Mother Can You Hear Me?

by Margaret Forster

  ‘What do you think of her?’ Father said. ‘Eh?’

  ‘She seems pretty ill.’

  ‘Oh, she’s that all right. I don’t think you’ll have had a wasted journey.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter about the journey.’

  ‘Children all right?’

  ‘Fine.’

  Valerie came out of the downstairs sitting room that had been turned into a bedroom. She was tiptoeing and had her finger to her lips. She sat down beside Father and sighed, passing a hand over her forehead.

  ‘Have you changed her?’ Father asked.

  ‘She wasn’t wet,’ Valerie said, ‘I’ve just looked. I’ve washed her face and rubbed some salve on her lips. I’ve taken the quilt off and put a heavier one on instead and another blanket. But I’ve opened the side window just a crack to let some air in and—’

  ‘Oh no,’ Father said, and got up. ‘No, no, no—not an open window. Definitely not.’

  ‘But it’s so hot and stuffy,’ Valerie protested, ‘it’s not healthy to—’

  ‘I’ll say what’s healthy,’ Father said. ‘In this rain—and her so cold—you’ll kill her,’ and he went towards Mother’s door.

  ‘Don’t go in now,’ Valerie said, ‘you’ll waken her—I’ll creep in and do it if you insist.’

  ‘I can creep myself,’ Father said.

  He opened the door, watched by both daughters, who knew his clumsiness. He stepped carefully inside, leaving it open, and began to move round the bed in the narrow space between wardrobe and dressing table, but with his eyes fixed on the offending window towards which he edged his way he forgot the little stool that jutted out from beneath the washstand and tripped over it. Putting out his liver-spotted old hand to steady himself he pulled the lace mat off the chest of drawers and brought down the tin-framed photograph of Mother’s mother. ‘Goddam,’ he said, and looked towards the bed. Mother did not stir. He got to the window and closed it and stood for a while fussing with the curtains. Then he went over to the bed and twitched the blankets and felt Mother’s head, and shook his own.

  ‘I think I’ll go for a quick walk,’ Angela said, when they had all taken up their positions again and the silence grew.

  ‘In this rain,’ Father said.

  ‘I don’t mind rain.’

  ‘It was wet coats and shoes I was thinking of,’ Father said, ‘not you minding the rain. Wet things in the house—that was what I was meaning. At a time like this, in her condition.’

  ‘I’ll hang my coat in the washhouse when I come back.’

  ‘And wet hair?’

  ‘I’ll dry it.’

  Father pursed his lips and started jabbing with the poker at a big piece of coal on the fire.

  ‘No consideration,’ he said, ‘always the same.’

  ‘Want some coal brought in when I’ve got my coat on?’ Angela asked.

  ‘There’s plenty coal in the bin.’

  ‘Coming, Valerie?’

  ‘Oh no—I’ll stay with Mother,’ Valerie said with a tired martyred smile. ‘I’m exhausted anyway.’

  She walked to the cemetery. There wasn’t much choice. Two slabs of land owned by the council, one for the dead and one for a huge sprawling estate where she had spent half her life. Her bedroom window had overlooked the cemetery—it was the first thing she saw each day, those white tombstones and the long rows of yew trees leading upwards to the new crematorium. She had a great affection for it, not finding it in the least morbid or depressing to spend hours walking in it. It was extremely well laid out, very formal, with broad poplar-lined paths and little iron-work bridges over thin trickling streams which appeared to irrigate the dead. There were flowers everywhere—not just wreaths, poor shrivelled things, but rows and rows of blazing geraniums beneath the trees and enormous square beds of vulgar, vivid dahlias at all the intersections. All her relations, both the Trewicks and the Nancarrows, both sides were buried there. Father used to take them round all the graves every Sunday morning and she had never thought it the least odd. Indeed, the tombs of her ancestors had always impressed and satisfied her. James George Trewick, her great-grandfather, was the oldest of them all, buried in the only overgrown corner of the cemetery where the trees and bushes had thickened around the graves to form an almost impenetrable wall. She knew the dates off by heart—born 23 January 1832, died 1 November 1894. Her favourite was her great uncle William’s because he was born and died on the same day with exactly fifty years between, but the prettiest grave was her Mother’s mother. Of pale grey stone, an angel stood with spread wings above the oblong of turf where Beatrice Nancarrow lay beneath a giant sycamore tree. The wings from the tree were deemed a menace every year and as a child she had been set to gather them up and put them in the green grass-clippings box beside the stream. She would come with her Mother and Valerie on a Tuesday afternoon when they were little and Mother would take a small pair of shears out of her shopping basket—wrapped in a thick cloth for fear of accidents—and a cushion to kneel on—for fear of rheumatics—and she would laboriously cut the grass on the six feet by four feet oblong grave. Angela would be sent to get water from the trough and then she and Valerie would dip small scrubbing brushes into the water and dab them with scouring powder and scrub the stone angel, who was encrusted with scaly black stuff. They never got much of it off, but the sight of it distressed Mother so much they always tried very hard. Most of Mother’s distress was about things like that, out of proportion and puzzling to a child, but none the less distressing. When they had done all they could, they would find a bench in a shady place and have a drink and a biscuit. The atmosphere came back to Angela strongly as she followed the twisting narrow paths that connected the main thoroughfares. Of contentment, of basking in Mother’s approbation and enjoying a job shared with her. It had bound them very close. It had been easy, sitting there, to curb her vitality and control her exuberance the way all of them tried to do with Mother. To suit Mother, to gain her approbation.

  The beautiful baby cried a great deal. Angela took it home and looked after it devotedly, enjoying the need to wash so many nappies and clothes, enjoying the slavery and the chance to prove how anxious she was to do the right thing, but the baby cried and drove her frantic. It gained weight, it was pronounced fit and well, it was not sick but it cried. She seemed to have no natural instinct that told, her what was wrong and no natural ability to deal with the problem. And the crying was so heartbreaking, so desperate and insistent. She tried putting the baby where she could not hear it but then worry forced her to go and listen. Mother said, ‘You can’t expect perfection’ and the clinic said, ‘Babies do cry’ but neither source of wisdom consoled her. She felt it was her fault when the baby cried and could not forgive it. She cried herself with self-pity and resented the hours spent walking up and down, up and down, holding the small sweaty bundle of unhappiness that was her baby. She loved it so much, she had tried so hard, it was so unfair. The neighbourhood was full of neglected babies who slept all day and night and never caused a twinge of concern. She felt terrified, sure that she had taken on—wilfully—a role she could not fulfil. She wasn’t like Mother. She wasn’t patient and tender and quiet. Her poor baby would notice the difference.

  ‘Mother, can you hear me? It’s Angela.’ She sat where Valerie had sat, her wet hair wrapped in a towel to appease Father. Mother opened her eyes and tried to smile. It was hard to know whether to talk to her. My voice will come from a long way off, Angela thought, and it will not be clear to her. All she can appreciate is my physical presence, my being there. The hugs, the strangling hugs she had once given Mother—oh, the crushing, bruising kisses, the tight gripped hand-holds, the all-embracing cuddles so that Mother cried out for breath and Father shouted, Stop that. And the caresses, the endearments—‘I love you so much, so-so much, I love-love-love you—oh I love you best in the whole world’—on and on until Father was goaded into a fury. She had never wondered why. Mother did not object. Mother remained passive but allowed the d
emonstrative display to continue. But to take Mother in her arms now was impossible. It was hard even to kiss her convincingly, though it was not physical distaste that prevented an embrace—it was fear that Mother would find her out, would sense the difference between what had been and what now was. Even if it was what Mother most wanted and needed it was the last thing she could give.

  Valerie crept in, revived by the revolting milky sugary drink she had made herself. She sat on the other side of the bed, her face solemn and lugubrious. She spoke to Mother in a sickening creepy whisper that Angela found patronizing. She wanted to say to her sister ‘Oh for christ’s sake shut up’ but didn’t. Valerie crumbled too easily. She was the youngest child, a wartime baby, a clear mistake yet loved more freely by Mother than any of the four of them. Once, when Valerie aged two had been in hospital with scarlet fever and had just returned home, weak in the legs, Mother had cried out to Angela, ‘Oh look at her—the darling!’ and Angela had hated her.

  The hatred, over the years, had been distilled into irritation and lately into indifference. Valerie was welcome to Mother.

  ‘What do you think?’ Valerie whispered, leaning over the bed and peering into Angela’s face. ‘What are you smiling at?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘I don’t see why. What have I said?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You aren’t very nice, Angela, in the circumstances.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘All I asked was what you thought about Mother—about whether you thought—you know—if she’ll—’

  ‘Die?’

  ‘Sssh!’ Valerie put a hand over her own mouth, and gestured towards Mother, an expression of the greatest anguish on her face.

  ‘No,’ said Angela, I don’t think she will. Unfortunately.’

  ‘Oh, Angela!’

  ‘Oh, Valerie. She’s old and tired and unhappy. Why want it prolonged?’

  ‘You used to cry when Mother was ill—you used to have nightmares that she would die—you used to wake up screaming, I remember you did, and that was why, and now you’re so callous, it’s horrible.’

  The room used to swim with blood—everything that was brown became blood—the chest of drawers, the wardrobe, the end of the bed, the door, the window ledge, the linoleum surrounds on the floor—blood everywhere and Mother dead. And she did scream, until Mother came and held her tightly and kissed her brow and soothed her sobbing. ‘I dreamed you d-d-died,’ she wailed and Mother said, ‘Well, I’m not dead. I’m alive,’ and the reassurance was bliss, almost worth the horror of the dream that had gone before. Mother was alive. She would fall asleep happy and comforted totally. Nothing else in the whole world mattered except that Mother was not dead.

  ‘Just think,’ Valerie said, breathing heavily and flushed with anger, ‘just think what it feels like to be Mother.’

  ‘You know, do you?’

  ‘I try—even if I’m not a Mother myself—I try—and I can’t imagine anything worse than lying in bed desperately ill feeling—’

  ‘Oh shut up, Valerie. You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Valerie began to weep. Her shoulders shook alarmingly: the large tears plopped onto the blue nylon eiderdown, staining it. Making Valerie cry was so easy. Mother used to get so cross—‘Leave the poor little thing alone,’ she would say, as Valerie’s fat, tear-streaked face came into view—‘Don’t torment her so.’ ‘She torments me,’ Angela had cried, but Mother didn’t believe it. Watching Valerie yet again on Mother’s knee being cuddled and petted Angela would vow secret vengeance. She forced Valerie to play games she did not want to play and terrorized her when Mother was out of the house. They were never allies, except against Father.

  Angela got off the bed and sat on the only chair. She picked up Mother’s Bible, full of texts and cuttings from the Parish Magazine, and held it in front of her face so Valerie would feel ignored. Mother read the Bible every day with self-conscious virtue. Father, who did not believe a word of it, quite liked her to do it and if she was low would push it upon her—‘Here, Mother, see what the good book can do for you. Valerie alone of the four of them had followed in her footsteps. In the part of Manchester where she lived she was a pillar of the church, never away from the place—so much so that Father cruelly alleged she had her eye on the curate. The two older brothers, Tom and Harry, never went near any religious establishment but since they were in Australia it was Angela’s defection that hurt most.

  Cautiously, after a few minutes flicking, Angela lowered the book. Valerie had composed herself. Her nose was red and shiny and her eyes still swam behind the huge spectacles but she was quiet.

  ‘I’ll stay up tonight if you like,’ Angela said, ‘I haven’t done it yet.’

  Valerie nodded. ‘You won’t keep Father out,’ she said, ‘he comes and goes all night—never settles.’ They stayed silent for a while, the silly squabble forgotten. Mother’s gasping filled the tiny cramped room, up and down, up and down, with a rumbling, rough sound every few breaths that was most alarming of all. With nothing to do they were acutely aware of each other.

  ‘How are the children?’ Valerie said, eventually, and Angela knew she must be kind.

  ‘Fine. Sadie thinks of nothing but boys and pop music, Max is all football, Saul loves school and Tim loves me. That’s about it.’

  ‘You are lucky,’ and Valerie sighed. A familiar theme. ‘Just like Mother,’ Valerie went on, ‘four children—except only one girl.’

  ‘Fortunately,’ Angela said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That I only have one girl.’

  ‘But why—Mother preferred girls—do you remember how thrilled we were when she said she loved her boys but she liked girls best? And only recently she said to me boys were a washout, never came near after they were grown up, just grew away from you, but girls grew closer.’

  ‘Oh god,’ Angela said.

  ‘What’s the matter? It was a compliment—you and I have stayed close.’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ Angela said, ‘I feel a million miles away. Boys have the right idea.’

  ‘I don’t understand you,’ Valerie said, ‘I don’t really. Don’t you like Mother? Don’t you like Sadie? What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘I think you should go to bed,’ Angela said.

  Father took a long time pretending to settle down for the night. He reappeared twice after he had officially retired upstairs to say, ‘Aren’t you going to ring them up at home? Eh?’ ‘No,’ said Angela carelessly. ‘Why should I?’ ‘Oh, you’re not like your Mother,’ Father muttered, shuffling off, ‘not like her at all—she’d have fussed and fretted about you all, worrying herself sick.’ And worrying us with her incessant worrying, Angela thought. I won’t do it. I don’t want that kind of relationship—I want to cut through it, I want no guilt or remorse, I want Sadie to be as free as air. All the long uncomfortable night she sat thinking about her vow never to tie her children to her apron strings, never to give them cause to want rid of her. She had intended to cut the knots herself before they were tightened. She must not need her children too much. They must not need her too much. But that kind of balance was proving so hard to maintain.

  Towards morning she woke from a doze to see the light coming through the thin curtains. There was something different about the room. With a start of alarm she realized she could no longer hear Mother’s awful breathing. Jumping up, she bent over the sleeping form in the bed thinking only that Father would never forgive her if he had not been called and Mother had died. But she wasn’t dead. Her breathing had simply become normal, or near normal, and to hear it one had to go closer and listen. Angela felt Mother’s forehead and looked critically at her complexion. There was no doubt she was improving. Smiling, Angela went quietly into the kitchen and made herself some tea. She took it back into the bedroom, relieved that she had not woken Valerie or Father, and sat sipping it feeling amused. Another sinking fast journey over. Mother’s resilience was staggering—
one could not help being amazed by it.

  ‘Hello, Angela,’ Mother said, and Angela was so startled she spilled some of the tea. Mother’s eyes were fully open and clear. She smiled and raised her hand slightly and Angela felt extraordinarily happy.

  Two

  THEY PUT ON a marvellous show for the District Nurse when she arrived, neat and punctual, in her red Mini.

  ‘In my day,’ Father said, with a smirk, ‘in my day the nurse—if you could get one, like—she had a bike, an old push bike and lucky to have that. Cycled miles in all weathers and thought nothing of it—no cars in them days, not for nurses.’

  But it was all part of Father’s patter and the District Nurse was familiar with it. ‘I’ll go away again and come back on a bike if it’ll please you, Mr Trewick.’ ‘Want a cup of tea?’ Father said, pleased.

  They clustered round Mother’s bed while the District Nurse pronounced herself astonished—Mother’s progress was remarkable. Phrases like ‘over the worst’ and ‘on the mend’ flew through the stifling air and when the District Nurse said the room could do with being a little less hot Father had the window open in a flash, only saying, ‘You’re taking a chance, mind.’ He leaned against the wardrobe watching the application of ointments and creams. ‘Had a perm over the weekend, then,’ he said. The District Nurse smiled slightly but Mother was improved enough to let out a little moan of distress at Father’s familiarity.

  ‘Yes, I have, as a matter of fact,’ she said.

  ‘Going to a wedding or something?’

  ‘You’re very cheeky for an old gentleman,’ Angela said, and squeezed Mother’s hand to show her she knew how she felt.

  ‘I’m not cheeky,’ Father said, ‘just showing an interest, that’s all, something you could do with doing. Anyways, I’m not old, is I Mam?’ Mother shuddered at his grammar, but Father was enjoying himself too much to care. ‘How old do you think I am?’ he said to the District Nurse. ‘Go on, take a guess.’