Mother Can You Hear Me?

by Margaret Forster

  Dispirited, Angela took herself away from a spectacle she found so distasteful. Lunch over, she said she was going upstairs for a rest. Valerie and Mother eagerly encouraged her. On the way to her bedroom she passed Ben’s study where Sadie was sprawled on the floor using the telephone. She paused, hand on the banister, attracted by the grace and comfort of Sadie’s reclining figure, vivid in scarlet jeans and brilliant blue shirt, as she lay eating an apple, one hand propping her up and clutching the telephone receiver at the same time. Angela smiled at her, not quite stepping into the room but about to do so. ‘Wait a sec,’ Sadie said into the receiver, and then, to Angela, ‘Want something?’ Angela shook her head. She had nothing but the usual things to say—what she wanted was indefinable. Lazily, it might have been unintentionally, Sadie gently tipped the open door with her toe and as it swung towards her Angela backed away and it closed with the smallest of clicks in her face.

  Alone in her bedroom, which looked obliquely into Ben’s study at the side of the house, Angela was obliged to draw the curtains in order to obliterate the sight of Sadie still engaged in her private conversation. She did not want to see her daughter, however distantly. She cared that Sadie did not care, that her daughter was indifferent to her misery. It was the trap she had always been so proud of avoiding but now she felt the cloying wraps of self-pity and resentment ensnaring her. It was no good boasting to Valerie that she had brought up Sadie differently—it was no good lying to herself—it was simply that she now found she wanted what Mother had wanted.

  Ben had jaundice soon after Sadie moved to comprehensive school. He was in bed for six weeks. After that he staggered about for another three, thin and pinched and still yellow looking. Expert as she was at nursing, Angela could not help but find it a strain. Sadie, aged eleven and full of energy, did not seem to notice. ‘I cannot,’ Angela said, ‘run up and down stairs looking after Ben and then run around down here looking after all of you. Can’t you see that?’ ‘It isn’t my fault,’ Sadie said, ‘I can’t help Dad being ill. You’re always moaning at me.’ ‘I am not moaning at you. I’m simply asking for some consideration. Is that too much? Don’t you care that Daddy is ill?’

  Apparently she did not. It was quite extraordinary how she could go out in the morning and return from school in the afternoon and never once ask how he was. Later, when he was downstairs in his dressing gown, Sadie would say ‘Oh—hi’ and then turn to other matters. Yet she was very fond of Ben, she liked him, got on well with him, did things with him, and at that stage never fought or quarrelled—it was just that she appeared to be lacking in common or garden sympathy. But was that the trouble? Angela remained unsure. One day, she overheard Sadie talking over the garden wall to the Carriers, their neighbours on the other side. ‘Oh how awful,’ Sadie was saying, ‘oh that is dreadful—poor you—if there is anything I can do—let me go to the shops for you—no, please, I would be glad to—it would be no bother, no bother at all.’

  All Mrs Carrier had done was strain a ligament in her foot.

  Valerie, before she left, served a function more useful than she knew. It was nice of her, Angela thought, to ask the question she herself could not ask but which hung in the air all the time. ‘When are you going home, Mother?’ she said as she put her coat on. ‘Oh, soon,’ Mother said, stealing a sidelong look at Angela. ‘I can’t bother Angela much longer—she’s fed up with having a poor old woman to look after.’

  ‘Don’t,’ Angela said, ‘I hate to hear you say that and you know it isn’t true.’

  ‘Your Father’s been complaining anyway,’ said Mother. ‘I’ll have to go back soon, see what he’s been up to without me.’ It was at least an attempt at a joke, if a feeble and bitter one, and they all seized the opportunity to make others, equally poor.

  ‘I’ll write as usual,̻ Valerie said finally, ‘and I’ll telephone. Now take care.’ Mother kissed her. As always, partings of any kind reminded her of the perilous nature of life.

  ‘Well, she’s gone, that’s that,’ Mother said, sitting down heavily in her chair the minute Ben had taken Valerie off. ‘That’s that,’ she repeated. ‘When will I see her again? And what a long journey back—the expense—hardly worth it when you think.’

  ‘Oh, don’t look at it like that,’ Angela said, ‘of course it was worth it. She had a good day and enjoyed herself.’

  ‘But what a long journey back,’ Mother said again, ‘and to what? Nobody at the other end. Oh, I don’t like to think about it—that awful flat of hers—nobody to welcome her—empty and quiet—whatever will she do when she’s old and ill without a husband and a family? It makes me ill to think about it, it does really. Sometimes I lie awake at night and wonder what will happen to poor Valerie, all on her own—oh it’s awful, awful.’

  ‘Only because you wouldn’t like it,’ Angela said. ‘You’re seeing yourself in her situation and she isn’t you.’

  ‘But she always loved children—why ever didn’t she marry—she was a pretty girl—’

  ‘She wasn’t,’ Angela said.

  ‘Well, she was prettier than many and a good girl and friendly—I can’t understand it—why didn’t she marry?’

  ‘Nobody ever asked her after that first time.’

  ‘All on her own—’

  ‘She likes it. She has her work and she knows everyone in the area and she drives to all her societies in her car and some people might envy her her freedom.’

  ‘They couldn’t—I couldn’t live like that.’

  ‘But you aren’t Valerie—she isn’t like you.’

  ‘Neither of you are, neither of you.’

  ‘Well then, don’t worry yourself about it.’

  ‘I worry all the time,’ Mother said, ‘you don’t know half the things I worry about—round and round in my head until I’m dizzy with it.’

  ‘It doesn’t do any good,’ Angela said, ‘you must train yourself to blot out all these worries when you know they are useless.’

  ‘Oh, it’s all right for you,’ Mother said, with one of those sudden flashes of spirit she always regretted, ‘you don’t worry about anything. You don’t know what worry is. You’ve never worried.’

  Angela found herself smiling, idiotically, a broad grin to hide her confusion. Mother believed what she had said. She saw Angela as confident and fearless, she accepted without question the façade so laboriously constructed. It would be cruel to disillusion her—if that was what Mother wanted, and she did, then that is what she must be given.

  ‘That’s right,’ Angela said, ‘I don’t believe in it.’

  ‘I can’t help it,’ Mother said, almost proudly, ‘I was born like that—always a worrier and always with plenty to worry about. Nothing ever went right.’

  ‘Nothing ever went really wrong either,’ Angela said. ‘Your husband didn’t die, your children all grew up healthy and strong—’

  ‘You’ve said all that before,’ Mother interrupted.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Well, don’t keep on about it.’

  ‘You just tell her, Grandma,’ Sadie said, coming into the room and overhearing the last few remarks Mother had made. ‘She’s always going on about things but she doesn’t believe it. She’s so boring.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that,’ Mother said. Solidarity among adults was very important to her. ‘Your mother is never boring, Sadie, you can’t say that.’

  ‘Yes I can,’ and smiling directly at Angela, a smirk of a smile, ‘Mum, you’re boring.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Angela said, ‘I can see I must be.’

  ‘All mothers are boring,’ Sadie said.

  ‘My Mother is very interesting,’ Angela said.

  ‘Oh, I am not,’ Mother protested.

  ‘You are to me.’

  ‘Compliments, compliments,’ Sadie said. ‘Anything to eat?’

  ‘If you make it yourself, and leave the kitchen tidy.’

  ‘Okay,’ Sadie said and went off.

  ‘You let her be very cheeky, Angela,’
Mother said, ‘speaking to you like that—it isn’t right.’

  ‘I’d rather she said what she was thinking to my face.’

  ‘But she’s so rude.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I don’t know why you stick up for her.’

  ‘Mothers do,’ Angela said, ‘don’t you remember sticking up for me?’

  Especially against Aunt Frances, Mother’s dressmaker sister, who doted on Angela as a small girl but fought with her as an adolescent. Angela remembered Aunt Frances visiting them and how the criticism would begin straight away. ‘What a way to tie a scarf—tie it in the front—tie it like Princess Margaret Rose,’ and Aunt Frances would attempt to do so only to have her interfering fingers pushed away. ‘Oh, she’s naughty,’ Aunt Frances would say, ‘you should make her behave, Mary.’ ‘Leave her,’ Mother would say, ‘it doesn’t really matter how she ties her scarf.’ But Aunt Frances would not take the hint. Mercilessly, she attacked Angela’s hair—‘That vulgar crop’—and her language—‘so coarse’—and everything about her niece that did not meet with her approval. Only once did Mother give in. ‘When you come in from school,’ she said to Angela, ‘please say “Good afternoon, Aunt Frances.” It’s only a little thing and easily done.’ ‘How silly,’ Angela said. ‘What’s wrong with hello?’ ‘Nothing,’ Mother said, ‘for most people, but Frances likes to be formally addressed by young people and it does no harm to give in to her on that one.’ So Angela complied, going as near as she dared to a parody of what Aunt Frances wanted. It gave her great comfort and pleasure to feel that Mother was secretly on her side.

  ‘Well then,’ Mother was saying, and Angela was startled to realize she had been speaking for some time, ‘that’s that. Another day over.’ and she sighed heavily. ‘Next week,’ Angela said, ‘we’ll go on some outings.’

  She had saved them up especially for the half-term holidays—a series of small expeditions to please Mother at one end and Tim at the other. The first was to Woburn Safari Park, an hour’s drive and then a winter picnic in the park when they had been through the animal reserve. She announced the trip at supper with all the enthusiasm she could muster, but there were no shrieks of joy. Nobody wanted to go. ‘I’m not coming,’ Sadie said straight out, ‘and you needn’t think you’re going to make me.’ ‘We’ve been there already,’ Max said, ‘and it’s boring.’ ‘Did you say animals?’ Mother said, ‘I’m not keen on animals.’ ‘This is different,’ Angela said firmly, ‘you’ll enjoy it. It will be a lovely day out in the country—midweek, nice and quiet in October—we’ll have a lovely day.’

  It was a disaster, even before the final penalty afterwards. Foolishly, against Ben’s advice, she compelled Sadie to go, claiming her help was necessary, and Sadie’s resentment and fury expressed itself in vicious attacks on Max which led to screams and quarrels in the car that distressed Mother deeply. Though the sun shone brightly and the sky was a clear, sharp blue, the atmosphere was wrong from the start. No matter how much Angela smiled and hummed and tried to arouse some holiday spirit nobody would respond, except Tim, who was still young enough to like going anywhere any time. Very quickly, they were there. Very quickly the animals had been looked at and lunch eaten. In no time at all there was nothing to do and it was only half past one. Angela produced a ball and suggested a game, but nobody would take part. One by one she took her children aside and begged them to try to enjoy themselves ‘for Grandma’s sake’, but her pleading only irritated them. It was all her fault, they said. They had told her they did not want to come, she had forced them, why could they not just go home?

  By the time she drove back, Angela could no longer remember why she had ever imagined taking everyone out for the day would be either enjoyable or easier than having them all at home. Mother had got very little out of it. All day she had been quiet and nervous, even more so than usual. Surrounded by such noisy children, she had seemed to feel she was menaced, or so Angela deduced from the way in which she looked from one to another during the many arguments that raged. Who could she be sure of? Who had her interests at heart? Only Angela, and Angela, she saw, could not give her complete attention. She did not say so but Angela thought Mother was missing Father. Instead of blossoming without him, she was fading away to nothing.

  Helping her from the car when they got home, Angela was struck all over again by Mother’s frailty. How often, watching Father and Valerie fuss and fret, had she wanted to tell them to leave Mother alone, she could manage perfectly well, but now that she was in sole charge herself she was appalled by Mother’s weakness. Twice on the short trip from car to front door Mother swayed and lost her balance and would have fallen if Angela’s supporting arm had not been there. There was a dreadful inertness about her body that could only be appreciated by contact with it.

  ‘That was a nice day out,’ Mother said, safely seated in her wing chair and wheezing slightly. The children rushed upstairs to watch television and the sudden silence and calm was healing.

  ‘It wasn’t much fun for you,’ Angela said, depressed and tired and unable for a while at least to maintain her outward poise.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about me,’ Mother said, ‘nothing’s fun for me.’

  ‘Mother,’ Angela said, eyes tight shut with the effort of keeping control, ‘don’t—don’t say things like that. Please.’

  ‘But it’s true.’

  ‘Especially if it is true. Don’t say it.’

  Mother didn’t speak after that. She drank the tea Angela had given her—greedily, quickly—and then she appeared to doze. Angela lifted her legs onto a stool and tenderly put her slippers on and covered her with a rug. Then she sat at the kitchen table, bowed down with it all, a teacup in her hand long after it was empty. Sadie, coming in search of her, radiated energy and strength. The enforced day in the bracing autumn air had given her cheeks a glow—she was bright eyed and beautiful in spite of the ugly, torn man’s pullover and the too-tight, soiled trousers.

  ‘I’m going to stay the night with Sue—just telling you—okay?’

  Angela said nothing. She sat and stared at Mother and said nothing.

  ‘I’m taking my things and going,’ Sadie said, impatiently drumming her green nail-varnished fingers on the table.

  ‘Okay?’

  Angela shrugged. Mother’s face seemed to have collapsed.

  ‘Well, can I go?’

  ‘I can’t imagine why you’re asking,’ Angela said, ‘you don’t usually.’

  ‘So I can go?’

  ‘Go where you like. There isn’t much point in me keeping you here is there? I’ve made that mistake once today already and paid the penalty.’

  ‘What penalty? I thought I was very good with Grandma. What am I supposed to have done wrong?’

  ‘There’s no point in going over it.’

  ‘Well, don’t get at me. I’ll be back some time tomorrow—as it’s the holidays it doesn’t matter when, does it?’

  ‘No. Nothing matters.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake.’

  ‘Go on—go. You aren’t doing much good here—you may as well go.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Help.’

  ‘All right then—what?’

  ‘Just in general. Help me.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re on about.’

  Still she lingered. Angela watched her fiddling about, picking things up and putting them down, pacing the floor, walking round the table, never quite making up her mind to leave. She knew her own blatant misery had made Sadie uneasy. It was against the rules. Sadie did not quite know whether she was free or not, and uncertainty kept her close.

  ‘Oh, off you go,’ Angela said. ‘I’m just fed up and ready to take it out on anyone. Have a good time.’

  Sadie’s face brightened immediately. ‘Bye.’ she said.

  ‘Don’t bang the front door on your way out,’ Angela said, ‘you’ll waken Grandma.’

  But when Father ‘phoned, Mother was s
till asleep, two hours later.

  ‘We’ve been out all day at Woburn,’ Angela said, ‘and Mother’s having a little nap.’

  ‘Tired her out, have you?’ Father said suspiciously.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Walked her too far, I’ll bet—how far did you make her walk, eh?—she can’t walk far without tiring, you should know that, you’ve seen what happens.’

  ‘She hardly walked at all.’

  ‘You didn’t keep her sitting in that car all day did you? It’s bad for her back.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. She sat a little and walked a little.’

  ‘What’s she asleep for at this time then?’

  ‘She was just sleepy.’

  ‘Seems queer.’

  ‘I could sleep myself after all that fresh air.’

  ‘Have you covered her with a blanket?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll ring back later, just to check she’s all right.’

  ‘There’s no need for that, Father.’

  ‘I’ll say whether there’s need or not—I’m the best judge of that,’ and he put the receiver down with a crash.

  At nine o’clock, just after Ben had come home, Father rang again.

  ‘No,’ Angela said, ‘she’s still sleeping peacefully and I don’t want to waken her.’

  ‘You shouldn’t let her sleep like that,’ Father said, ‘sleeping all crunched up in a chair is bad for her—she has to be kept flat.’