by Annie Weir
‘OK. Mum?’
‘Yes please. Red, please. Sure Ju?’
‘Quite sure.’ Especially if we are to have difficult conversations.
Rosie brings the wine and her list.
‘This is the agenda,’ she consults it even though she knows exactly what she has written. It turns out there are only three items. ‘Granny’s house, Mum’s job – or lack of, and Judith’s life. Any preference for what order we do them?’
‘Me last,’ I say quickly before anyone else can jump in.
‘Granny’s house first,’ says Fiona.
‘That’s easily decided then,’ says Rosie, then attempting a bit of humour, ‘let’s hope it all goes as smoothly as that.’
‘I suggest we carry on sorting Granny’s stuff. We can get one of those storage things for anything we want for later, then either sell or give away or bin everything else.’
Neither Rosie nor I can believe that Fiona is talking like this.
‘That seems very, very, very something-but-I-don’t-know-what,’ I say, remembering a phrase we used as children.
‘We need a fresh start,’ she goes on. ‘I don’t want to be stuck in the past. The last two or three years haven’t been that great. I’ve been stuck here. I don’t want to be here on my own surrounded by memories of Mum getting worse and Rosie moving away and Judith, well, you know.’
‘No-one will ever really know for sure,’ I say quietly, referring directly to the incident for the first time since being back.
‘So anyway,’ Fi continues, ‘then we can paint the place, get the carpets cleaned and get it on the market.’ She looks at me, presumably for my usual comment about splitting the money and going our separate ways. I just nod.
‘You OK with that, Ju?’
‘Yes, I’m fine. Do we know whether Mum ever made a will?’
‘Yes she did, and she altered it a few years ago, though what’s in it, I don’t know. She could have left everything to the dog rescue place.’
We laugh at this. She couldn’t stand dogs; well dog owners I suppose. I wonder why she would change her will so late in life. Que sera sera. No point in worrying about it. I wouldn’t be amazed if she had cut me right out.
‘OK then. If you’re sure. You can’t do it all yourself though. Are you going to get a man in to do the painting?’
‘Not while I’m not working, no. I’ll do it.’
‘And that brings us nicely onto item two. Mum, you need to get a job.’
‘I thought I might go to university,’ Fiona says after a slight pause for dramatic effect, and as we turn to stare at her she adds, ‘I’ll get a part-time job as well, like Rosie has.’
‘Where? What are you going to study? Where has this come from, all of a sudden?’ Rosie clearly had no idea about her mother’s plans.
‘Social work,’ she says simply, then realising that we weren’t keeping up with her train of thought, she continues, ‘They’re crying out for social workers. I’ve been an unpaid social worker for the last few years, well sort of, and I think I would like it. I’ll work with elderly people helping to make sure they have a good quality of life. That sort of thing anyway. I can do it in Carlisle, at the university there.’
The irony of this is not lost on me. In fact, I wonder for a minute whether Fiona is taking the piss. I give her a look that says if she is, I’ll know.
‘What?’
She isn’t. ‘Nothing. Yes, they do a social work course in Carlisle. It’s supposed to be really good.’
‘How do you know that, Auntie Ju?’
My turn now; item three. ‘Shall we eat first? My bit might take a while.’
‘No,’ they say in unison, and I start at the beginning and tell them everything. By about nine-thirty Fiona and Rosie have finished the first bottle of wine and we sit in silence while the enormity of my story sinks in. I’m ready for a glass now so go off to find another bottle and leave them to say what they will about the latest mess I have made of my life. I switch on the oven while I’m in the kitchen and put in the pasta bake that Rosie made earlier. I’m starving and I expect they are too by now. I go back into the lounge and they are still sitting in silence.
‘More wine,’ I say, and pour large measures all round.
Chapter 14
July 2010
Monday 5th July 2010
Manchester Airport: Terminal 1. 21:40 on a Monday night and the anoraks are still crowded around the big windows watching the planes being parked and towed. There are five middle-aged men with big bellies, grubby t-shirts, cameras, notebooks and pens, and an unnatural enthusiasm for aircraft. I can understand being interested if you’re just about to fly, but they are clearly not going anywhere. What do they see in it? Apart from the logos painted on the planes, what on earth is so fascinating? The red light on the Air Malta A320 (I only know it’s an A320 because one of them said it) flashes brightly against the dusky sky, its Maltese Cross white against its red tail. It follows dutifully behind Tompson.com, obeying instructions to the letter. I should be going to Europe. I like Malta and Spain. Abu Dhabi is too far away, even for me, but they’re crying out for accountants there and it was easy for me to get a job. It’s all pointless anyway because it doesn’t matter where I go. I never escape from it; the memories and the mistakes and the upsets go with me everywhere. The luggage wagon trundles past the window towards the Etihad A330 (I only know it’s an A330 because it’s the plane I’m going on) and I think I can see my luggage. I haven’t got much but with my inheritance at least I can afford decent leather cases. It’s good to have nice things again and I vow never to have to lower my standards like I did in Carlisle.
My new job pays a lot of money so next time I fly it’ll be first class. I daren’t do it yet in case it doesn’t work out. I must keep telling myself that it will work out. I’ll make sure it does this time. I’ll have to get used to not drinking in public but that’s OK, I’ll have wine in the flat. The company flat that I can have for six months looks lovely in the DVD they sent me. It’s brand new and overlooking the sea. I think it will suit me very well, and will be great when Fiona and Rosie come for Christmas.
I go to the bar to get another glass of wine. Airports are easy for women alone. No one gives a second glance as I sit here on a red plastic seat at a round, grey plastic table with a large glass of Pinot Noir. It’s not like Carlisle where, if you sit in a bar or a restaurant drinking on your own, you’re either sad and lonely, or you’ve been stood up, or you’re on the pull.
That was one of the many good things about Joanna’s cafe bar; you could just sit there.
Acknowledgments:
In chronological order, thank you:
To my family, friends and colleagues who have provided encouragement and support throughout even though I never let them read the work in progress. Really – thank you so much.
To Eliza Mood and my peers during our MA in Creative Writing, especially Kerry Walker for the seed of the story and Nick Hazlewood for his local knowledge and for remembering an incident that happened in Hexham.
To Jim Bennet for showing me a way to con an old man out of some money!
To Louise Doggart for the information on dementia and to Fiona who gave me the book called And Still the Music Plays by Graham Stokes.
To Georgina Perkins for advice with police procedure.
To Amelia Heald and Kate Armstrong for reading Judith and giving me a push towards publishing.
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