Under the terms of the will, your late mother has given your brother, Mr. Edward Green, a life interest in the family home (22 Blackthorn Road). This means that Mr. Green is entitled to live in the house for as long as he wishes; the sale will take place, and the proceeds divided equally between the two of you, only upon his vacating it or upon his death.
The rest of your mother’s estate, which consists of bank accounts, furniture and personal effects, is to be divided in equal shares between Mr. Green and yourself.
I found myself saying out loud, “For God’s sake, Mum.” The pudgy woman remained inert, headphones plugging up her ears, but several other passengers swiveled in their seats to see whether some entertainment was brewing. Finding no prospect of an argument or a fight, they turned back in disappointment. I carefully placed the letter back in its envelope, folded the two envelopes in half, in half again, then twisted them together as tightly as I could. I shoved them to the bottom of my bag and stuffed it back down by my feet. What on earth could have possessed my mother, letting Edward keep the house for as long as he liked? It was inconceivable that this had been her idea.
My traveling companion had by now opened a bag of cheese and onion crisps, and I found their pungent smell, mixed with that of the chemicals from the nearby toilet, unbearable. I took a sip from my bottle of water and tried to order my thoughts. Perhaps my mother’s mental state, after her first two strokes, had been worse than I’d realized. Or perhaps she’d deteriorated since I’d last seen her, somehow managing to put on a show of lucidity when I’d spoken to her on the phone. That would have left her vulnerable to pressure from Edward. I’d need to act quickly if I wasn’t to be deprived indefinitely of my rightful, and now much needed, inheritance.
3
I’ve single-handedly created the ideal life for myself in London. I have a home that is adequate to my current needs, a job that is appropriate to my skills and easy access to cultural stimulation. Except for my working hours, I have control over every aspect of my existence. I did, until recently, have what you might loosely term a “partner,” but it was a relationship of convenience for us both; a simple arrangement that delivered the benefits of an intimate association with a member of the opposite sex but at no emotional cost. As soon as I discovered that chance, fate, bad luck—call it what you will—had seriously compromised my position, I severed our association cleanly and swiftly. My world remains impregnable, although that description seems a little ironic in the current circumstances.
In contrast, as my taxi pulled away from New Street station and headed toward Blackthorn Road, I felt the disquiet I’ve always experienced on returning there. Perhaps that feeling derives from my almost pathological phobia of suburban life, of its seductive insularity and mesmerizing obsession with the mundane. Perhaps, more than that, it derives from the stirring up of memories of a past that I’d much rather forget. I have the terrifying sensation that my carefully constructed life in London is simply the dream of an unhappy girl, a dream from which I’m about to be woken. Irrational, I know.
Watching the familiar streets passing by through the taxi window, I cast my mind back to last Easter. I’d traveled up to Birmingham in time for my mother’s usual Saturday tea of ham sandwiches, fruit salad and Victoria sponge. Reluctantly, I agreed to accompany her to church the following day. She had never, to my knowledge, had any religious faith, but in the last couple of years she’d started attending St. Stephen’s, a church that I walked past countless times as a child. I wondered whether my mother’s strokes had made her think about her mortality, prompting her to hedge her bets with God. Or maybe she was starting to lose her faculties and was becoming more susceptible to the influence of other people; Margaret and Stan had been trying to lure her through the doors of St. Stephen’s for as long as they’d been her neighbors.
“You’ll enjoy it, Susan,” she assured me as she put on a flimsy lilac cardigan and took a clean handkerchief out of the kitchen drawer. “I was nervous before I went, but straightaway it felt so familiar. It takes me back to when I went to church as a youngster. You’ll feel the same, I’m sure.”
“We didn’t go to church when I was a child, remember?” I replied, heading to the hallway for my jacket, which was hanging on the peg rack by the door. “You never took us. You and Dad were atheists. You reap what you sow, isn’t that what they say in the Bible?”
My mother joined me in the hallway, fumbling for the keys in her handbag. I spotted them on the hall table and handed them to her.
“I’m sure I did take you when you were little. And I’ve never been an atheist, Susan. Your father maybe, but not me. I’ve always had faith, but life’s so busy, things get pushed to one side. And it might’ve helped your father if he’d believed in something. Anyway, I’m glad you’re coming along—I can’t get Eddie to give it a try.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. He doesn’t get out of bed until midday. And he’s never exactly been the spiritual type. Mum, are you forgetting something?” I held up her coat like a waiter in a restaurant. She turned back from the front door and slipped her arms into it.
“He thinks about things much more deeply than you imagine, Susan. He’s very sensitive. Religion can be a great comfort if you’re troubled or afflicted. It can give you a lot of strength.”
“The only things Edward’s afflicted by are acute laziness and fecklessness,” I said, following my mother out of the house.
“Susan, listen to me.” She stopped halfway down the crazy-paved path and turned to me. “Eddie needs supporting. If anything were to happen to me, I want to know you’ll keep an eye on him, make sure he doesn’t go off the rails.”
“He’s forty-three years old—he’s an adult. He doesn’t need his big sister looking after him. Not that he’s ever taken my advice on anything, anyway. He does his own thing. I might think he’s a complete waste of space, but that’s how he’s chosen to be. He’s absolutely fine in his own useless way.”
I closed the curlicued wrought-iron gate behind us, and we walked down Blackthorn Road, past the other neat 1960s semis and occasional self-effacing detached house. My mother kept falling a step behind me.
“He’s not like you, Susan,” she said after a while. “You’ve always been so sensible, so capable. I’ve never had a moment’s concern about you. But Eddie, he’s got an artistic temperament, like your father. The slightest thing can destabilize him.”
We’d reached the squat church at the junction between our road and the high street. Margaret and Stan, who were lurking under the portico, spied us and waved.
“Happy Easter, Patricia.” They beamed in unison, taking it in turns to kiss my mother’s powdery cheek. “And happy Easter, Susan,” Margaret continued, lunging toward me. I took a step backward and put out my hand.
Walking into church, I found myself being cross-questioned on the minutiae of my life in London. Fortunately, the service was about to start, and I managed to edge into the pew ahead of my mother, using her as a bulwark between myself and the tenacious Margaret. The service passed painlessly enough: the hymns were upbeat; the vicar was businesslike; and, more important, it was over quickly. Afterward, Margaret and Stan tottered back up the road with us, making the half mile feel like ten. Margaret engaged my mother in a detailed discussion about which variety of potato was best for roasting, while Stan regaled me with the teething troubles they were having with their new boiler. As we said goodbye and my mother headed for the front door, Margaret clutched my arm.
“So what do you think about your mum? We’re a bit concerned about her,” she hissed. “She seems to be getting a bit forgetful. She doesn’t always remember things we’ve told her, or arrangements we’ve made.”
It came as no surprise to me that my mother forgot what Margaret and Stan said to her; their subjects of conversation weren’t exactly captivating. And her failure to remember arrangements to meet them could simply have been expedi
ency. I had, however, been noticing an increasing absentmindedness on her part, although I had no intention of admitting that to the neighbors.
“She seems fine to me. Perhaps it’s you who’s getting confused.”
I prepared the Sunday roast while my mother set the dining table. Edward, not surprisingly, had arranged to be away for the weekend—or, as my mother believed, had an invitation he was unable to turn down—so it was just the two of us. Over lunch she told me about the new block-paved driveway at number 25, of which she approved, and the goings-on at number 18, of which she didn’t. Afterward, I washed the dishes and my mother dried, then I phoned for a cab. It came sooner than expected. I gave her a quick peck on the cheek before hurrying down the path. My last sight of my mother, ever, as it turned out, was of her bending down to pick up a chocolate bar wrapper that had blown onto the doorstep.
* * *
I was unsure whether to ring the bell or simply let myself in. When my mother was alive, I’d ring first out of politeness, only using my key if it appeared she was in the garden or otherwise occupied. To ring the doorbell in these altered circumstances, however, would have felt like conceding something I wasn’t prepared to concede. I let myself in. I could hear music blaring from the kitchen, at a volume never heard during my mother’s reign. It was something I recognized from my far-distant student days: London Calling by The Clash. Opening the kitchen door, and preparing to confront Edward about our mother’s will, I was disoriented by the sight of a man stooped over an iPad, naked except for a small white towel wrapped around his waist. He was swaying from side to side, elbows flapping in time to the music. His jaw-length hair, like wet fleece, was flopped forward, hiding his face from me. I did what it’s traditional to do in such a situation and coughed. He straightened and looked over with the startled look of a man caught in flagrante.
Now he was upright, I couldn’t help noticing how ridiculously tall he was. Some people might find such height attractive, but, as far as I’m concerned, anything over six feet is excessive and smacks of attention-seeking. I also couldn’t help noticing that he looked surprisingly toned for someone so slim. I’m aware, too, that this might be considered a positive attribute, but, if you were to ask me what I thought about it, I would tell you it’s simply evidence that a person spends too much time on the physical and not enough time on the intellectual. The color of his skin suggested that he’d wasted a lot of time lazing on a beach in the recent past; his long, straight nose dominated his other features; and he had what are commonly known as laughter lines radiating from the corners of his eyes, probably caused by squinting in the sun. It occurred to me that he wasn’t entirely unfamiliar.
When he saw me, his face relaxed.
“Hi, Suze, really sorry about your mum. She was a lovely person, a true saint. Ed’s just gone down the shops. I’d offer you a cuppa, but we’re out of milk.” He brushed his hair back from his face and stood there without a hint of shame for the fact that he was squatting in the home of a recently deceased old lady. “Apologies for the state of undress, by the way. I’ve just got in from work.”
“You must be Rob. I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Oh, yeah we have, a few times, when you were going out with Phil. It was before, you know, the accident. So it must’ve been years ago.” He picked up the kettle and filled it at the sink. “I noticed there’s some herbal tea if that floats your boat.”
“I know what my mum keeps in the cupboard. I’ll make my own drink once the water’s boiled. There’s no need to trouble yourself.”
“Cool, just do your thing, Suze.”
“Please don’t call me Suze. My name’s Susan. The only person who calls me Suze is Edward, who has his own warped agenda.”
“Oh, okay. Whatever.”
I’m sure you can imagine how I felt, returning to my mother’s house—my childhood home—for the first time since her death, only to find it had been invaded by an uninvited guest. Not just uninvited, but occupying twice as much space as could be considered polite. I excused myself and went into the sitting room. It was only a week since my mother had died, but the room already looked like it belonged to a gang of slovenly students rather than a fastidious elderly lady. The regency stripe curtains, instead of being held neatly by their tasseled tiebacks, were pulled only halfway across, as though the effort required to open them completely was too much. The scatter cushions on the olive Dralon sofa, rather than being plumped and propped at regular intervals across the back, were squashed to one side, obviously having been used as pillows. There were newspapers strewed on the carpet and beer cans imprinting rings on the mahogany coffee table. The final touch was an ashtray—an amber-colored glass one that I remember my father using—that contained, not only cigarette ends, but telltale butts constructed from a torn Rizla packet. As I stood there surveying the debris, Rob, now in a bathrobe, strode in.
“I’ll give the room a quick clear up,” he said, throwing the papers and cans into a carrier bag and picking up the ashtray.
“I’d appreciate it if you’d refrain from smoking in my mother’s house,” I said, struggling to keep my voice calm and even. “She loathed cigarettes—she couldn’t bear to be in the vicinity of anyone who was smoking. She was very proud of this house, and look at the state of it.”
“I don’t smoke myself, just the occasional...you know. We stayed up a bit late last night watching an old Hammer horror, and then I’ve been on-site this morning, so...”
Sickened by the sight of the room, and unsettled by the presence of Edward’s friend, I edged past, picked up my suitcase and went upstairs. The door to my mother’s bedroom was ajar. I put down my case and pushed it open. Immediately the familiar smell hit me; a mixture of camphor, lavender bags and lily of the valley eau de toilette. Mercifully, the bed had been stripped, but other than that the room looked exactly as I assume it had done on the night she died; there was still a half-full glass of water on the bedside table, along with my mother’s pill case, a National Trust magazine and her reading glasses.
I began to feel light-headed, so I perched on the edge of the Lloyd Loom chair, across the back of which my mother’s balding pink chenille dressing gown laid abandoned like a shed skin. The bedroom was dominated by the six-piece bird’s-eye maple suite of which she was excessively proud. I remember her telling me that it cost over three months of my father’s wages in the 1960s. On the dressing table was a silver-framed photograph of the four of us standing in front of a traction engine. I walked over and picked it up. In it, I looked about nine years old and Edward looked about seven. My parents were in the center of the picture; I was holding my father’s hand and Edward was holding my mother’s. We were all smiling, just like a fully functioning normal family.
I replaced the photograph on my mother’s dressing table, next to a dish of potpourri, and drifted to the bay window behind it. Pushing back the net curtain, I saw my mother’s navy blue Volkswagen Polo approaching the house and turning into the driveway. For a moment, I felt a spasm of guilt at the prospect of being caught by my mother snooping in her room, and then I remembered.
As I watched through the window, Edward got out of the car, stretched, hitched up his black jeans and reached across to the passenger seat for his trademark leather biker jacket. He plainly hadn’t shaved for at least a week, or combed his hair for that matter. Skinnier than Rob and far shorter, he has, to my mind, a weasel-like sharpness to his appearance, which amazingly seems to render him attractive to some women. Until they get to know him, of course. Edward opened the boot of the car, took out a couple of supermarket bags, then, no doubt with a sense that he was being observed, looked up to the bay window and saluted. I let the net curtain fall back.
* * *
When I entered the kitchen, Edward was crouched by the fridge unpacking the shopping, and Rob—who had changed into jeans and a T-shirt—was leaning with his back to the sink. The CD had been changed
; there was now some discordant modern jazz assaulting my ears. Edward stood, screwed up the carrier bags and threw them into the corner by the bin.
“Hi, Suze, looking a bit peaky. Been making yourself at home?” he said.
“I’ve got just as much right to as you.”
“Touchy. I didn’t say you hadn’t, did I?”
I walked over to the kettle, reboiled the water and made myself a cup of peppermint tea.
“We’ve got things we need to talk about, Edward. In private.”
“Shall I make myself scarce?” Rob asked.
“No, you’re fine where you are. I’m not getting into anything heavy now. We’ve got the funeral tomorrow, Suze. That’s what we should be focusing on. Not going over old ground.”
“I have no intention of going over old ground. I’m talking about Mum’s will and sorting out her affairs.”
“Well, that can definitely wait until after the funeral. I’m not getting into any of that until she’s resting in her grave.”
“She’s being cremated, Edward.”
“I think Ed was speaking metaphorically,” said Rob, helpfully. My brother snorted with laughter.
Rob started lumbering around the kitchen, noisily removing things from drawers and cupboards. I found his patent familiarity with my mother’s belongings offensive.
“I’ll get started or we won’t be eating ’til midnight,” he said.
“Rob’s cooking us a spinach balti. He’s a vegetarian, picked up some great recipes on his travels.”
“Wonderful. However, I’m off curry at the moment, so I regret to say I won’t be joining you. I’ll make myself some toast later. I assume you have bread.”
The Cactus Page 3