How Hard Can It Be?

by Allison Pearson

  When I switch the phone back on two hours later, there is an email from Debra. (Subject: Shoot Me!) Don’t even bother to open that one, not another Tinder pervert cock-up. There’s a text from Emily, which, mercifully, is not acid at all. Says she’s meeting friends IRL instead of online. And one from Abelhammer – the sight of his name, as always, causing a feeling of deep delight, desire, bordering on helplessness, stronger than ever since our cream tea. I ask myself what it was in me that I set about hanging my heart around Jack’s neck with such abandon. I’ve never had a reckless moment in my life and yet now, with this man …

  Jack to Kate

  When will I see you again? When will we share precious moments? Can we at least get Afternoon Tea? In London tomorrow. I remain your devoted servant, J x

  Kate to Jack

  Are you really reduced to quoting the Three Degrees at me? It used to be Shakespeare. My mum had a fall and I’m at the hospital with her. Won’t be back down South for a few days. Maybe tomorrow. Miss you. K xx

  Jack to Kate

  Really sorry about your mum. Can I help? Just say the word and I will leap tall buildings in a single bound. I knew you’d be familiar with the next line of the song, that’s all. (*‘Roy, Three Degrees lyrics, please.’) XXO

  Mum seems a lot brighter after her sleep. She asks me to look in her handbag for her reading glasses. I notice her building society book has got a wad of notes in it. That’s odd. Must be at least two hundred pounds. Not like my mother to carry lots of cash. I let the book fall open in the place where the notes are and spot a dark cluster of recent withdrawals on the right-hand page. £1,700, £2,600, £3,300, £950. £2,100. Good grief.

  ‘Have you been on a bit of a spree, Mum?’

  ‘What’s that, love?’

  ‘I know you wanted a new carpet, but I didn’t know it was going to be woven from gold.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not for the carpet, love,’ she smiles, taking her glasses from my hand. ‘Our Julie says you need to pass money on to your children while you’re young enough or the government’ll take it off you later on. That’s right, isn’t it?’ A sudden note of doubt in her voice.

  Steady, Kate, steady. ‘Yes, yes, that’s right. You’re allowed to give so much as a gift, Mum, every year. It’s very kind of you.’

  ‘Julie says you and the children can have some as well.’

  ‘We’re fine, Mum, don’t you worry. You hang onto your nest egg.’At that moment, I notice my sister standing perfectly still in the doorway. I’ve seen that look on her face before. Forty years before. When the coins I was soaking overnight in vinegar to clean for Brownies went missing, and Julie swore she hadn’t seen them.

  We don’t exchange a single word on the drive back to Julie’s house. My sister lives behind the school where Mum used to work as a dinner lady, ten minutes’ walk from our mother’s house. I haven’t been here for a while and there have been definite moves to smarten up the estate. New windows on some of the houses, potholes filled in. One place that had been boarded up, after a problem family was moved, is being rebuilt. The year is still young, and the wind unkind, but the sun has come out for the occasion.

  Julie says nothing as she fishes the front-door keys from her bag, lets us in, takes me through to the kitchen, and puts the kettle on. Then she stands with her back to the counter, still in her coat, and faces me.

  ‘Go on, say it,’ she says.

  ‘What? Say that you’ve been helping yourself to Mum’s savings account, telling her she needs to give her money to you or it’ll be taken off her?’

  ‘You’re the financial whizz kid.’

  ‘Julie.’

  ‘OK, OK, our Steven got himself in a bit of trouble online. Kept trying to tell you about it, but you’re always busy.’

  ‘What kind of trouble?’ Steven is in his twenties now, still living at home, still looking for a job, though never looking too far from the sofa, as far as I can tell. His father left years ago and there have been a couple of live-in boyfriends since, neither of them good enough for my sister.

  ‘Something to do with betting,’ Julie says, snatching the tea towel from the ring by the sink and squeezing it tight in her fist. ‘All I know is he thought he was on a winning streak and it got out of hand.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Twenty-four grand.’

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘Yeah, but what I didn’t know is he thought he could borrow to pay it off. One of them day things.’

  ‘Payday loans.’

  ‘That’s the one. Well, they came to the door and he was shitting himself …’

  ‘Have you got the contract?’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Steven must have signed something for the loan.’

  ‘I don’t know, I’ll have to ask. He’s probably lost it. He loses everything, that lad.’

  ‘Sounds like Ben. Can’t find his own socks when they’re on his feet.’ Trying to reach out here, soothe the moment, find some common ground. It doesn’t work. My sister flies back at me.

  ‘If that lad of yours can’t find a bloody sock it’s because you’ve spoiled him rotten and fetched and carried and—’

  ‘Julie, please—’

  ‘Please nothing, you take them on fancy holidays, where was it this year? And oh, Mummy, can I have a new PlayStation, please Mum, the old one’s out of date. And Mummy, I’m worried about how many A bloody stars I’m going to get in my exams, please can I have a special tutor to help, like all the other rich tossers’ kids? And meanwhile poor Auntie Julie, proper poor, who lives up North in a house the size of your kitchen, oh, she’s fine, she can take care of Grandma, right? I mean, it’s not like she’s got anything better to do.’

  ‘That’s not—’

  ‘And oh, Mummy would love to help Auntie Julie out, but she’s ever so busy helping people with too much fucking money make some more money, you know, just in case they run out of helicopters, ’cos you never know, do you? Like you want to get to Abi bloody Dabi in a rush, and money can buy you everything, right, especially with Mummy on your case. I mean, money really can buy you love, can’t it, Kath?’

  ‘No, it can’t.’ I’m staring down at the floor.

  ‘Well, let’s find out, eh? Let’s hope that some of that lovely cash comes out of the fucking skies, what do they call it, the trickle-down? Trickle all the way into Steven’s pocket, so’s the men won’t come knocking at the door at half past six in the morning. Next time they said they’d bring a dog. Well, I love that lad, he’s a fucking idiot but I love him, he’s mine, and he’s got no A levels, none, and no bloody tutors, thank you, and no father to speak of, he’s got debts up to his ears and he’s scared shitless, and if I have to borrow money from Mum, our mum, to stop that, then yes I bloody well will. ’Cos money can’t buy you love, can it, but it can stop someone from going up to your kid and breaking his fucking arm, and that’ll do me. That’s love where I come from. Where you come from, in case you’ve forgotten.’

  My sister stops for breath, chest heaving, like a long-distance runner. I make no reply, but get the jar of coffee out of the cupboard and the milk from the fridge. Make two large mugs, set them on the table, and sit down. Julie stays where she is. Then she fetches a tin of biscuits and puts them between us.

  ‘Not your fancy kind,’ she says.

  ‘Thank God. I hate fancy biscuits.’

  ‘You’re just saying that.’

  ‘No, I’m not. Like I hate posh chocolates.’

  ‘Never had them.’

  ‘You haven’t missed much. Client gave me a box he brought from Switzerland, made a big fuss about how special they were. Told me to keep them in the fridge because they had fresh cream in them.’

  ‘That’s disgusting.’

  ‘Too right. I had one and it was all oily. Like conditioner. So I rearranged the rest and did the bow up and gave them to someone else as a birthday present at work. Then I got the biggest bar of Fruit & Nut I could find and ate the whole thing.�
��

  Julie puts her hands around her mug, for warmth. ‘So we haven’t lost you completely then?’ she asks.

  ‘Lost me?’

  ‘To all the tossers.’

  ‘Never will do, love. Don’t worry.’ I reach out and take a custard cream. As I take a first bite, I see Richard’s face wincing. Unrefined carbs! He’d probably make biscuits illegal.

  ‘Julie?’

  ‘Still here.’

  ‘So, if we borrow some of it from Mum now and I give some – sorry, I haven’t got that kind of money going spare with Richard not working – will Steven be all right? Or is there some rolling clause that keeps him in debt forever?’

  ‘I, I don’t know. I just have this bad feeling he’ll get sucked back in.’

  ‘That’s not going to happen. But look, one thing about the tossers. I mean the tossers I work with. They know about loans. It’s what they do.’

  ‘Yeah, but those are for millions and millions. Steven’s unemployed.’

  ‘Same principle. I give you a fiver, or five hundred million, doesn’t matter. We agree the terms and then you pay me back. That’s why, if there is a piece of paper about Steven’s loan, or even an email, it would be a big help. Then I can show it to a friend at the office and we’ll work this out. Honestly, it’ll be fine.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘I think. The only bit that really worries me about all this is Mum.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I mean, you know what she’s like. She’d give us the clothes off her back if we asked her for them—’

  ‘Or even if we didn’t.’

  ‘Exactly. But that’s all the more reason not to take advantage of her on the quiet.’

  ‘But if I told her the real reason why I needed the money, can you imagine, it would kill her. Steven got the flu last year and she was calling every ten minutes, said she couldn’t sleep with the worry. Imagine if I said there were these big blokes at the door wanting to beat him up. She’d bloody die.’

  ‘I know, you’re right.’ I sigh and sip my coffee. ‘It’s not the white lies, Christ, look at me. Not telling the truth is like my basic diet.’

  ‘Thought that were Fruit & Nut.’

  ‘Chocolates and lies. Sounds like a film.’

  ‘What lies do you tell, then?’

  ‘Well, everyone at work thinks I’m forty-two for a start.’ At which my sister laughs – the first happy sound she’s made all day. Go with the happiness, Kate, while it lasts.

  ‘How come?’

  ‘I couldn’t get a job if I told them I was going on fifty.’

  ‘You’re fucking joking,’ my sister objects, suddenly on my side again. ‘What’s up with fifty? Do they think your brain dries up with your womb or what?’

  ‘That’s about it.’

  ‘Rubbish. You were always the brightest. Not like me. You got things before anyone else saw there was anything to get. Our Steven, he’s like you with arithmetic. Barely has to see a column of figures before he’s got the answer. Daft bugger thought he could beat the odds, though, and no one does that, do they?’

  ‘Julie, I want to make a contribution to Mum’s care. You do so much, you’re on call twenty-four seven.’

  ‘I’m not taking your money. I don’t need paying to look after our mother.’

  Here’s the nub of it. Money may not be the root of all evil, but scrape back the earth a little and it’s the seed of most family resentments. ‘Look, if you weren’t here Mum’d be on her own and we’d have to be paying someone to go in, wouldn’t we? Remember my friend Debra? Well, her mum’s got dementia and they’re paying one thousand two hundred quid a week for some place on the South coast. Daylight robbery. You’ll do a much better job than any care worker and Mum’ll need a lot of help when she comes out. Because we’ve got you nearby we’re saving all that money. It makes financial sense if I give you something every month.’

  I can see that mentioning financial sense has been helpful for Julie’s pride. It mustn’t look like charity.

  ‘Well,’ she says cautiously, ‘if you think I’m worth it. Not going to lie, it’ll be a big help way things have been here.’ My sister reaches across the table and takes my hands.

  ‘Kath, I’m sorry about what I said …’

  ‘No, you’re right. My life’s a mess. It’s a mess with money and a nice house, but it’s still a mess.’

  ‘Try a mess without money some time.’

  ‘Could happen, Julie. I may have to sell the helicopter. Well, the backup one, anyway. The standby chopper at the bottom of the garden. I mean, what a bloody disaster.’

  ‘How would little Ben get to school on time?’

  ‘Poor lamb.’

  ‘With one sock.’

  ‘Now you’ll make me cry.’ For a minute, we are twelve and fourteen again, giggling on our beds about boys. Some things never change. Not many, just a handful, but enough.

  Friday, 7.21 am, Beesley Cottage Hospital car park: As if to prove his Auntie Julie right, my pampered princeling woke up this morning, noticed that his personal maid was absent and was not impressed.

  Ben to Kate

  Wheres football shorts

  Kate to Ben

  Did you check the bottom drawer in your chest of drawers where the summer sports kit is kept? Xx

  Ben to Kate

  not there

  Kate to Ben

  You can do better than that, sweetheart. Check the chest of drawers again and then ask Daddy to help you. Did Sam borrow them after the sleepover? I just have to talk to Grandma’s nurse, but I will get back to you in 10 minutes.

  Ben to Kate

  not my responsability. When u back

  Kate to Ben

  Responsibility has three ‘i’s, mister! And it sort of is your responsibility as you’re a big boy now. Grandma is a lot better and I’ll be home tonight. Remember to eat breakfast and take two Omega fruit softies – in orange bottle next to the bread bin. Remember to wear your bike helmet, OK? And make sure your phone is charged not like last time! Miss you. Xx

  Kate to Richard

  Please can you stop meditating or whatever it is you’re doing and help Ben find his football stuff? My mum’s fine in case you were wondering. Kx

  Correcting Ben’s spelling of ‘responsibility’ could be seen as ‘unsupportive’ and ‘hypercritical’, which are specifically forbidden by Parenting Teens in the Digital Age. Book says I need to ‘tweak’ my parenting skills ‘to keep up with the developing young adult’. Apparently, this means ‘strengthening child compliance through positive reinforcement’.

  Bugger that. Julie’s right. I need to stop babying Benjamin and help him to grow up.

  Richard to Kate

  Calm down please. I am picking up a lot of negative energy which is very destructive. Everything is absolutely fine here. Please give Jean my love.

  9.44 am: The senior nurse has invited me to take a seat in her office, a pleasant room with French windows looking onto a green space – you couldn’t call it a garden exactly – with newly planted young trees: birch, I think. Mum would know, so would Sally. On the wall behind Nurse Clark is one of those year planners; it bristles with coloured stickers and reminders for medication to be given.

  She has just handed me a clutch of forms about ‘continuing care needs’ when a call from Jay-B jangles my mobile into life. Ben’s latest prank is to give his technophobic parent the ringtone of a phone circa 1973, when my mother still used to go into the ice-cold hall, pick up the receiver and say, ‘Batley Four-Two-Nine’. That world of telephone exchanges and operators who spoke with the clipped consonants of Celia Johnson feels impossibly distant.

  Since her fall, past and present have blurred for my mother. One minute, she is here with me in the present day, the next she is holding my hand and taking us, Julie and me in our matching pinafore dresses, to Sunday school. Mum made those dresses herself from a Simplicity pattern; I remember her kneeling on the floor, holding pins in h
er teeth, as she carefully laid the paper on the material. No matter how little money we had, she always wanted her children to look smart. I inherited that from her.

  ‘They’re dead complicated, them forms,’ says the nurse.

  I don’t like her. I made up my mind about that the minute we met. I don’t like her harshness disguised as jollity. She is cruel, I think. I don’t like the way she talks about my mother as if she weren’t there, or adopts the sing-song voice you use to a small child when addressing her. But, please observe, how strenuously nice I am to the nurse! My face aches from using every reserve of charm I possess. I treat her like my most important and most difficult client. I need her to like me because I am about to leave my mother in her hands, and I fear that, if I annoy her for some reason, or she thinks I’m some posh Southern cow, then she could take it out on Mum.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, glancing down at the mobile, ‘but I want to get the best support for Mum that I can.’ A second voicemail from Jay-B – oh, hell. I can practically hear his manicured fingernails drumming on his desk. Need to get back.

  ‘Not bad news, I hope?’ says the nurse eagerly. ‘Now, please don’t worry about your mum, Kate. She’s our responsibility and we’ll make sure she’s fine until she’s right enough to go home.’

  ‘Thank you so much, you’re very kind. My sister, Julie, she’ll be in this afternoon. Can you give Mum my love when she wakes up?’

  ‘Of course we will. Your cab’s here.’

  On the way out, I look in on my mother who is in a deep sleep. The tube in her left hand has created a throbbing, inky blue vein which looks painful. Every time I leave her, since the heart attack, every time, the same unspoken thought: is this the last time I’ll see you? Wish I could stay. Can’t stay. Duty calls. But duty also says this is where you should be. After all these years, I’m still serving two masters: love and work.