegrating like Michael’s but it’s at breaking point. I don’t know how I really feel anymore.

  I confess that I cannot go on; it is not that I don’t love their father. It is because I do love him that he must be accom­modated elsewhere. Besides, I no longer feel safe in my own home; that has to account for something. It takes a bruise, a swollen face or a scald for someone to ask me how I am these days. It’s all about him. It’s all about the dementia; that horrible illness that is a malicious thief. The robber returns each night to steal a little more of the man that was once Michael Boswell: the brilliant mathematician; the success­ful actuary; the loving and affectionate father and tender husband.

  Dementia is a bastard that deserves to be assassinated.

  Chapter 23

  The Interviews

  I am finally back at work. Principal Peter, the big loveable Canadian, has been exceptionally sympathetic. He will give me a sabbatical if I need one: a week, a month or even a year. It’s my choice. I couldn’t have a more generous boss. We sit in his minimalist office. He has acquired a desk calendar, at least. It has a cartoon for each day of the week. Principal Peter hands me the schedule for the 11 Plus interviews. We have fifty places but 155 pupils to interview. The vast major­ity of these children are considering at least four schools. We are rarely their first choice; this makes life difficult for us. We always have to take a gamble and over-offer, just in case we don’t fill up our places. One year, we didn’t anticipate the volume of acceptances. We had to convert four lavatories into a small classroom in the summer holidays. It has for­ever been known as Waterloo. The battle was mainly cen­tred on getting planning permission at such short notice. The Governing body want a meeting before we send out our offer letters; they were not impressed by the over-spend last year.

  My first interviewee is a girl called Eloise Fiona Whitely. She is a tiny little thing – looks no more than eight – but her voice is loud and confident. She wears her purple and grey uniform well. I can easily imagine her on a poster for Uniform 4 Kids. Most of our young candidates are a little nervous, which is why we start with the object that they have brought in; however, Eloise is so poised and self-assured that this doesn’t seem necessary. We chat about her cur­rent school, her favourite subjects, her menagerie (which comprises a dog, fish and a reptile, amongst others) and her many ambitions. I ask her about what she does on a typical weekend; her answer is swift and a bit rehearsed but it’s an impressive response. She plays football at Regent’s Park on Saturday mornings (I really wasn’t expecting this), takes her dog out for a walk afterwards, visits her maternal (her word, not mine) grandparents in Maida Vale every other Saturday and enjoys kickboxing on Sunday mornings. I had visions of her prancing about in a pink tutu and ballet shoes. She reminds me that we haven’t discussed her chosen object; I have never forgotten to raise this before. I know my mind is preoccupied. To my utter amazement and dismay, this inno­cent looking child removes a white rat from her school back­pack. It is definitely not a mouse as its tail is too long. I fear rats even more than Michael does. We should be having this interview in the photocopier room! I am fixated on my room 101. I can’t take my eyes off it in case it leaps out of her dainty little hands and into my lap. It is a “girl” and she is called Miranda; this seems like a big name for a little creature. I stifle a laugh though it’s really a cry for help. It takes every modicum of my strength to keep the interview going; after all, I don’t want to offend Eloise. I say Miranda is adorable and cute; it’s just what she wants to hear. For some reason that I cannot fathom, I tell her that my daughter’s middle name is Miranda. I quickly wrap up the interview.

  The second candidate is a mischievous looking boy called Freddie. He is impeccably dressed in Jasper Conran clothes. He has the face of an angel; now I need to establish whether he has the character to match it. I ask him about his object; it isn’t what I am expecting. It’s his “voice” which he says he brings with him all the time. Quite a comedian. But is he going to be on a permanent ego trip? I want to find out more. I mistakenly assume that he is going to sing me a song – judging by the way he is turned out, something from the 1970s perhaps? He can’t sing. His forte is putting on accents. I think this sounds fun. I know that I should reign myself in and be professional. The children aren’t here to entertain me. But life is too short. Michael is living proof of that. Little does this boy know that I am rather good at this game too. We start with the Welsh accent; his is better than mine which often
deteriorates into a Pakistani accent (no offence meant). His Russian accent is very authentic and his Italian inflec­tion is simply delightful though the words “spaghetti” and “cappuccino” make me want to eat and drink. He is a love­able rogue. I want to adopt this boy. We finish “the game” and I start interviewing him properly. I have a reputation to protect. We talk about Bond Street School’s close proximity to the West End theatres; this is not lost on him. He wants to be an actor or a comedian. I think he might have what it takes and say so. Flattery costs nothing.

  Girls and boys come in and out of my office all morning. Most of them are polite and enthusiastic. I see a multitude of objects: baked cakes, diving medals, knitted blankets, bug houses, photographs of pets and a range of instruments including a harp! I have one more child to see before an enforced lunch break. I notice that his parents, who are sit­ting outside my office, are both extraordinarily good look­ing. The father is dressed in an expensive suit; a white shirt and a bright red tie. His upper body is very slim whilst his lower body is muscular. The man’s wife is a bottle blonde and wearing a rather short red dress and matching stilet­toes; she looks as though she’s going to a cocktail party rather than a school. The child is wearing a uniform that I immediately recognise. The blazer is navy with a double white stripe; the tie is similar and the grey trousers are tai­lored. Even his shoes look more expensive than my suit. I trot out the same questions that I have meted out to the rest of the children. His favourite subject is science (so I tell him about our STEM lab which of course he has seen) and his least favourite subject is English. I try not to overreact. He is only a child. His ambition is to be a professional footbal­ler, like his father. I immediately question his parents’ judge­ment. We are a school in town with no playing fields. I sus­pect his mother fancies the idea of shopping in Gucci before collecting him in her Ferrari. Whilst we’re talking about his object (an impressive Lego model of the Emirates Stadium) I furtively Google the boy’s surname. His father has only just retired from playing for Arsenal. He is thirty-five.

  Whilst Abbas, Principal Peter, Annie and I are eating lunch in the canteen, we are joined by Liam. He is overex­cited about something. He mentions the name of a band that neither Abbas nor I have heard of; the lead singer was in our reception. He has just interviewed the daughter. Peter Principal indulges him; Annie enjoys partaking of her cheese and tomato baguette (her diet is over) and I tell my colleagues about Eloise and her white rat. I decide to save the story about the Arsenal player’s son for another time.

  In the afternoon, I have to teach; after all, that’s really why I am here. My A Level set makes it all worth it. They have all done their essays centred on the doppelgänger in Frankenstein. Jeremy asks me why so many people think the creature is called Frankenstein; I tell him that he’s just written a whole essay on the subject! We are about halfway through the Poetry Anthology, which we are all enjoying, and I set an essay on “relationships”. After double English, I teach Year 11. I regret to inform them that I can’t return their mocks until next week; this goes down like a lead balloon. I don’t set them any homework. I will probably have to do my marking between midnight and 2 am I should have taught maths…

  I have intentionally kept my mobile off until now. My parents are still in London; I know they can handle a crisis, should one arise. But temptation gets the better of me and I take a look anyway. There’s some good news. One of the care homes – the one in Buckinghamshire – has two “beds” (rooms) available. My heart leaps and sinks in unison. I return to my office to call the care home; its number is the most recent call. I speak to the receptionist first; she places me on hold for a lengthy period of time. Her name is Arti. I put my mobile onto loudspeaker as the lobby music is over­powering in my ear. Whilst I am waiting, I Google Greenbank Lodge; it is not my first choice. It’s not really close enough but I consider myself more of a beggar than a chooser right now. I know it achieved a “good” for its inspection and it has never dropped below this grading. It is definitely worth a look. I book an appointment for noon on Saturday. I think we should all go. We can pretend we’re going on a family outing.

  At 5.30 pm most of my colleagues have left. There are a sprinkling of pupils using our computer room. It’s already dark outside. I fetch my bicycle from the disabled loo and switch the head light and back light on, ready to make a quick exit. I take all the unmarked essays with me in the vain hope that I might mark them when everyone else is asleep. I know this is unrealistic. I ring Olivia before I leave, just to check in. I’m literally poised on my bicycle in Bond Street, about to cross over Oxford Street. It’s buzzing with shop­pers as the sales are in full swing. I could do with some retail therapy of my own and I would love to take the twins shop­ping. I know that other’s people’s lives are not always what they seem but to me, today, everyone else’s life appears to be more normal than mine, whatever that is. My cycle route follows the buses; it’s unpleasant but flat which appeals to my lazy self. I have never been this tired for such a prolonged period, not even after the twins were born.

  I pull up to the front door and press my head against the window; for a brief moment, I can see a happy trio sitting at the table, playing Monopoly. It looks so perfect I want to take a snapshot of it. I wonder if Michael can remember the rules; they must be embedded into his brain, given the number of times we used to play when the children were young. The scene looks so perfect that I don’t want to intrude. I linger for a while. I take off my helmet, cycling gloves and yellow fluorescent jacket. I switch off the headlamp and the back­light. I fear that as soon as I enter the house, the magical scene will vanish.

  I’m touched to find that the twins are making supper for the four of us: spaghetti Bolognese and a salad. Good hearty food. It’s just what I need in the depths of winter. I rush upstairs to change and return to the hob within a couple of minutes. I take over stirring the sauce so that the others can continue playing the board game. The twins are so patient with their father. Even as I stand here, the pair of them end­lessly repeat the rules. He is particularly confused by the Chance and Community Chest cards. Michael has a pile of unsorted money and three random properties: The Electric Company; Mayfair and Liverpool Street Station. He also has a Get Out of Jail Free card. The twins already have a set each: the orange set and the yellow set. No one has bought Regent’s Street, Oxford Street or Bond Street. Eddie throws a six which takes him to The Electric Company. I think this is the perfect time for a break. I don’t want a commotion.

  The spell is broken. Michael doesn’t want supper. He isn’t hungry. I suspect he has been snacking on biscuits as there are crumbs all over the kitchen work surface. Besides, Eddie owes him money. It’s four times the number on the die. He reads the card very slowly and deliberately. Four times six. I don’t want Michael to be humiliated in front of his own children. I know they’re kind and patient, but do they really have to witness his dementia-induced mathematical inepti­tude? I am not sure they realise that he no longer has a con­cept of numbers. I know it. Don’t tell me. I can do it. But Eddie just blurts out the amount and tells him which denomina­tions to give him: a £20 and four single £1s. He leans over the table and helps himself to the money. He doesn’t mean to be insensitive. I think he is hungry. I want everyone to sit down at the table. The salad is prepared. I dish up the spaghetti into four bowls and add parmesan on everyone’s except Olivia’s as she has never liked it. I put a jug of ice-cold water on the table and a bottle of red wine with four glasses. No one moves. I repeat myself, just as the twins keep repeating the rules countless times. Michael is looking at the die as if it is a strange object that has fallen out of the sky.

  His frustration and anger are vented. The doctors warned us about the role-reversal but it doesn’t make it easier. It is painful for young adults to watch their father’s rapid decline. It is unnatural. The board flies up; the money wafts down. The property cards are dispersed and mostly land on the floor. He takes the Get Out of Jail Free card and
holds it up to my face. You’re not putting me in a jail. I am not a crimi­nal. I would never treat you like this. I deny treating him badly. Everything is centred on him these days. I barely have a life; the twins can’t live theirs; my parents are constantly round to help and even my friends are too. I haven’t even told him about the care home yet. How can he know?

  It only takes a few minutes for that perfect snapshot – the one I wish I had taken – to dissolve into total misery.

  Michael goes upstairs and pisses in the sink. It is all too much to bear.

  Chapter 24

  Burning the Midnight Oil

  I have often wonder whether it has been worth the sacrifice of living in a small house in a smart area. Right now, I would do anything to have an extra room, even a broom cupboard. I know it’s all temporary. The twins will go to university in the autumn. I don’t know where Michael will be but it’s unlikely to be here. At least he is asleep; in that state, I hope, he can find peace. I am downstairs, sitting in the kitchen, attempt­ing to mark the plethora of essays in front of me. I arrange them in three piles: Sixth Form; Year 11 and “others”. I like to mark with music. I fiddle about with my iPod and press the earplugs hard into my ears. I am hermetically sealed in my own little world of Faure and Frankenstein, Mozart and Macbeth, Schubert and Simon Armitage. It is almost spiritual. In between essays, I make myself cups of tea; empty the dish­washer; tidy up the pile of magazines strewn across the floor. Anything to avoid continuous marking. I also put away all remnants of the disastrous Monopoly game. At 4 am I am finished. I am not sure whether I should creep back up to bed; if I do, I will only get two hours of rest. I won’t sleep. I am already feeling a little light-headed and sick. I decide to bed down on the sofa. My head rests on the cushion that says “Twenty years on the couch together.” I turn it upside down.