by Gillian Best
I walked through the kitchen, poured myself a glass of milk and went into the lounge. I’d gone back in time.
‘I’d have thought you’d be out for the count,’ Harriet said. ‘Jet lag?’
I nodded.
‘What are you drinking?’
I held up my glass and she scoffed. She wrestled with the fiddly latch on the drinks cabinet then poured us each a glass of whisky.
‘Where’s Iris?’ I asked.
‘Home,’ she said. She leaned against the counter, and swirled the drink around in the glass. ‘This reminds me of the old days.’
‘When we’d have gone down the pub and come home steaming drunk,’ I said.
‘Do you think they ever knew?’
‘I bet Mum did.’ I looked at my glass. ‘Harry, what’s going on?’
She shrugged. ‘Myrtle came up here last week. Mum took her swimming.’
‘Of course.’
‘Right?’ She shook her head, smiling. ‘Myrtle said that instead of putting a cap on, as you do, Mum took her wig off.’
‘That’s a wig?’
She nodded. ‘And when Myrtle looked, I don’t know, shocked, frightened, curious, Mum said she had cancer. Iris and I had no idea she’d even come here, that she even knew where they lived. So, on her birthday, Myrtle’s getting really moody and she blurts out that Mum, that Grandma, has cancer. I called you, we came up here.’
‘Have you talked to her yet?’
‘Yeah, but you know what she’s like.’
‘She’s fine?’
Harriet burst out laughing, then clamped her hand over her mouth. Once she calmed down she said, ‘She hasn’t changed a bit.’
‘She looks old.’ I looked at my drink.
‘We all do. You’re going bald, I have crow’s feet.’
I touched the top of my head sheepishly. ‘It’s good to see you.’ I smiled. I hadn’t realised how much I missed her.
She smiled back. ‘You too. You know, Heathrow’s open pretty much all the time. You don’t have to wait for cancer to come over.’
‘I know, it’s just,’ I sighed. ‘I’m busy.’ Which was true, but not the only reason.
She rolled her eyes. ‘Who cares? Life’s short.’
I finished my drink and held my glass out. She refilled it.
‘Did you at least find out if the cancer’s gone or what?’
‘Breast cancer, and she’s finished chemo.’
‘Would’ve been nice to know.’
‘You regret coming?’ In her voice I heard the same accusatory tone she’d used when I told her I was moving.
‘No, it’s just…’ How could I say that I liked living at a distance, that the oceans that separated us made it easier to love them all? ‘I could’ve planned it properly.’
‘What’s to plan? You pack a bag, you get on a flight.’
‘So she’ll be okay?’
‘She’ll be fine.’
‘Right.’
‘Dad, on the other hand.’
‘What is going on there?’
‘You know, for someone who phones regularly you really don’t know much about what’s going on here.’
‘You think it’s hard getting information out of Mum in person, try doing it over the phone. She hasn’t put him on in a while.’
‘I asked her about him, but she won’t talk about it. At least, to me. Myrtle said when she came up, Mum asked her if she knew what dementia was.’
In the morning I heard arguing. I lay in bed and stared up at the ceiling and felt like I was a boy, but this time it wasn’t Mum and Dad’s voices that slipped under the door and into my head, it was Mum and Harriet.
I put my sweat suit on and went downstairs. Mum and Myrtle were standing by the door. Mum’s hand was on the door. Harriet did not look happy.
‘Tell her she can’t go,’ she told me.
‘She’s your daughter.’
‘Not her, her,’ she said, stabbing Mum in the shoulder with her extended finger.
‘Can’t go where?’
‘You have to ask?’ Harriet said.
A devilish grin grew across Mum’s face.
‘How does your doctor feel about this?’ I asked.
‘I’ve no idea,’ Mum replied. ‘But it’s my life and today I would like to take my granddaughter swimming.’
‘She can’t go,’ Harriet said.
‘Why?’ Myrtle whined.
‘Fine,’ Mum said. ‘I’ll go by myself.’ She opened the door and jumped back, startled. ‘Henry, what are you doing here?’
‘Who is Henry?’ I asked. I needed a coffee; the exhaustion of traveling for thirty hours was sinking in.
‘Why have you got Webb?’ Mum asked. She put her bag down.
‘I went to get the papers and found him skulking around the bins,’ Henry said.
‘Who are you?’ Harriet asked.
‘I live next door,’ he said. ‘Sometimes I…’ He looked at Mum unsure of how to finish his sentence.
‘He likes to walk the dog,’ Mum said quickly.
As if he was reminded of the purpose of his arrival, Henry said, ‘Martha, where is John?’
‘Last I saw him, he was sleeping,’ she said, rushing upstairs. ‘John? John!’
We followed the sound of Mum’s footsteps as she stomped around the first floor. Then she appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘He’s not here.’
I scratched my chest. ‘Maybe he’s just gone for a walk.’ It would become obvious that I had never known anyone who was lost to the whims of Alzheimer’s.
‘Henry,’ Mum said.
‘Pub, train station, port,’ he replied.
‘Restaurant, bay and bowling club,’ she said.
Henry nodded. ‘Meet you back here, call if there’s anything.’
She turned to the rest of us. ‘You’ll have to sort out your own lunches.’ And then she walked out.
Harriet and I looked at each other, not sure what had just happened. Webb barked. Myrtle sat at the foot of the stairs.
‘Mum!’ I shouted. ‘What’s going on?’
She waved, pretending not to hear.
‘Mum! What the hell is going on?’ Harriet said as she chased after her and grabbed her shoulder.
‘Your father,’ she said. She looked at her feet. ‘Forgets himself. Stress-related, I expect. It’s fine.’
‘It doesn’t look fine from where we’re standing,’ Harriet said.
‘Then stand somewhere else,’ Mum replied. She walked down to the pavement, turned the opposite way Henry had, and kept going.
I went to my sister, the paving stones cold on my bare feet. ‘What just happened?’
‘Things changed,’ she replied.
She sent Myrtle for a run and I made a coffee and then we sat down at the table.
‘We need doctors’ names, phone numbers,’ she said. ‘Then what?’
I shrugged. ‘We can’t do much if they don’t want help.’
‘She has cancer and he’s losing his mind.’
‘I get it, but…’
‘But what?’
But I came here to say goodbye, I wanted to say. Because I knew it would probably be the last time I saw them and goodbye was easier than what faced us now. I thought it was the right thing to do, the good son coming home. I came to spend time with them, hear their voices, see the house. And when I was lying in bed upstairs, I knew that those were not the only reasons and that none of them qualified as the main reason for my coming back. I had come because I couldn’t bear to be known as the son who hadn’t gone to see his own dying mother. It had been guilt, pure and ugly, that had finally got me on an airplane.
Harriet paced. She tossed ideas at me, none of which seemed feasible. I batted them back. I finished my coffee, I made another. A solution seemed to require more from us, but we didn’t know what that would be.
‘What if we just ask?’ I said. ‘What if we ask them what they want to do?’
‘Get out of my house!’
‘Dad, calm down,’ I said. My impulse was to go over to him, to try and comfort him, but there was something not right. His eyes were wide open. He looked frightened.
‘Whoever you are, get the hell out of my house!’ He held his fist up and I thought he was going to come after me.
‘Dad!’ Harriet shouted.
He shrunk back from her as she sprang towards him.
‘Get away from me!’ he shouted.
I tried speaking quietly, slowly, as you might to a lost child. ‘Dad, it’s okay. Why don’t you come and sit on the sofa?’
I didn’t move towards him, I kept my hands at my sides.
I caught my sister’s eye and gestured for her to call Mum. She took her phone from her pocket and I nudged her into the kitchen.
‘What the hell?’ I whispered.
‘Just get him sitting down,’ she said with the phone to her ear.
I didn’t want to be the one to try and get him to sit down, and I didn’t want to be the one who sat with him. I wanted my parents to go back to being a phone call twice a month where I was reassured that everything was, as ever, fine. Because this was not fine, this was a problem and I had no idea how to fix it.
My father sat on the couch.
‘Dad,’ I said tentatively. ‘What happened? Where did you go?’
Gradually he came back to himself. He relaxed into the couch and stared out the window ignoring me. At least I wasn’t an intruder anymore.
Harriet sat next to me and when she opened her mouth to speak I put my finger to my lips.
‘How long?’ I whispered.
‘Twenty minutes.’
We waited for Mum to sort everything out and though there wasn’t anything any of us could’ve done, I felt bad that, even though she was ill, very ill, she was still the one who would have to do the heavy-lifting.
‘When she gets home,’ I said.
‘We talk,’ Harriet said.
When Mum got home she took one look at him sleeping on the sofa, and I thought she was going to slap him, she looked so angry. Instead, she went into the kitchen without saying a word. Harriet and I exchanged glances, then we followed her and blocked her way out. She ignored us and set about making herself a cup of tea.
‘Anything you’d like to share?’ Harriet asked.
‘Would you like a cup too? There ought to be enough water.’ She opened the cupboard and took out a tin of biscuits. She took a bite and then, noticing our eyes boring a hole in the side of her head she held one up and said, ‘Rich Tea, my favourite.’
‘Mum,’ Harriet said. I put my hand on her shoulder; I wouldn’t have been shocked if she’d tried to strangle Mum. ‘Enough. What is going on here? With him? With you?’
‘He’s just tired. He’s having trouble sleeping.’ She poured the water and avoided eye contact.
‘And you?’ I asked. ‘Harry said you have cancer.’
‘Had,’ she said. ‘The treatment is finished now.’ She put the teabag in the sink.
‘That’s all you have to say about it?’ Harriet said.
‘What more is there to say?’
‘What kind of cancer?
What kind of treatment? How do you know it’s gone? Why are you still wearing a wig?’
‘I don’t see why it matters.’
I thought Harriet was going to take Mum by the shoulders and shake her.
‘It was breast cancer, the kind you want, is what the doctor said. It had a Latin-sounding name. They operated and I had chemotherapy. I went for a check-up last week and the doctor said everything looked fine. It made my hair fall out and it’s not growing back fast.’ She took a sip of her tea. ‘Alright?’
She pursed her lips and I actually thought there was a slight smirk in her expression, as if she was pleased with herself for getting away with it all, keeping it a secret.
‘You didn’t tell anyone you were having an operation?’ Harriet said.
‘I told your father and Henry.’
‘You should’ve told us,’ Harriet said, stabbing at her chest. ‘You don’t keep things like that from family.’
‘You two have your own lives.’
I could see this was going to turn into an argument neither of them would win. ‘What about Dad?’
‘He’s fine, he’s tired.’
‘He came in here and didn’t know who the hell we were,’ I said.
‘He has Alzheimer’s,’ Harriet said.
My mother’s face turned to stone. ‘We don’t say words like that in this house.’
‘Really? And how is that helpful?’
‘A name isn’t the same as a cure,’ Mum said.
‘Mum, we want to help,’ I said.
She looked over my shoulder. ‘We’re fine, aren’t we, John?’
I turned and saw my father; his expression had not been transformed, but he was different. He was himself again, and I thought how awful, which didn’t even begin to describe what it must be like; horrible, again a word lacking the kind of agony I had heard in my father’s voice only moments ago; how unbearable it must be to never know what part of your life you might find when you walk into a room. How do you cope when your history is in a constant state of shuffle? What do you do when the repeat button in your mind gets stuck and things skip and stutter?
‘Why wouldn’t we be?’
He pushed past me and Mum handed him her cup of tea.
I was due to take the evening train to London, and that morning Mum announced she was going for a swim.
‘I’ll come with you,’ I said.
She looked surprised. ‘Try and keep up,’ she said.
We walked to the same beach where she had taught me to swim. The shoreline was closer to the cliff than I’d remembered. There were more boats, a greater sense of activity, but it was mostly the way I remembered it. The way I’d left it.
I followed her to her usual spot and I could’ve done it in my sleep. It was muscle memory: my feet would always know the way across the rust-coloured pebbles, to the myrtle bush where she stowed her things.
I used to hate coming here. School holidays meant swimming in the ice-cold water. The waves crested into my face when I tried to breathe, the water went up my nose, in my ears, the salt stung. I had begged to get out early, I had stomped and shouted and she had always resisted. The sea will save you, she’d said. I had my doubts then, but seeing her now, looking at the sea, I wondered if I ought to reconsider.
Around the house she’d been clipped and tense. I hadn’t expected a hero’s welcome, but something more than irritation would have been nice. I’d wondered if it was me, if, after having moved away, having failed to visit, she’d written me off and decided I wasn’t worth the effort.
I followed her to the water’s edge, shivering in the breeze. I’d never known anyone with cancer before and imagined such people to be frail. Though she wasn’t as robust a figure as I’d remembered, she was transformed in the water. Head down, arms churning, she cut through the water for fifteen solid minutes while I followed in her slipstream as I’d done when I was a boy, letting her make it easier for me. When she stopped, I did too. She was breathing hard and my chest felt like it was on fire. I hadn’t realised how unfit I was.
She treaded water and let out a loud whoop. She took her goggles off and smiled at me.
‘This is divine,’ she said. ‘I’m so glad you joined me.’
She was a different person out here, but I was the same, and the cold burned my toes.
‘Kick harder, move your arms like this,’ she said, reminding me how to skull.
I did as I was told.
‘What is it, about the water?’
‘Oh, you know,’ she said.
I shook my head, feeling the water echoing in my eardrum. ‘No, I don’t. Te
ll me.’
Her smile grew broader. ‘It’s hard to say, exactly.’
‘Try,’ I said.
‘If we really wanted to, we could swim to another country from here. We could escape.’
‘Do you want to?’
‘I’ve been to France.’
‘Escape.’
‘Sometimes.’ She rolled onto her back.
I didn’t know what to make of that. ‘Now, or then?’
‘Both.’ She went back to treading water and looked me in the eye.
‘You’re cold,’ she said. I was shivering visibly. ‘Let’s go back in.’
‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘A few more minutes.’
She laughed. ‘When you were a boy, you’d have never said that!’
I smiled, pleased that I was with her where she was happiest. ‘People change.’
‘Do you remember, when you were little? We used to come out here?’
‘How could I forget?’
‘You’d be surprised how easy it is to forget.’
‘We just want to help, you know.’
‘I do, but there isn’t much that can be done.’
‘What’s happening to him?’ I knew the answer but wanted to hear her say it.
She ducked her head underwater and when she came back up she wiped her face.
‘Age,’ she said. ‘We’re getting old.’
‘Mum, please. I’ve come such a long way.’
‘Yes, you have. Grown man with a big job.’
‘That’s not what I mean.’
She dunked her head under again. When she came back up she said, ‘Did you know that we have the same salt content as the sea? The sea is literally inside us.’
‘You didn’t go to church yesterday.’
‘We haven’t been in a while.’
‘Why?’
‘This is the only church I need.’ She shook her head. ‘Besides, it’s too much for him now.’
‘Why won’t you tell me what’s going on?’
‘Because some things are private,’ she shot back. ‘Because I am tired of the looks and the stares and the whispers.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘We don’t go to church anymore because people started talking about your father’s rather erratic behaviour. Because people talk about us, about him. They don’t talk to us anymore.’
‘Who cares what a bunch of gossips think?’
She splashed water on my face. ‘I do. He does. They are, they were, our friends. They don’t invite us to dinner; they don’t want to come to dinner because nobody knows what your father might do. He might put his arm around Mrs Johnstone and pretend she’s his girlfriend; he might try and kiss her. He might mistake Charlie for Francis and start shouting about some petty grievance that happened thirty years ago.’