by Mike Gayle
The kettle came to a boil but there was still no sign of her parents, so Rose got up and made three mugs of tea. She’d been trained from a young age in the art of making the perfect brew the Bird way: mugs warmed first with a splash of hot water, tea bag in, then each filled to within half an inch of the top, allowing room for the perfect quantity of milk to be added after a good two-minute steeping.
Placing the steaming mugs on coasters on the kitchen table, Rose opened the cupboard above the bread bin, took out the biscuit barrel from the shelf where it had always lived, placed it on the table, and then resumed her seat, wondering what was taking her parents so long. Usually whenever she arrived home her mother was first on the scene, almost as if she’d sensed her daughter’s presence before she’d even arrived.
“Here she is,” announced Hubert as he entered the room, followed by Joyce.
As she went to embrace her mother, Rose noticed there was something different about her but couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was.
“Sorry to drop in unannounced like this.”
Joyce glanced at Hubert.
“Weren’t we expecting you?”
A puzzled look crossed Rose’s face.
“No, Mum. It was a last-minute thing.”
“Well, it’s always lovely to see you, love, no matter what the reason.”
They sat at the table and as her father grilled her about the journey down from Manchester, with special emphasis on how impatient drivers seemed to be these days, Rose took the opportunity to study her mother.
Although they spoke on the phone every week, it had been almost six months since her last visit for her father’s sixtieth and something had definitely changed. At first, Rose thought it might be that she’d lost weight, as she’d felt thinner when they’d hugged. Mum had been on a diet of one kind or another for as long as Rose could remember, but none had ever had a noticeable effect. Clearly whatever she was doing was working, perhaps a little too well.
Rose also noted that her mother appeared not to be wearing a bra. For a woman who had always extolled the virtues of good support, this seemed distinctly odd. Then again, there could be a whole host of reasons for it. She could have been in the middle of changing outfits when Rose arrived. Or perhaps her favorite one had broken and the spare was just out of the wash and drying on the line.
There was another change, however, and perhaps it was this that had startled her the most, she now realized: her mum wasn’t wearing makeup. She had always been the sort of woman who appeared first thing in the morning fully groomed and ready for the day ahead, so it seemed strange to see her at midday still barefaced. Of course, it was her decision and Rose herself had never been a huge fan of makeup, limiting herself to a sweep of mascara or dab of lip gloss when the occasion required, but with her pale skin, the lack of color made Joyce look tired and old, even though she was not yet sixty.
In and of themselves, these were tiny things, and to a casual observer would have no significance at all, but to Rose, who had always been close to both her parents, these were signs of something gone astray somehow, in a way she couldn’t articulate. Perhaps her mum selling the nursery last year had had a greater effect on her than Rose had realized. Then again, maybe she just wanted a day off, and as someone who had arrived unannounced, who was she to judge?
In contrast, her father was the same as ever, although he had a little more white in his hair and had clearly put on an extra pound or two. But in his regular weekend uniform of navy-blue corduroy trousers and checked shirt, he could have been any version of himself from the past twenty years.
Her father gestured to her with the mug in his hand.
“So come on, tell us how that man of yours is doing? Any more trips to foreign parts? We nearly called you the other day, actually. Your mother and me heard him on the radio again… last Wednesday me think it was. Talking about something to do with trade agreements or some such. Whatever it was, it certainly went over my head! But he sounded very intelligent, didn’t he, Joyce?”
Joyce nodded. “He’s got such a lovely speaking voice.”
This was it, thought Rose. Now was as good a time as any to tell them the truth about her and Robin. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words that sprang from her lips weren’t the ones she’d been planning.
“What’s wrong?”
Her dad was confused.
“How you mean?”
Rose glanced briefly at her mum before returning her gaze to her father.
“Something’s going on. Something’s not right.”
For a moment Rose thought her parents weren’t going to respond, but then the doorbell rang and her father, wearing what to Rose seemed like an expression of relief, got up to answer it.
Joyce stood up, mug of tea in hand.
“Do you want a brew, love?”
Rose glanced down at the steaming mug in front of her, still too hot to drink.
“No, Mum, I haven’t started this one yet and you’ve barely touched yours.”
Rose watched as Joyce gazed absentmindedly at the mug in her own hands as if seeing it for the first time.
“Silly me, don’t know what I was thinking!”
Returning to the room, Hubert sat back down at the table, picked up his tea, and turned to Rose.
“It was the milkman come for his money. So, you were telling us about Robin.”
In that instant it all made sense. The changes in her mum’s appearance, the time it had taken her to come downstairs, and her odd question. Now that Rose thought about it, she’d spent far more time talking to her dad on the phone over the past few months than her mum, who always seemed to be in the middle of a tricky household task or on her way out to meet friends whenever her daughter called.
Rose stood up.
“Dad, can you help me get something out of the car?”
“Of course, love. Let me just get my shoes.”
They headed toward the hallway, Rose trailing after her father so that she could close the door to the kitchen behind her.
As Hubert reached for the front door, Rose stopped him and indicated toward the front room.
“Actually, could we just go in here for a moment? There’s something I need to talk to you about.”
Hubert looked worried.
“What’s the matter, darling?”
She gestured to the room again.
“In here. Let’s talk in here.”
They entered the front room, the room that reassuringly never seemed to change. The same furniture, the same family photos on the mantelpiece, the same china in the cabinet that never saw the light of day.
Sitting down on the sofa, she patted the seat next to her.
“What’s this about, Rose? You’ve got me worried.”
She took her father’s hand.
“How long, Dad?”
Hubert frowned.
“How long what, darling?”
“Don’t play games, Pops. How long have you known that Mum has dementia?”
Rose watched the dilemma play out across her father’s features. The desire to protect her from the truth matched with the relief of no longer having to hide it.
Finally his shoulders slumped and he let out an audible sigh, avoiding her gaze by looking down at his lap.
“Six months… or thereabouts. It’s hard to say because she was so good at hiding it at first. She’d forget things while out shopping but blame it on not having made a list. She’d get words wrong but say she was just tired. Then me started to find things in the strangest of places, house keys in the shoe-cleaning box, an open bottle of milk in the cupboard instead of the fridge, her shopping money in the bread bin.”
“And did you think something might be wrong?”
“At first me thought maybe it was just her adjusting to being at home after working all these years. You know… a different daily routine throwing her off-kilter… but then she went out one day all the way to the post office and back again in her slippers…” He paused, struggling
to continue. “You should have seen them. It was raining and they were filthy, but she was walking around the house as if she didn’t know the difference.”
Rose hugged him tightly, her heart breaking.
“Oh, Dad, you should’ve told me. You shouldn’t have tried to deal with this on your own.”
“Me didn’t want to worry you, darling. Anyway me kept… me kept… hoping she might get better.”
“But you must know she won’t get better, Pops. You must know this isn’t the sort of thing people get better from.”
He shook his head.
“She’ll be fine with me, darling. Me look after her.”
“And what happens when she gets worse? Dad, you can’t do this on your own. Have you even seen a doctor?”
Hubert sighed.
“She’s too young to have that dementia thing. Me ask Gus about it and one of him neighbors’ mother has it and she’s in her eighties. Dementia is an old person’s disease and just look at her, your mother’s not old, is she?” His voice cracked. “She not even sixty, Rose. This was supposed to be our time. We were going to do all the things we’d always talked about doing. We were going to travel, and me was going to show her all the places she had always wanted to go and now…”
He stopped and as Rose hugged him again, tear after tear began to fall. It was horrible seeing him like this. She wanted to be strong for him, as strong as he had always been throughout her whole life, in the face of blatant racism, money worries, and the endless trouble with David. Despite her determination, however, she couldn’t hold back her own tears any longer.
“We’ll get through this, Pops,” she said. “We’ll get through this together.”
33
NOW
You want me to do what?”
Hubert stared hard at the young man in front of him. He was wearing a faded raggedy T-shirt, absurdly tight bright red trousers, and green shoes. In spite of the clipboard and the fancy headset microphone contraption he was wearing, he didn’t look old enough to have a job, let alone the authority to tell anyone where they should be going in a TV studio.
“I need to take you to makeup, Mr. Bird.”
“Makeup? Me don’t understand. What kind of place is this?”
“It’s a TV thing, Hubert,” explained Ashleigh. “Isn’t it, Josh?”
The young man with the clipboard shot her a grateful smile. “That’s right, Mr. Bird. It’s just because of all the cameras and the lights. It’s not lipstick and mascara or anything… just a touch of powder to take the shine off you. It won’t take long, I promise, and I’ll bring you straight back here to the green room afterward.”
Reluctantly Hubert got to his feet. When he’d agreed to be interviewed on This Morning, no one had said a word to him about wearing makeup like that Boy George fella that Rose used to like back in the eighties. Still, there was no point making a fuss; this was simply too big an opportunity for the campaign to miss.
“Are you sure you don’t want to swap places with me, Ashleigh?” said Hubert, not for the first time. “Me could stay here and look after Layla while you get your makeup done instead.”
“We’ve been through this a million times, Hubert! You’re the face of the campaign. You’re the one they want to hear from. Now go in there and have your makeup done and I’ll be waiting here for you when you get back.”
Following the young man along the corridor, Hubert was led to a small, brightly lit room dominated by a huge dentist-style chair facing a long illuminated mirror, in front of which was spread a vast array of pots and palettes of makeup.
“Hello, love,” said a bubbly young woman. She had dyed silver hair cut into an angular bob. “I’m Zara, and I’ll be doing your makeup this morning. Not that there’s a lot to do. You have the most amazing skin and cheekbones to die for! Anyway, take a seat and I’ll give you a quick powder.”
The past couple of weeks had seemed to Hubert like a dream, and he fully expected to wake up at any minute. That first appearance on BBC London had led to an article in the Evening Standard, which had been picked up by the Daily Mail, and after that things had snowballed out of all control. Soon the committee was receiving requests for interviews with Hubert every other day and, fearful that any further exposure would lead to Rose discovering what he had been up to, Hubert tried his best to dodge the limelight by suggesting that other members of the committee might like to take their turn with the press. But as the researcher from the Today program explained when he’d asked if she might like to talk to Ashleigh instead: “I’m afraid that wouldn’t work for us, Mr. Bird. All our listeners will know you as the Windrush pensioner declaring war on loneliness. For all intents and purposes, you are the story!”
And so Hubert felt he had no choice but to let himself be swept along by it all, and just hope beyond hope that neither Rose nor any of her friends would find out about it. Each time she called, Hubert’s heart would be in his mouth, fearing that he’d been found out. Why was her father, who barely had a moment to spare between social engagements, the spokesperson for a campaign to end loneliness? Why was he telling the media about how hard things had been since losing his wife? Why was she learning the truth about how empty his life was from a news article emailed to her by a well-meaning friend? But the castigation he dreaded never came. Each time Rose called, all she spoke about was how excited she was about her visit, how eager she was to give him a hug and spend some proper time with him. “I know it sounds strange,” she’d say, “but it feels like it’s only now I’m coming home that I’m realizing just how much I’ve been missing you. I can’t wait to see you, Dad. I can’t wait until we’re together again.”
The request from the people at This Morning had come a week ago, and although Hubert had been reluctant to do it, feeling like he’d already pushed his luck far enough, the excitement of the committee and Ashleigh’s insistence that this was too big an opportunity to turn down meant that once again he felt he couldn’t say no.
True to her word, the makeup woman hadn’t made him look like a clown but, with judicious application of a bit of powder here and there and the trimming of a few unruly eyebrow hairs, had made him look presentable.
“Thank you, darling,” said Hubert as she removed the protective gown from around his shoulders. “You’ve done a good job.”
“It’s easy when you’ve got a good canvas to work with. Good luck today; I think it’s a really good thing you’re doing.”
Back in the green room Hubert found it busier than when he’d left it, as more guests had arrived in time for their appearances on the show. There was an eighties pop star plugging her latest comeback album, an actress from one of the soaps Hubert occasionally watched, and a glamorous-looking beauty expert who Hubert discovered through Ashleigh was on the show to talk about the latest trends in eyebrows. They were an odd bunch but Hubert found them quite friendly, and even the pop star, who had seemed a little offish at first, once warmed up was happy to pose for a photo with Hubert, which Ashleigh then tweeted to all the campaign’s followers.
Every few minutes or so, the young man in the tight trousers would appear at the door to take one of the guests up to the studio, and in what seemed like no time at all, Hubert, Ashleigh, and Layla were the only ones left.
“There’s a lot of waiting around in this TV business,” remarked Hubert, helping himself to his fourth Danish pastry of the morning. “Not that me is complaining, if they’re going to feed us this well!”
No sooner had he taken a bite of his cinnamon swirl than Mr. Tight Trousers appeared at the door. “They’re ready for you now, Mr. Bird.”
Hubert stood up, noticing for the first time just how nervous he was. It had been one thing being filmed in his own home by the local news but it was quite another to be live on national TV.
“You’ll be fine,” said Ashleigh, as though reading his mind. She brushed stray pastry crumbs from the lapels of his jacket and straightened his tie. “Forget about the cameras and the lights and
all that, and just chat to them like they’re ordinary people and you’ll absolutely smash it.”
Everything that followed on from his goodbye with Ashleigh happened so quickly Hubert didn’t have time to let his nerves get the better of him. It seemed as though one minute he was sitting on the sofa with people he’d only ever seen on the TV, and the next it was all over and the young man with the tight trousers was escorting him back to Ashleigh and Layla.
“You were amazing,” squealed Ashleigh, “an absolute superstar. And that’s not just my opinion either. My mum and her mates texted me the whole way through it and they totally loved you. I think half the village was stuffed into her front room cheering you on.”
“That’s nice,” said Hubert. “Although me been thinking, it’s all very well doing these TV and radio things and it’s nice that we’ve got lots of people on that Twitter thing you talk about and the Facebook as well. But what we really need is actual people who want to get stuck into all the work we’ve got ahead of us.”
Ashleigh seemed slightly crestfallen.
“I know, you’re right. It’s easy to get carried away, just because we’ve had all this attention. I suppose the important thing is what happens next.”
Hubert handed Layla a biscuit from a plate on the table.
“Exactly,” he said. “The committee needs more help if we’re going to make a splash and get regular events up and running.”
“Well, let’s cross our fingers for tonight’s meeting,” said Ashleigh. “And hope that this time around, we won’t be faced with another room full of empty chairs.”
It was midafternoon when the car This Morning had booked for them dropped Hubert and Ashleigh at home. Carrying a sleeping Layla in her arms, Ashleigh whispered to Hubert that he should come to hers for lunch so that they could watch the show again, but Hubert politely declined. “Me think the little one has got the right idea,” he said, gesturing to Layla. “Me going to have a quick brew and then take a nap. This day has taken enough out of me as it is.”
With an empty mug next to him and a contented Puss on his lap, Hubert settled back in his chair and waited for sleep to come. He was bone tired but his mind was full of thoughts about his day so far, about the TV appearance, about what if any difference it might make.