Imprisoned by Love

by C. S. Brahams

  The interloper calls me from downstairs. She’s been shop­ping (with her own money) and quickly unloads the items into the fridge and into the cupboards. I know she has called me twice but the door is closed and I think that if I were asleep, I might not have heard her. I can hear her heavy foot-steps pounding up the staircase. She knocks loudly on my door; this is a first. She normally barges in. She’s holding my package and some other letters. She has been keeping them “safe” for me. I pretend that she has woken me from a strange dream but I can’t remember what it’s about. I ask her to give me some privacy. It has been a difficult day. She demands information from me, mostly about Michael and what I expect from her. She complains about the state of the kitchen and offers to go to the Royal Free. The interloper manages to say all these things in one breath.

  On Monday, I cycle into school. I find it quite difficult as I have had nine days off. I can’t believe how tired I am on arrival. It’s no distance and it’s not even up hill. I pop into Principal Peter’s office to explain what’s happened and what I think is about to happen. I clarify that it might be difficult for me to attend the Governors’ meeting tonight but I have done the preparation. I will email all the documents by noon today. He looks fed up. He complains about my poor attitude and isn’t as sympathetic as I had thought he would be. He mentions the possibility of my sabbatical. “It may be time,” he says, with his low and distinctive Canadian accent.

  I teach most of the morning, oblivious to what’s going on with Michael. I successfully compartmentalise my prob­lems, filing them into boxes, and only retrieving them on a need-to-know basis. I have a scheduled meeting with a dissatisfied parent of a Year 7 girl. She was in all the teams in her Junior School but since she has been here, she hasn’t been selected for anything, not even the netball squad. I am not sure what this has got to do with me. When the mother comes in, she’s much more contrite and courteous than her email. I am extremely sympathetic. Olivia was often on the bench. Too short, like me. I offer the lady tea but she doesn’t want any. She just wants her daughter to be in the squad; it doesn’t matter if it’s the D team. I promise her that I will lean on the Sports Department even though I know that they will resent me for this. I still have some authority in this school even if I have no authority at home anymore.

  After the meeting, I teach for the rest of the morning. The students are all the better for their half-term break. I’m about to make a personal call from my office when Liam knocks and enters simultaneously. He pulls up a chair and gives me the “heads up” about my “precarious job situation”. It is vul­nerable. I should take some leave while I have the chance. I shouldn’t wait to be dismissed. I have been naïve and stupid. I had no idea that other people thought I was incapable and unprofessional. I am not sure if I want a sabbatical yet. I am not even fifty. I don’t make the personal call and, instead, respond to all my emails; plan a couple of lessons and drink two glasses of water. I need a clear head. Fearful that someone might catch me peeping at my mobile, I take it with me to the staff lavatory and lock myself in. There are five messages from Kathleen. Michael is being discharged this afternoon. I have a voicemail from the hospital which explains that although they have their concerns, in their view, my husband can return home with the carer but be readmitted in a fortnight for fur­ther tests and another observation day. I am not thrilled. It means that I am stuck with Kathleen for a bit longer.

  I force myself to attend the Governors’ meeting which is held in the Randolph Room. There is a green tablecloth (the same colour as a snooker table) draped over the tables which have been shaped into a U. Each place has been marked out with a glass; an agenda; a branded pen and two bot­tles of water (one sparkling and one still). I can see where our money is spent. I am the first to arrive. I need to look as though I am keen even though I know that I should be col­lecting Michael from the hospital. The Chairwoman arrives shortly after me; she removes her pumps and changes into black heels. She is elegant in a Thatcherite sort of way though greyer, taller, thinner and plumier. She always wears shock­ing pink because she can. I am reminded that even Margaret Thatcher developed “classic dementia.” No one is immune. The Chairwoman and I exchange pleasantries and sit down to look at the agenda which we have already received by email. She has thin scar right across her neck; this is the first time I have noticed it. Throat cancer, I suppose. And to think, she has survived that and still become a Chair of Governors. Principal Peter and Liam arrive next, followed by two parent governors and two lay governors. They’re all wearing suits. The meeting is lengthy. Nothing is allowed to slip beneath the radar. It ends at 8.30 pm and I am grateful that I have my bicycle as the buses are practically obsolete at this time.

  When I reach my house, I see balloons flying at the entrance; it looks as though we are hosting a children’s party. Kathleen doesn’t open the door on my arrival; instead, she is sitting next to Michael, pretending to watch television with him. He looks up at me and calls me Estelle. I roll my eye­balls at the interloper who doesn’t give me the satisfaction of responding. She makes me feel guilty for reacting this way. I am losing my patience with that woman but I know that I will lose my job if I don’t hang onto her. I think she is well aware of her power over me. I chastise myself for having all the wrong priorities.

  I feel faint with hunger and want to eat. The kitchen is spotless again. She has tidied up or thrown my papers away; I am not sure which yet and I am beyond caring now. I make myself scrambled eggs on toast and sit at the kitchen table on my own, half-listening to the down-market programme they’re not really watching. Michael was always rather dis­cerning when it came to watching television; more than I ever was, in fact, but now he is reduced to her level. It sad­dens me to see it. The interloper-cum-nanny finally gets up to go to the lavatory. I seize the moment and instantly remove the Amazon package from my backpack and dis­creetly read the instructions for the hidden camera; it’s straightforward enough, even for technophobes like me. I stand on the kitchen chair and unscrew the smoke alarm; remove the battery and replace it with the nanny card. It is easy. I hear the loo flush before I have finished screwing the cover back on. I just hope she washes her hands.

  Chapter 32

  Voyeurism

  I have turned into something of a voyeur though I am embar­rassed to admit that this week’s tranche of daily episodes of Michael & Kathleen have been disappointingly dull! I really need to install a few more hidden cameras as just having the one in the kitchen is limiting to the point of tediousness. I have been dipping in and out of this soap opera in between lessons and management meetings. There is no sound but I have had no recourse to engage a professional lip reader, yet. It has been nothing but a string of coffees; cooked break­fasts; reading the Daily Mail; an occasional game of Jenga and long stretches of viewing empty chairs at the vacant kitchen table. According to Michael’s Life 360, which I monitor each evening, he has been to scheduled medical appointments; two visits back to the Royal Free; one trip to Waitrose and several excursions up to Waterstones and back. I didn’t have Kathleen down as much of a reader; after all, she spends about ten minutes on each page of her tabloid newspaper. I am grateful that she is with him though. It’s either her or a residential care home. It is only a matter of time until he is in one. I know this. But it is also hard losing a little bit more of your husband with each hour that passes.

  After a full week at school (something of a novelty for me these days) I am easily persuaded to join some of my colleagues at Jak’s Bar in South Molton Street. I need the outing. It has all been so intense and miserable both at home and at work. We tend to congregate in the first-floor bar as the other areas are designated for cocktails or food, neither of which any of us can afford. We really should find an alter­native venue.

  Benedict starts rolling up a marijuana joint. Principal Peter turns a blind eye; after all, we are not at work now. I have never been a smoker but I have enjoyed the occasional spliff in my twenties. I am woefully out of practi
ce but it seems like a good opportunity to reignite the old memory. I follow Benedict down the stairs and out onto South Molton Street. I don’t want to be with the big shots upstairs. No doubt my days are numbered anyway. There are a few iron chairs strewn across the pavement outside the bar and sev­eral hard-core drinkers and smokers leaning against the building. Benedict is still wearing his suit trousers but has left his jacket at work. He looks younger in his burgundy Yale sweatshirt. I can’t remember whether he did a post­graduate there. He lights the spliff and inhales and exhales. He looks like James Dean. We are an unlikely pairing. He takes another drag and hands the neatly rolled joint to me. It has been years since I have indulged. Years. Michael never approved. He always took the moral high-ground when we were at university. I am not even sure if I still know how to inhale. We stand there for ages. Neither of us judges each other. It is a lovely experience.

  I eventually convince myself that it’s time to go home. It is very dark; slightly wet and it feels late. I am a reckless rider and almost cause a bus to swerve into a lamppost. I am free­wheeling down the streets of Mumbai: flashing lights and the occasional cow comes in and out of my path. I know that I am tripping. The three joints we smoked have gone straight to my head. I reach the outside of what looks a bit like my house and press my face against the glass with my hands on either side of my ears. It is drizzling and I am damp. Michael and Kathleen are eating popcorn in front of Supermarket Sweep. How long can you go? I can’t believe they have revived that programme. I fumble around for my keys but am too impatient to actually use them; it is easier to bang on the window. The couch potatoes are both shocked by the sudden disturbance. The Irish potato opens the door but blocks my entrance. The English potato remains on the sofa. I am not thinking of bringing that dirty feck-in bicycle in here. The feck in floor has just been polished. This is the first time I have heard her use expletives. I am bold in my heightened state and am rash and irresponsible again. I can’t help myself. I know that I am better than this. The tyres leave little track marks over the Irish potato’s white fluffy slippers. I bend down to touch the tiny kaleidoscope images which are coloured by the uplighters in the sitting room. I tell her that they’re “pretty”. I’m a little giddy and struggle to get up. I think I am going to be sick.

  Other people are allowed to enjoy their Friday nights; get drunk, smoke dope, be foolish. I am not. I should be ashamed of myself! What kind of example am I to my children? My pupils? What use am I to my doting husband? I say that’s a good word. I have got the munchies. I’m so hungry I could eat her feet. I clamber up her stout legs and head straight to the kitchen. I put the radio on and impatiently test out each station until music is played; that’s all I want: music, food and love. I don’t know why but I have a craving for cheese. I take out a block of mature cheddar and a triangular chunk of Stilton. I hack them both as if they’re firewood. I don’t use a chop­ping board. I have no idea where anything is anymore. The kitchen has been totally reorganised. Michael is oblivious to my entrance and my munchies. He sits in a zombie state, chomping the popcorn and drinking beer. I’m sure she has dosed him up on something but whatever it was, it wasn’t in the kitchen. Even in my altered state, I know that much.

  Kathleen isn’t pleased with me. I knew our truce couldn’t last. She is a tyrant. A Trunchbull. A Mr Brocklehurst. I am Matilda and Jane Eyre rolled into one. I don’t know what I am doing. I have eaten too much cheese: cheddar and Stilton; it’s not a good combination. I will probably develop a migraine. And nightmares. I can barely crawl up the stairs. I am reminded of Matt and I yearn for him to rescue me. I am on all fours, like a toddler, and only just make it to the lava­tory where I throw up in spectacular style. Bits of carrot and salad (from lunch time) and the cheese (just now) are sprayed against the white tiles around the toilet bowl. It is a disgust­ing sight. I am not sure if there is more to come.

  I am semi-conscious of a large shadow behind me. Proud of yourself? Look at the state of you! How can you hold down a responsible job? I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re sleeping with that eejit of a Principal of yours. I am not proud of myself and I am not sleeping with anyone. I tell her this but she isn’t listen­ing. I am an idiot telling a tale. All I can hear is Kathleen’s abrasive caterwauling piercing into my ears. Her lecture about responsibility is never-ending. I have to give it to her, mine are usually much shorter. I turn on the radio and swivel the dial so that the volume literally drowns out her sermon. There’s a scholarly programme on called The Art of Innovation. I have missed the first part. It’s incomprehen­sible erudition. I am drunk and high. She says it’s “preten­tious claptrap” and that I am too “thick” to follow it. I am certainly too drunk and too doped up to follow anything at the moment. I tell her to stop following me around with her bad breath. I am a hypocrite.

  I catch sight of myself in the mirror. I have streaks of mascara down my face; vomit in the ends of my hair and dirt in my nails. It is a bit of a wake-up call. I am no longer high. I have reached a new low. Kathleen drags me in the shower cubicle (fully clothed) and switches on the cold tap; it’s freezing and I feel as though my scalp is burning with the icy water. I don’t know why I can’t get out. The woman shows me no compassion. I suppose I deserve it. I will feel better afterwards, that’s what she tells me. After a few minutes, she yanks me out of the shower and is too heavy-handed with the towel. I am a helpless wet puppy: bedraggled and dripping onto the bath mat. She escorts me into Olivia’s bedroom where she helps me change and get into bed. I am only half-conscious of what is going on. I lie down, relieved to be horizontal, and try to imagine my life before Michael’s dementia. I can’t remember it.

  On Saturday morning, I wake up very early with what feels like a hangover. I have a cotton mouth and dry eyes. I go to the bathroom but can barely urinate. I am horribly dehydrated. I am wearing pink kickers and one of Michael’s shirts. I have no recollection of putting this on. I wander into my own bedroom to find Michael sleeping. I snuggle up next to him and pull the duvet up to my chin. He wakes up, looking confused, but is pleased to see me. My throat feels as though it’s going to crack. He says I look awful and I thank him for his honesty. We even laugh a little. It feels strange and comforting to be with my husband. I know this moment won’t last but I am desperate to savour it. We lie together for at least an hour.

  Later on, when we have breakfast, I give Kathleen the rest of the day off; this will also give me time to hide another camera in the bedroom. She huffs and puffs her way around the kitchen but the ranting has stopped. She knows I am worse for wear but I am sober and sensible now. I won’t be pushed around by her today. I owe her £400. Michael is behaving fairly normally. He wants to go for a walk. We escort Kathleen down to a cashpoint on the Finchley Road and I take out the maximum amount: £250. I will have to get the rest out tomorrow. She grabs the money from me and stuffs it into her garish gold and red purse. She has a date with Primark.

  I hold Michael’s hand in mine and try to keep up with his long stride. We don’t go to Ronnie’s as I am not in the mood to meet anyone else. I feel as though I have “dope” tattooed across my forehead. We buy two russets from the grocer’s and a newspaper from the corner shop. It’s like old times. I ask Michael whether he would like to walk up to Fenton House; it has a pretty walled garden. We used to take the twins there for the annual Easter Egg hunt. We walk up to the top of Hampstead High Street, munching our apples. Michael has the Times tucked under his arm. I pull out my National Trust card and explain that we are both members although Michael doesn’t have his card on him. The elderly volunteer waves us both through. I love Fenton House. It used to belong to a merchant – a successful one – and was subsequently bequeathed by Lady Binning in 1952. She was the last resident and owner. I often meander around these lovely houses, imagining what it must be like to live in them. Michael asks me when we’re moving in. I pretend that it’s some time in April. He will have forgotten about the house by then. We wander around, admiring the collection
of paintings and porcelain, and end up in the garden; this is where I feel at my happiest. I need to breathe in the fresh air, especially after my appalling behaviour last night. I still feel a little worse for wear.

  By 1.30 pm Michael is ravenous and I am too. I think carefully about where we can go without drawing too much attention to ourselves. Café Rouge is no longer an option. The greedy landlord wants to turn the restaurant into flats. We walk back down the hill and opt for Chez Bob in Belsize Park; it’s next to the Everyman cinema and is always buzzing with atmosphere. It’s also noisy enough to mask any embar­rassing conversations. The waiter ushers us to a small table for two; it’s in the corner, which suits me. We open up the menu and I start reading bits of it out loud. I am not sure why I am doing this. Michael snatches the menu from me, saying that he can choose for himself. He orders three puddings. I order the sour dough with smashed avocado. We don’t talk much. He works his way through the chocolate brownie, the cheesecake and the vanilla ice-cream. The bill is brought to Michael. He pulls a handkerchief from his trouser pocket; it’s full of his snot and is most unhygienic. He wants to settle the bill with it. It is almost funny in its absurdity. I remove the handkerchief and say they only take debit cards these days. He looks a bit affronted, which I ignore, and I take over and pay the bill.

  When we get home, Michael needs a rest; this is help­ful because I don’t want him wittering on about the hidden camera, just in case he realises what I am doing. He lies down on the sofa and closes his eyes. I envy his capacity to easily fall asleep. I pick up Olivia’s little Brighton teddy bear and try to find a way of inserting the nanny card into its jersey. I take it upstairs and put it on the window sill in my room; it has a good view of everything. I test it out from my laptop and am pleased to see that despite my weed and alco­hol induced hangover, I am still able to function.