Have the Men Had Enough?

by Margaret Forster

  We came out numb. Charlie had gone through the motions, simply because we were there, of finding out things, like costs, length of waiting list, method of entry. They have no vacancies and the waiting list has twenty-four names on it. They do take the moderately demented – I heard Charlie hurriedly claim Grandma was only moderately demented – but not if they are incontinent. We drove home too depressed to talk. I did not have to convince Charlie. It is out of the question, not an option. What, then, is? Charlie has heard from someone at work of another home, outside London, but if it was so far away we could not visit every day. Would we visit every day, Charlie asked, horrified and I said that of course we would. One of us, every day. It would be the least we could do.

  Dr Carruthers has mentioned a Day Centre near us, a mere five minutes’ drive away. He says it is excellent and that Grandma would enjoy it, for the moment anyway. Later, she would not be able to cope but he thought she could, at the moment, just. She could go three days a week, all day, from ten in the morning to five in the evening. It would relieve the pressure on us, he said sympathetically. So Charlie and I went there, greatly dreading it. And it is lovely, we were so surprised, so relieved. It is like a nursery school only full of old people. There is a garden, an internal garden in a courtyard, full of shrubs and greenery. As we went in we could hear singing, lusty singing, and smell coffee. In one room some old people were painting, in another making pastry. It looked too good to be true. Charlie became quite excited and I hated bringing him down by pointing out that a Day Centre may be very nice but it does not help in the long run and it is the long run I am concerned with. The days are in fact no problem. We have Susan and Lola, we manage days very well. But still, I agreed, it is worth a try.

  Except that Bridget does not think so. When we suggested it, she was immediately suspicious. Why had we gone there? Why had we not told her? Why had she not been invited to go with us? What was going on? We were forced to mention Dr Carruthers and then she was furious all over again because we had thought fit to call him in without her permission. Charlie took exception to that. He said he had no need to obtain Bridget’s permission, what on earth was she talking about. Bridget managed to make a stab at an apology. She had not meant to put it like that. She said it was just that she thought we were all in this together. Charlie said he was afraid that was the point: we were not together any more. He told Bridget she must begin to face facts and the facts were that sooner rather than later their mother would have to go into a Home. Was it not better that she went into one now? Bridget said no and got up and left.

  Charlie first took me to his home on New Year’s Eve, without warning. There was a party going on. The rooms seemed packed with people and Grandma was standing in the middle of them all, laughing and clapping her hands as someone played the bagpipes. It was such a shock to identify her as Charlie’s mother whom I had thought of as small and slight and blonde and elegant. Grandma was big, tall and big, and very dark-haired, and elegant was the last word anyone could apply to her. I had thought she would be shy and rather retiring like Charlie and here was this extrovert, boisterous, jolly woman. Charlie did not seem like her son, except for his laugh which, in timbre and tone, matched hers exactly – a strong, thick laugh, very infectious. But when I saw Bridget that night I recognised her as Grandma’s child at once. I saw her across the room, among a crowd, smoking, glass in hand, her arm round some man’s shoulder (her uncle) and I knew she must be Charlie’s sister. I knew because she had the same spirit as her mother if not the same looks. Charlie does not have it and neither of course does Stuart. Grandma and Bridget have a wild air, an untamed look to them, Bridget more so than Grandma. They are arresting, there is a hint of danger in them both and yet neither has ever done a dangerous or even an unconventional thing in their disappointingly ordinary lives.

  Bridget got up and left. Bridget is so alarming. I, in her position, could not have walked out. It was like a declaration of war. She just got up and left in one energetic burst of speed. Charlie was furious. He hates confrontation, always feels bested by Bridget. And I was furious with him. He should not have brought up the subject of a Home at that point, it was tactless, especially when we have not found a Home. He said he was sick of Bridget, that she was a bully and he was tired of it. She acted as though she was the only one with the right to say what should be done. I said, ‘Bridget loves your mother, Charlie.’

  That is the difference. It is what gives Bridget the right which Charlie so resents. She fights her mother’s corner, he does not. I know Charlie cannot stand up and say he loves his mother. He does not not love her but, if his love is analysed, it proves to be a token emotion. He likes his mother, he is greatly concerned with her welfare, he pities her, he admires her, but he does not love her as he loves his children, as he loves me. Nor is he loved by her, which has a great deal to do with it. Grandma would never use the word love of anyone but, if pushed, she would say she loved all her children the same, as any decent woman should, and had no favourites. She loves Stuart, Charlie and Bridget, all equally. Nothing would ever make her admit there is a difference in the interpretation of the word love when applied to Stuart or Charlie or Bridget. But the difference is so huge that there is no connection. Grandma loves Bridget with an all-consuming emotion, fiercely, completely, beautifully; she loves Charlie affectionately, distantly; she loves Stuart as a memory. And they all know it. Grandma gets back what she gives, it is as simple as that. She is lucky. Many mothers do not.

  ‘Now what do we do?’ Charlie asked, as soon as Bridget had gone. He knew the answer. Nothing. There is nothing we can do. But it occurs to me that there is one hope. Bridget likes to keep her personal life enigmatic. Nobody is supposed to know about her love affairs, though heaven knows why because they are perfectly commonplace. She stays with no man very long but she is not promiscuous. Her affairs are brief and few and far apart. But they are very intense and explosive, like Bridget, and invariably end in tears. Grandma knows nothing of them, or so Bridget thinks. Certainly, in her present state, she knows nothing but whether she has always been so naive I do not know. When I first came into the McKay family, there was nothing Grandma wanted more than for Bridget to get married, preferably to a doctor. ‘The men buzz round her like flies,’ Grandma told me with satisfaction. (I think she meant bees, not flies, bees round honey, but maybe not.) ‘She won’t look at them,’ Grandma said, then, even more triumphant, ‘sends the lot of them packing.’ Five years later, after Adrian was born and Bridget held him so adoringly when we took him north for Grandma’s inspection, the tune changed. ‘Would you not think it time to settle down?’ Grandma began.

  I don’t know if Bridget was having troublesome love affairs then. I only know her intimate history from when she moved to London and was out of Grandma’s patch. She did not confide in me – Bridget, like Grandma, scorns the giving of confidences – but when her little secret came out, and I was supportive, she learned to trust me and ever after took care to inform me what was going on. The Indian student came to Bridget’s flat when I was there. Bridget was so angry, he was so apologetic. She had finished the affair but he could not let her go. He cried and I groaned for him, knowing tears to a McKay meant the case was lost before it was stated – silly boy, to have known Bridget and not known that. They are all boys, her lovers and, while saying she is not ashamed of this, she clearly is. Very ashamed and embarrassed. She can almost faint at the mere idea of Grandma knowing. Her current lover is twenty-two to Bridget’s forty-three. Nobody would believe it. It appals Charlie. Stuart does not know and neither do Adrian and Hannah. Bridget is emphatic, she does not want them to know, it is none of their damned business, she hates people knowing her business.

  Naturally, I have met Karl. Bridget would prefer that I had not but, now that I have, she is quite glad. I may not be a confidante, although I am willing at any moment to become one, but I am the nearest thing she has to a friend and she can trust me. It is touching to sense her eagerness to find ou
t what I think of Karl while she announces defiantly that she does not care. It was a great relief to me to find I liked him. He is no wet-behind-the-ears callow youth caught in the strong Bridget’s clutches. Quite the contrary. He seems much, much older than twenty-two and has none of the brashness of youth. In fact, his ponderous manner and slowness are what age him, just as Bridget’s vitality keeps her young. It is easy to add ten years to Karl’s age and deduct ten from Bridget’s. But this is not what Bridget wishes to hear so I never say it. It is too obvious, would appear ingratiating. And it is not really relevant to the relationship Bridget has with Karl. If I were going to argue that age does not matter it would be a great mistake to appear to be falsifying those ages.

  I am not quite sure what Karl does or where he lives or how Bridget met him. She does not like giving such information and I feel guilty about wanting to know. All I do know is that the affair has been going on for almost a year which is a record for Bridget. She is surprised herself, surprised she has not become bored (it has always been Bridget who has grown tired of her young men, not the other way round). Karl is with her all the nights she is not with Grandma and some of the ones she is. I suppose Bridget envisaged some catastrophe and felt she had to prepare me, just in case. So she asked me what I thought about Karl sleeping with her while she was staying with Grandma. The idea was startling. I imagined Grandma shuffling into Bridget’s bedroom on some merry midnight wander and seeing a man’s head on the pillow beside Bridget’s. But then all she was likely to do was mutter ‘bloomin’ men’ and shuffle off again, not sure whom she had seen. So I said that I could not see that it made any difference – if Bridget was comfortable, why shouldn’t she have her lover there? That is, if he was also comfortable.

  Bridget told me, only a few weeks ago, that Karl wanted her to go on holiday with him. He wanted to take her back to Germany, to his home in Berlin, and then to the Black Forest. She was both excited and terrified by this suggestion. ‘Imagine!’ she said again and again. ‘Imagine! Imagine what his mother would think!’ I said I thought it was a sign that he had perfect trust in his mother and so should she. Why not go? She hadn’t had a proper holiday in years. She could go for a month and, before she said it, I would say it: What about Grandma. Well, what about her? We would look after her. I would share Bridget’s nights with Charlie, it would all be quite simple. Bridget said nothing. She reported later that Karl was becoming more and more persistent but she did not appear to be cross about this.

  So, as I explained to Charlie, Karl could be our trump card. Charlie says I am getting carried away. I am. I even see Bridget married, which is silly. And I see her visiting Grandma in a pleasant Home three times a week. Grandma, in this dream, is sitting in a comfy chair chatting to some other sweet, white-haired, smiling ladies and there are flowers everywhere and a kettle is whistling and everything is bright and cheerful . . .

  Hannah

  ALISTAIR AND JAMIE stare at Grandma. She makes faces, makes a playful grab for them. They jump. God, I hate these two, they aren’t human, they’re witless and dumb. Neither of them speaks to Grandma, neither of them speaks at all, much. Grandma sniffs and says it is very quiet, where is everyone, what’s wrong with these two, who’s stolen their tongues. She says people used to ask her mother if her father was dumb and she laughs at the memory. Alistair and Jamie take the opportunity to edge away, away from their grandmother, nearer to the TV, the beloved TV which they know and love more than their grandmother. Grandma realises someone has gone. She looks around, sighs, gives up, turns back, sees me.

  Do you know any poetry?

  Nope.

  What do they teach you in school?

  Not poetry.

  Why not?

  Dunno.

  Do you know any poetry?

  I don’t feel like arguing today, don’t feel like giving Grandma any mental exercise. She looks sulky. Her hair isn’t brushed. Who was on last night, who got her ready this morning? And her cardigan has a stain on the front, tut tut, what will Sister Bridget say about that. Grandma sees the chocolates. Paula sent them with Alistair and Jamie, my God. They are for Mum, for having Alistair and Jamie. Mum doesn’t like chocolates. Grandma does. No use saying they’re not her favourite sort, all chocolates are her favourite. Her hand goes out, slowly, creeping across the kitchen table. It takes all of five minutes for her to secure the box and draw it to her. She asks me if I want a chocolate in my tea. I say in my tea, ugh. She says what’s wrong with that, hoighty-toighty, try it and see. She’ll just have one, anyway, since she’s bought them, bloomin’ awful price too, you’re just as well with a bit of toffee, lasts longer. She is all the while opening the box of Terry’s All Gold, with infinite care, no haste. There is a little padded bit of paper on top of the’ first layer. Grandma fingers it.

  You could make a blanket out of this, so you could.

  Small blanket.

  If you had a few, saved them, stitched them together.

  If you had a thousand, yeh.

  I hate waste.

  What waste?

  You could make a blanket out of this, so you could.

  She eats chocolates four at a time, mingling flavours, regardless. I show her the chart, thinking it will amuse her – it worries her. This, I say, showing her, is a walnut whirl and this is a hazelnut cluster and this nougat. Which do you want. She says they are all nice. She bites one, bites another, rams them in, cheeks bulging, says, with open mouth awash with chocolate, that none of them are much good but she will manage, she will make them do, she hates waste.

  Mum hurries in, scolds me, says ‘she’ will not eat her supper now. I say I can’t see it matters; Grandma doesn’t eat it anyway, she just messes it up and wastes it. Grandma repeats she hates waste. She reaches for another chocolate, Mum snatches it away, Grandma looks shocked and struggles to her feet. She says she’s going, she knows when she’s not wanted, the very idea. Alistair chooses that moment to come in search of a drink, sees Grandma’s chocolatesmeared face and says indignantly that the chocolates were for Mum not Grandma, he’s got cigarettes for Grandma. Grandma is livid, the cheek, the cheek, telling her whose chocolates they are when she’s bought them. With all the self-righteousness of a five-year-old Alistair says, shrill, piercingly, that his mummy bought them. Grandma says in the name of God, Mum tells Alistair not to worry, Jamie comes in and starts to cry, Grandma tells him to stop bawling, Jamie bawls harder, as hard as his three-year-old lungs can, which is very hard indeed, Grandma shouts she cannot bear the noise, it is a mad house, what has she done to deserve this, she has led a blameless life.

  Walking down the road, Grandma asks if we are going to the hut. I ask what hut – she gestures vaguely, says the usual one. I play safe, say I do not think so. This hut has begun to feature heavily in Grandma’s stream of consciousness. Nobody knows what this hut is, not even Bridget. She usually mentions it in the evening, she is always wanting to go there, but where would there be a hut in a Glasgow childhood? It sounds rural, as though she was thinking of a summer house. When I have said I do not think so, she is depressed. She sighs, looks miserable, trudges into her flat. As I take her coat off, she says she thinks she will just go home, starts trying to get her coat back on.

  I think I’ll away home.

  This is home, Grandma.

  It might be to you but it isn’t to me.

  You’ve lived here five years.

  Get away.

  Don’t you like it here?

  I think I’ll away home.

  Mrs O’Malley arrives, is very brisk. At least she doesn’t call Grandma ‘Mother’ as the odious Mildred did. Grandma glares at her, makes faces behind her back at me, mutters about being sick of bloomin’ strangers. Mrs O’Malley is unperturbed. She makes tea, puts it in front of Grandma, adds sugar, asks would she like a biscuit. Grandma says she hates biscuits, waste of money. Mrs O’Malley silently slides a custard cream across the table. Grandma munches it, splattering crumbs as she continues to abuse the ve
ry existence of biscuits. I say I’d better go now. Grandma gets up and says she’ll get her coat. Mrs O’Malley tells her to sit tight and she’ll get it and then she shows me out. She tells me Grandma will be fine, she will soon forget. How true, oh wise one. I see what Bridget means. Mrs O’Malley is competent, even skilled, in the management of Grandma, but there is no warmth, she does not really connect with what’s left of Grandma’s mind. And Grandma senses this. Increasingly, when Mrs O’Malley is about to arrive, Grandma wants to go home.

  I tell all this to Mum on my return and she says beggars cannot be choosers. Sorry, I’m sure. She is giving Alistair and Jamie their tea. I hardly speak to them. They may be my cousins, but I don’t like them, feel no obligation. I hold it against them that they are not nice to our Grandma. Jamie is quite an attractive child. I would like to see him on Grandma’s knees, cuddling her, his arms round her neck. And, instead, he jumps if she speaks to him. Mum is impatient with me. She is exasperated. Jamie is only three and hardly sees Grandma, it’s not his fault and really I’m being most unfair. True. As Grandma would say, I blame that Stuart. Why hasn’t he brought his children up differently? Maybe he did his others, his older ones. Stuart’s divorce is said in family lore to have devastated Grandma in her heyday. Mum says in many ways Grandma cast Stuart off before he cast her (Bridget says that is complete nonsense). Stuart has two other sons, both older than Adrian. I have met them once, at a wedding. Grandma is said to have been fond of them both, to have seen them regularly until they were ten and eight and the divorce took them away from her. She does occasionally ask where Stuart’s boys are and it is clear she doesn’t mean Alistair and Jamie. Stuart keeps them away from her. He says it is not right to frighten them, not fair to expect them to cope with a mad Grandmother. Bridget says, menacingly, that his time will come.