‘How’s Mum?’ she asks again, yet I know she’s not expecting another answer. ‘Make you drink,’ she says, opening the cupboard. The bottle of vodka is laid out for me; Dad’s whisky is ready for him.
She hands me my vodka, which I take gratefully. ‘Bells, you really are amazing.’
Dad walks into the kitchen. ‘Bells has made pancakes for supper and fixed us a drink,’ I tell him and he smiles.
‘How delicious. Thank you, darling.’
‘I might take my drink up with me, have a bath,’ I say, prising my heavy body from my seat.
‘Sit down, Dad,’ Bells insists, guiding him to a chair. ‘Sit.’
I walk upstairs and into my bedroom. Bells has made my bed – just as she has done each day since the operation.
I find myself walking into Mum and Dad’s bedroom. She has stripped that too and there are clean sheets waiting to be put on; all of Dad’s dirty laundry is in the wicker basket by the door. I notice she has placed the photograph of Mum and Dad’s wedding by his bedside light. Bells is like our fairy godmother. I sit down on the bed and pick up the photograph. It’s funny to think she and I weren’t born when that picture was taken; it was the two of them together, starting out. Mum was twenty-six when she married. At the age I now am she would have had me.
I don’t even hear Bells sitting down next to me. ‘Mum all right?’ she presses again.
‘She’s fine. She wants to come home though. She hates hospitals.’ As I speak I realize that wasn’t the most sensitive thing to say in front of her. ‘Sorry, you more than anyone know what I mean.’ I put my head into my hands.
‘What wrong?’
‘I’m tired.’
‘How’s Sam?’
‘We’re not going out any more.’
‘Not nice, Sam.’
‘He was all right.’ I hold the wedding picture in front of both of us.
‘Beautiful Mum,’ Bells says.
‘Very.’ I put the photograph back on the table. ‘Thank you for making my bed, thank you for everything, Bells. You’ve done so much these last few weeks. Dad and I, well, we couldn’t have managed without you.’
Bells rocks forward, scratching her forehead. I don’t think she knows what to say or do when someone compliments her. ‘In Wales, have cleaning rota,’ she tells me. ‘Clean Ted’s room. Ted my friend.’
I smile at her. ‘Ted’s lucky. I want someone to make things better, Bells. For you, Dad, for me, and for Mum, particularly Mum. I want us all to be happy.’
Right now I feel my entire life is slipping away from me.
‘Mum didn’t die like Uncle Roger,’ she says.
She’s right. I know I should be feeling fortunate. Mum is going to be all right. Yet, now that we know she’s going to get better, I can’t help thinking about everything else. My job doesn’t feel that important any more, I have no Sam – not that he’s a great loss, but I do miss that feeling of security. I have no home. I’m worried for Dad. I’m worried about Mum and how we are going to cope when she comes home. I’m worried about everything; it’s no wonder I can’t sleep. Bells is the one ray of light. Alone, Dad and I would have been eating takeaways and sleeping on grubby sheets.
‘Do you get lonely, Bells?’
‘At times.’
‘When?’
‘Night-time.’
‘Me too. Why at night?’
‘Dark. Don’t like dark.’
‘I want everything to go back to normal. I want … hey, where are you going?’ I smile. She’s bored of me. No wonder. I stare up into the ceiling. Two minutes later I am still staring at the same spot until I feel a prod. Bells is standing in front of me with the telephone.
‘Who is it?’
‘Someone on phone for you.’
‘Who?’ I repeat, not feeling like talking to anyone. ‘Is it Emma?’
‘Mark.’
‘Mark?’ Bells has a strange sense of humour. I take the phone from her. ‘It’s Aunt Agnes, isn’t it?’
‘Katie?’ I can hear in the distance. ‘Hello. Katie?’
It’s definitely not Aunt Agnes because it’s a man’s voice. ‘Who is it?’
‘Mark.’
‘Mark nice man. Mark nice. Mark helps.’
‘Bells!’ I say, holding my hand across the mouthpiece. ‘Why did you call him? How did you get his number?’
‘Asked him to see us.’
‘Oh, bugger …’ I take my hand away from the mouthpiece. ‘Hi, Mark!’
‘Katie, I’m so sorry to hear about your mum.’
Hearing his voice makes me want to cry. ‘It’s OK, it’s fine. We’re fine,’ I stutter.
‘Bells asked me if I’d visit. I know this is weird, I hardly know you, but I’d like to. I mean, if there’s anything I can do to help, or …’
‘Bells would love to see you.’ I can’t believe he is on the phone. I tell him Mum is still in hospital and that they think she will be there for one more week, until she can walk independently. ‘Maybe you could come when she’s home?’ I suggest.
‘Fine. Just call me.’
‘That would be great,’ I say, realizing how much I would like to see him too.
After our conversation Bells claps her hands. ‘Mark coming!’
‘How did you get his number?’ I ask again.
‘Took it from bag. Had it in London.’
I can’t stop smiling. Mark is coming to see us. This is so random, so unexpected. Yet, at the same time, nothing feels more right.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Bells and I are standing on the station platform, waiting for Mark to arrive. Things are looking up, at last. Mum climbed ten stairs at the hospital and was finally discharged. She has been at home for two days. It is fantastic having her back. The only worrying thing is that already she’s trying to cook and do too much. Determined to get back to some semblance of normality, she was trying to make some homemade elderflower cordial, bent down to get a large bowl and then bashed her head against the cupboard. Her eyesight has been affected by the surgery and she often knocks or bumps into things. Dad rushed her to hospital as he was terrified she had dislodged the stitches. ‘The awkward squad is back,’ Mum said when the doctor told her she couldn’t keep away. Thankfully it was fine, nothing more than a nasty bruise.
‘Three minutes,’ Bells says, looking at the flashing sign hanging above the platform.
‘Two minutes … One minute … Mark!’ Bells waves.
He walks towards us. His hair looks unbrushed and he is wearing the round glasses that make him look like a professor. I can imagine him wearing a white coat and working in a laboratory. Instead, he’s wearing dark jeans, a pale blue striped shirt, and his face looks tanned. My face is a sickly drained colour from spending too much time in hospital. Bells hits his arm. ‘Hello, Mark.’
‘Hi, Bells.’ He shakes her hand. She hits him again, and he gently hits her back. Then he turns to me. It’s that awkward moment when we don’t know how to greet one another. Hug? Kiss? Hold hands? I lean towards him, ready to kiss formally on the cheek, but he pulls me towards him. ‘I couldn’t believe it when I heard the news. I’m so sorry.’
‘Thank you for coming,’ I say, falling into his arms and not wanting to let go.
*
When I open the front door Mum calls, ‘Darling, we’re in the kitchen.’ She’s longing to meet Mark. ‘Is this the nice chap who helped you find Bells?’ she’d asked, sensing there might be more to it.
Mark, Bells and I walk into the kitchen and are confronted by the sight of Mum, Dad and a rather plump man standing behind a trolley stacked high with wigs.
‘Hello, Mark,’ gushes Mum, holding out a hand. Mum loves men. I always suspect she wanted to have a son. ‘Katie, Bells, Mark,’ she says, examining him closely again to see if he could be potential husband material, ‘this is Mr Marshall, the wig man.’
He extends one thick hairy arm and shakes our hands. ‘Isn’t your mother doing well?’ he beams. ‘All we n
eed to do now is fit her up with a nice wig and then she’ll be the talk of the town!’
Mum pats her head nervously. Her hair hasn’t grown back apart from a few wisps. Dad tells her she looks like a fluffy chick.
Mr Marshall opens the first page of his portfolio. ‘This is Mrs Henderson, she had a terrible time of it, lost all her hair she did. You know that rare disease where it all falls out? For the life of me, I can’t remember what that disease is called. Anyway, she was lying in the bath, she was, and when she got out, all her hair was floating in the water. It was a terrible shock. She was beside herself.’
He shows us the picture of Mrs Henderson before and after. In the after shot she wears a brown wig that looks more like a wooden salad bowl tipped on to her head.
Mr Marshall takes us through the entire portfolio and by now I am dreading what he is going to suggest for Mum.
He closes his portfolio and we all wait with bated breath. ‘Now, how about this for starters?’ Mr Marshall bends down and takes a wig from his trolley. He holds up something ginger and cabbage-shaped, and I am dangerously close to laughing out loud. I know Mark is too, I can feel the vibes coming from him. Mum looks horrified. Dad is speechless. Bells roars with laughter. ‘Very funny,’ she says. ‘Ha-ha, very funny!’
Mr Marshall looks puzzled but gamely carries on. ‘This is a close match to your original colour. Shall we give it a go?’
He places it carefully on Mum’s head, smoothing it over and making sure there is not a single hair out of place. He proceeds to stand back in admiration. Mum looks at Dad, waiting for a reaction. Dad looks at me. I look at Mark. Mark turns to Bells.
‘You need a mirror,’ Mr Marshall says when none of us utters a word. He holds up a square mirror in front of Mum. ‘It looks super on you if I say so myself.’
Mum shrieks with dismay. ‘But I had auburn hair, like my daughter, Isabel.’ She glances at herself again and then quickly averts her eyes.
‘Mum, we can buy you some really pretty silk scarves,’ I suggest. ‘You don’t have to wear a wig.’
We all agree, except for Mr Marshall, who looks crestfallen as Dad and I show him out with his trolley of untouched wigs.
‘Thank you for coming anyway,’ Dad says quietly. ‘I’m sorry if we sounded rude or ungrateful, but I don’t think a wig’s the answer.’
‘No problem,’ Mr Marshall says, ‘but don’t hesitate to ring me if you change your mind. The wig door hasn’t been totally shut, I shall leave it, let’s say, slightly ajar.’
Dad and I try not to laugh again. The wig door?
‘’Bye for now.’ He bustles his trolley out of the door.
When we walk back into the kitchen Mum pats her head self-consciously. ‘It really is very nice of you to come and see us,’ she says to Mark, but I can tell her mind is still on that wig.
‘I think you made the right choice,’ he assures her. ‘A silk scarf will suit you.’
‘Bet you didn’t think I’d end up like this, did you, darling?’ Mum says to Dad, still touching her very short hair. ‘I hardly look the part, do I?’
Look the part, feel the part and you are the part, I can hear Sam chanting in front of the mirror as he shaves.
Dad steps forward and kisses the top of her head. ‘I love you, no matter what. You don’t ever need to hide behind your hair. What did we always say to you, Bells?’
‘You look world in the eye,’ she says.
‘Dad used to say it all the time when we were children,’ I explain to Mark.
‘That’s right,’ Dad confirms. ‘You look the world in the eye.’
CHAPTER THIRTY
Mum and I are watching an old black-and-white film on television, Roman Holiday with Audrey Hepburn. Mum’s making a new tapestry cushion. She can never sit still and do nothing. Her colour is returning and her mobility improving each day with physiotherapy.
She looks pretty in a rose-patterned scarf and large dangling earrings that I bought for her. When Mark came down for the day, Bells and I took him shopping. ‘They look like chandeliers hanging off your ears,’ he said, when I held the earrings up to my face. It was lovely seeing him. I don’t think he realized quite how much his visit had meant to us.
‘Katie, you need to think about going back to London,’ Mum says to me out of the blue.
‘What?’
‘You need to go home.’
‘No way. I can’t, not yet. Do you want another drink? Hot water with lemon?’
‘I’ll be all right,’ she reassures me. ‘I feel guilty, keeping you from your friends and your life.’
‘That doesn’t matter. God, nothing matters except you getting better.’
Mum puts her needle down and turns to me. ‘You’ve been wonderful but you can’t stay here for ever.’
‘But who’s going to make you breakfast in bed and cook? Dad can’t cook. No, we can’t leave you, not yet.’
‘I’m getting better all the time and your father is a good nurse. It’s time you and Bells went home.’
‘I’m not sure,’ I say nervously. The truth is the idea of leaving fills me with dread.
‘I’m sure. You need to start thinking about where you are going to live,’ she says with concern.
‘I don’t know …’
‘Katie.’ Mum puts her sewing on the table. ‘I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done.’
‘I haven’t done much.’
‘You have. Katie,’ Mum says again, ‘I’ve been a dreadful mother.’
I feel a rush of blood coming to the surface.
Yes, you have. You were too wrapped up in your work, you distanced yourself from me and put all your time into Bells, saving only a crumb for me. I felt invisible most of the time. I’ve always felt second-best with you. I never seemed to be good enough; it felt like you didn’t want to be involved in my life. That’s what I would have said to her six weeks ago. Yet none of it really matters now.
‘Mum, don’t …’
‘No! I want to. Let me.’ She pauses. ‘I’ve never been any good at saying how I feel. No better than you in fact.’ She laughs painfully. ‘I close up like an oyster.’ Mum’s voice is cracking around the edge like a broken shell. ‘If I can’t say it now, I’ll never be able to.’
‘OK, tell me.’
‘I’ve never let myself accept that I didn’t give you enough time, that you needed me as much as Bells, just in a different way. I should never have said how lucky you were not to have her problems, it was the easy way out. I didn’t applaud you in your own right. But look at you now. A beautiful successful woman …’
‘I’m not.’
‘You are. I’ve missed out on such a large chunk of your life, and I want to make up for it. I’m so sorry.’
‘You had a difficult, demanding child. I should have realized how hard it was for you and Dad instead of thinking about myself all the time. I admire you both so much for bringing us up, with no help. I admire you more than I can say.’
‘It wasn’t good enough, though. I’m your mother,’ she says, full of self-reproach. ‘If I can’t look after you, who can? I know I retreated into my own world. My work became everything because it took me away from the everyday grind. Then you left home and suddenly you didn’t need us any more. I’ve carried this guilt for neglecting you all my life. I buried it in my conscience.’
Mum stands up and walks slowly out of the room. ‘I’ve got something for you,’ she says. ‘Stay there.’
She returns, holding a small package wrapped in white tissue paper.
‘Mum, you didn’t have to.’
‘Open it.’ She sits next to me as I unwrap the present. It is an oval silver box with an inlay of tortoiseshell and inside is her precious tortoiseshell comb. ‘My mother gave both of them to me as a wedding present.’
‘I love this box, it’s beautiful. And your comb … you always wear it.’
‘Well, it seemed perfect timing,’ she says, adjusting her scarf. ‘Besides, I want you
to have them. It’s a thank-you for all you’ve done.’
I put the box down and hug Mum.
‘Why did it take us so long to talk? Why did it have to take this to bring us together?’ she asks, holding me close.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Back to normality. Back to stocktaking, ordering from suppliers, organizing the next fashion show. Back to yoga and swimming, going out again and socializing. Back to the daily grind of London; noise, traffic, rude people pushing and barging. It is terrifying.
I have moved in with Emma and Jonnie. They rent a small house with a garden near Turnham Green Terrace, and Emma insisted I stay in their spare room until the New Year, just before they get married. Being with her has made the move far less daunting and it’s ideal when they live so close to my shop and so near to Mark. I need to call him soon to let him know we’re temporary neighbours.
*
This evening I’m going to Jonnie’s parents’ home near Lisson Grove for supper. Since being back in London I haven’t seen that many people. Last week I went over to Sam’s to pick up my sewing machine. It was the last thing I had to collect. I still have keys so I went during my lunch hour when he was at work. His house looked exactly the same, not that I had expected it to change. Everything spotless and in the appropriate place. It didn’t look like I had ever lived there. I put the keys through the door. ‘’Bye, Sam,’ I said. As I predicted, he hasn’t been in touch since he heard the news about Mum.
As I wait in the sitting-room for the taxi, I look at Emma and Jonnie’s engagement photos taken in Battersea Park. They are in black and gilt cardboard folding frames. They remind me of those cards I used to be given with the end-of-year school photographs. ‘“The entire photograph was ruined because Katie decided to pull up her skirt and show us her knickers,”’ Mum would read out. She always waited for an explanation, but I was sure I could see a small smile trying not to surface. Just thinking about home makes me miss it. It’s ironic. All I wanted to do was leave home when I was a teenager. Now, it’s the only place I want to be. I felt safe there, harboured in a cocoon. I felt needed.
Letters From My Sister Page 17