by Vikki Patis
As I drive, I wonder at how little I know of my mother’s life. She has never struck me as the type of person who befriends the postman or milkman or anyone at all, especially not those who sound like Trevor. She has always been prickly, stuck in her ways in that way that people often brush off at her age, but she has been like it for as long as I can remember.
I find a space and rush to the A&E department, where I ask for Jean Braybrooke. While the nurse checks her records, I wonder, stupidly, why she kept my father’s name for all these years, why it never occurred to her to revert back to her maiden name – Taylor, the name I gave myself and Seb – or to even choose a new one, a new identity away from her association with the men in her life. The men who had been in her life and were no longer. Though I suppose it’s either one man’s name or another, I reflect darkly. I wonder whether that will change for the women of the future.
‘Follow me,’ the nurse says, standing and moving around the front desk, and I do, my shoes squeaking on the linoleum as I hurry to keep up with her. Mum is in a cubicle, looking very small against the large hospital bed. She has a dressing on her forehead, and another nurse is stitching up a cut on her arm.
‘Oh, Mum,’ I say, rushing towards her.
She glares at me. ‘Who the hell are you?’
The nurse looks up and I try to smile. ‘I’m her daughter, Liv. She has… well, she’s–’
‘Mad,’ Mum says, tutting. ‘That’s what she’ll tell you. I’m mad as a hatter.’
‘Dementia,’ I say, ignoring her. ‘She has dementia.’
The nurse nods. ‘Take a seat, Liv, we’re almost done here.’
‘Where’s Trevor?’ I ask no one in particular as I sit on the uncomfortable chair beside the bed.
‘The man who brought her in?’ the nurse says. ‘He’s outside making a phone call.’
‘That man assaulted me,’ Mum says. ‘I told him, I said I’ll call the police if you don’t unhand me.’
I frown. ‘I don’t think it happened quite like that, Mum.’
She tuts again. ‘You would believe him over me. You like that sort, don’t you, Paige?’
I stare at her, my mouth hanging open. I am getting more used to being called Paige – after the initial shock, it’s no different to being called Samantha or Brigit or sodding Gertrude – but she has never been so openly rude before, at least not in public. That sort. I think of Brad, of how Mum treated him the same way she treats everyone – with contempt. But there was never racism, was there?
I am saved from answering by the nurse speaking. ‘There we are, all done.’ He stands, flashing me a sympathetic smile. ‘The doctor will be along in a minute.’
‘Male nurses,’ Mum mutters as he leaves. ‘What next? A feline prime minister?’
‘We’ve already had one of those,’ I say. ‘You should remember, you voted for her.’
‘Feline,’ she says, shouting now. ‘Not female. Clean your ears out, Olivia.’
Ah, so she does know who I am. For now.
‘What happened?’ I ask, leaning forward in the chair. ‘Trevor said he found you in the street, quite far away from home.’
‘Who?’ She tuts again, not looking at me.
‘Trevor,’ I try again. ‘The postman. He brought you here.’
‘Where am I?’ She sits up then, pushing herself forward on her elbows. ‘I don’t like this hotel, Margaret, I want to go home.’
‘Olivia?’ A voice behind me makes me turn around. ‘I’m Trevor.’
I stand, holding my hand out. ‘Thanks so much for bringing her here, and for calling me. I can’t believe… She’s not well, you understand.’ I hear my voice turning posher, as it does whenever I feel flustered, and blush. ‘Thank you, really.’
‘It’s no problem at all,’ he says, shaking my hand. ‘Just a little scratch.’
‘On her arm?’ I begin, then glance down. Trevor’s arm is bandaged too. ‘Oh, no. What did she do to you?’
He smiles, withdrawing his hand. ‘Like I say, just a little scratch. No harm done.’
I feel my eyes start to prickle with tears and try to force them away. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say quietly, mortified at what my mother has done. ‘She’s never done anything like this before.’
‘She’s in the right place now,’ he says, patting my arm. ‘Don’t worry yourself about it.’
We are interrupted by the arrival of the doctor, and Trevor gives me another smile before heading off down the corridor. I am torn, wanting to run after him and thank him again, but also to get me away from whatever the doctor is going to tell me. I know I won’t want to hear it. But I turn and follow him back to Mum’s bedside, where she is sitting with her eyes closed, though I know she is not sleeping.
‘I’m Dr Shaw,’ he says, addressing Mum whose eyes stay closed. He glances up at me. ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.’
‘Liv. Jean’s daughter.’
He nods. ‘And how long has your mother been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, Liv?’
I think for a moment. ‘About eighteen months.’
‘Does your mum live with you?’
‘No. But I visit most days,’ I add quickly. ‘I work, you see, and I have a grandson who lives with me.’
Dr Shaw nods. ‘I’m sure you’re doing your absolute best.’ I know the words are meant to be comforting, but I cannot help feeling like they are a criticism. My absolute best is obviously not good enough. ‘Have you looked into additional help for your mum, for when you can’t be there?’
‘I don’t want strangers in my house,’ Mum says, opening her eyes and glaring at the doctor. ‘I’m not an invalid.’
‘I’m sure you’re not, Mrs Braybrooke.’ Dr Shaw smiles. ‘But everyone needs a bit of help now and again.’
We leave half an hour later, a bundle of leaflets stuffed into my handbag, Mum tutting at how far away the car is parked. At least she’s all right, I tell myself as we make our slow way across the car park. At least she isn’t hurt badly. But she could have been, and would it have been my fault? She’s been deteriorating for a while now, her memory worsening, and yet I have been too proud and she too stubborn to call in extra help. But I see now that it has to be done.
I spend the day with her, helping her into the bath and washing her like I used to wash Seb when he was younger, like I imagine my mum did with me when I was a child, though I cannot remember it. I carefully rub soap into her back and wash her hair, keeping the water away from the dressings on her arm and forehead. When I stand to help her out, my lower back twinges, and I realise that we may have to make some changes to the house. A wet room, or one of those baths with a door. I try not to think about the cost of something like that.
I make her a late lunch of soup and buttered slabs of bread, and wander into the room opposite the lounge. It is another reception room, small but large enough to fit a bed and a chest of drawers. I think about the leaflets in my bag and make a mental note to see if there is anyone who can help me turn this room into a bedroom for Mum. Could I move in for a while? Seb would have to come too, but where would we sleep? I’d have to clear out some of the rooms upstairs. My heart sinks at the thought. Mum would hate it, but her strength is starting to fail and I keep picturing her lying in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairs, alone and in pain. I stand there for a moment, nibbling at my lower lip, anxiety coursing through me until a glance at the clock kicks me into action.
‘I’m off now, Mum,’ I call from the hallway. She is in the lounge where I left her, a paperback resting in her lap. ‘Seb will be home from school soon. I’ll see you tomorrow, all right?’
She gives a grunt that I take as assent and I leave the house. And as I’m getting into the car, the second thing happens.
‘Hello, Liv? It’s John here. I’ve got Seb with me.’
34
Seb
The afternoon drifts on. Seb feels as if he is going to cough up a lung the first time he takes the spliff, so out of practice is he, but th
e second puff is smoother, and then he is floating, his body cushioned as he lays down on the grass and watches the clouds drift past. A haze settles over Seb’s vision, his usually turbulent mind slowing until he can no longer hear the thoughts fighting against one another, battling to be heard. Instead, he listens to the music playing on Ben’s phone, laying back and folding his arms beneath his head. The sky is a light blue peppered with clouds, darkening at the edges as dusk begins to fall. A plane moves across above him, and he wonders where it is headed. Is it landing at Stansted or Luton, or is it carrying people to an exotic destination, far away from here? Seb has never been further than Clacton, the one holiday he vaguely remembers with his parents. Or is that another invented memory, brought about by the photographs his nan keeps in a frame in the hallway?
Another shape moves across the sky, large wings gliding through the air. It is a red kite, Seb recognises it from the books he got as a child one Christmas. He has been seeing them more often lately, flying low over the fields. He remembers pointing them out to Izzy one day, watching her eyes follow the bird as it sailed above them.
Seb feels as if he could sleep here, his body relaxed for the first time in weeks. He has not been sleeping. Whenever he closes his eyes, he sees the suspicion in the police officers’ faces, sees the way his nan looks at him out of the corner of her eye. Watching, waiting. But for what?
‘Seb,’ Jodie says, her face looming over him. ‘Earth to Seb!’
‘What?’ She lays down beside him, her hands clasped over her stomach, turning a piece of glass over and over in her fingers. ‘You’ll cut yourself,’ he says, and she makes a face.
‘Have you heard from Izzy?’
He sits up, shaking his head to clear it. ‘What?’ he repeats. ‘Why?’
She shrugs. ‘Just wondered.’
Seb lays back down, trying to find the red kite again, but it has gone.
‘She’s been keeping you on the straight and narrow then,’ Jodie says after a moment.
‘Who? Izzy?’
‘Your nan.’ Jodie lifts a bottle to her lips and gulps some of the liquid down. ‘She always did think she was better than the rest of us.’
‘She doesn’t,’ Seb protests.
Jodie gives him a look. ‘She proper does. My mum went to school with your mum, she was a year younger or something.’
Seb looks at her, wondering why her mum never mentioned it before. Perhaps she’d thought he was too young to talk about his dead mum. Perhaps she’d had nothing good to say. ‘So?’
‘So,’ Jodie says, exasperated, ‘your nan was always a bit stuck-up. All take your shoes off and eat at the table and mind your manners.’ She nudges him with her elbow. ‘Still. Nothing wrong with wanting better for your kids, I suppose.’
Better than what? Seb thinks but doesn’t say. He thinks about what Evelyn and Rosa said about his mum, how kind she was. Is Seb like her? Or was he created from that violence, formed not in the womb but four years later, moulded by his father’s hands around his mother’s neck? Is he bound by those events, those choices which have set him on his path?
A rustle breaks him out of his reverie. He turns to see a figure moving through the trees, heavy boots crushing the grass under foot.
‘Oi!’ the figure shouts. He is holding something in his hand; as he comes closer, Seb realises it is a pitchfork, the long spikes glinting in the sun. The image is so ridiculous he almost laughs. ‘What do you think you’re doing? This is private property!’
Dylan starts to laugh then, a low cackle that seems to fill the air. Seb shakes his head, suddenly wishing he were sober, wishing his mind didn’t feel so chaotic. The man comes closer and Seb recognises him as the farmer, the one who sometimes gives his nan eggs when he’s passing.
Shit.
‘Let’s bounce!’ Ben says, getting to his feet and pulling Kyra up with him.
‘Leave them!’ Seb says urgently to Jodie, who is folding up the deckchairs. He grabs her hand and they start to run, long grass whipping at their legs as they hurtle towards the fence. He lifts it and lets Jodie climb through, then Olly who is behind them. The others have run in the opposite direction, and he watches as Kyra stumbles, falls.
‘Come on!’ Olly says, and Seb climbs through the fence, and then they are running again, weaving between the trees, ducking beneath branches and tripping over roots. They run blind, all sense of direction lost, until the ground begins to slope downwards and they are sliding down the bank towards a low river. They jump over it, slipping in the damp mud, Olly falling onto his knees, but he is back up and they are running again, until their feet hit the concrete path and they emerge onto the field behind the tennis courts.
Seb pauses for a moment, looking around. He remembers coming here so many times before, lazing on the grass with the boys. He remembers spending the day in a happy haze, watching the clouds pass overhead, listening to the children shriek with joy as they jumped in and out of the river further up.
He suddenly longs for those days, the days before Izzy, before the photo. Before he saw the flicker of distrust in Michael’s eyes the first time Izzy took him home as her boyfriend, before he slammed the door in his face. Before all of it, and before he knew what it meant. Before he failed to stand up for Izzy today, before he was ashamed of who he has become, ashamed of his small council house and his father the murderer and his skin colour which is darker than any one of his friends, which he had pretended not to notice. Until now.
‘This way,’ he says, and starts walking quickly across the open field, heading for the wooden bridge over the river.
‘Oi!’ A voice rings out from behind them and Seb recognises John, the farmer, standing in the middle of the bridge. ‘Get back here! I’ve called the police.’
For a split second, Seb is torn. And that’s all it takes. While Jodie and Olly run in the opposite direction, Seb waits, believing that he can explain himself to this man he recognises, believing in the values his nan has instilled in him. Respect your elders. Respect authority. And then he hears Evelyn’s words, her dark eyes fixing him in place. Don’t ever get yourself caught up with the law. They won’t see past the colour of your skin. And then it is too late.
Liv is waiting for him, one hand gripping the door frame as he follows John inside, his head bowed. The pitchfork is left in the truck which smelled of petrol and hay. The stern lecture is absorbed in silence, his head still bowed, his hands clasped between his knees. When his nan sees the farmer out, he sits back in the chair, his mind reeling.
‘What do you think you’re playing at?’ she hisses from the doorway. He turns to look at her, suddenly too exhausted to think, to do anything but sit and breathe. ‘Drinking? Drugs? Criminal damage? Haven’t I taught you better?’
He doesn’t speak, just lets her words flow over him like the tide. He cannot explain how he has felt nothing but anxiety since everything happened. And then the frustration, no, the anger, the pure, unfiltered rage when Izzy said it was over, as if he were at fault, as if she hadn’t taken a photo of herself and sent it to someone else. And now she is gone, and he is left behind with all of these questions bouncing around inside his head, completely in the dark.
‘Seb?’ Liv snaps her fingers in front of his face and he jumps. ‘Are you listening to me?’
‘You wouldn’t understand,’ he says with more venom than he intended. He gets to his feet and sees his nan take a step back. Something clicks inside his head. ‘I’m not him, you know,’ he says, quieter now, almost begging, desperate for her to believe him, knowing it is fruitless. All of it. ‘I’m not my dad.’ And then he turns, going upstairs and closing his bedroom door behind him.
35
Izzy
At precisely twenty-eight minutes past seven, Izzy wakes. It is Monday, the start of a new week, and her first day at school. She can see her new uniform hanging on the back of the wardrobe door, neatly ironed by Miranda at the weekend after they finished painting her bedroom. Her new bag, a dark-purple rucks
ack, rests against the wall, beside her new shoes.
She is ready. She is not ready.
Her forehead is clammy, her eyes gritty. She had trouble falling asleep last night, anxiety prickling her skin as she tried not to think about all the new people she was going to meet, the unfamiliar layout of the school. Whether anyone would recognise her. And now she is awake, and she isn’t sure she can do it, walk into a new school and put herself out there. Not again.
Her alarm buzzes at half past seven. She silences it and shoves back the duvet, padding barefoot towards the bathroom. She washed her hair the night before, after spending the weekend watching videos on how to care for her curls, and as she takes it out of the bobble she is amazed at how defined it looks. It looks nice. She looks nice, with her newly shaped brows and freshly cleansed skin. A new version of herself.
She carefully applies some make-up and gets dressed, draping her blazer over her arm and grabbing her bag. Downstairs, Miranda is making pancakes with chopped strawberries and bananas, and the scent of freshly brewed coffee hits Izzy as she enters the kitchen.
‘Mum never lets me drink coffee,’ she says as Miranda pours her a cup.
Miranda flashes her a look. ‘You’ve been to Starbucks before, haven’t you?’ She winks when Izzy nods. ‘It’s okay, I don’t mind being the evil stepmother.’ But she is anything but. Mum would like her, Izzy thinks, surprising herself. The two women are so alike, Izzy thinks her father must have recognised parts of Caitlyn in his new partner. And yet they are different too. Miranda is more laid back, less stressed and focused on appearances. Where Caitlyn worries, Miranda breezes. Mum could learn a thing or two.
‘Are you ready for your first day?’ Miranda asks as she slips a pancake onto a plate and passes it to Izzy.
‘I think so.’ Izzy spoons up some fruit from the bowl on the table and drizzles some maple syrup over the top. ‘I think I’ve got everything I need.’