Have the Men Had Enough?

by Margaret Forster

  When he goes I say to Mum that I know what Adrian said is ridiculous but does she think Bridget might marry this Karl? Mum says no, she doesn’t think so. Bridget isn’t the marrying kind and there’s no evidence that Karl wants to marry her. But he wants to take her home, to Germany. Mum it turns out has been encouraging her to go. I ask what about Grandma? Mum raises her eyebrows.

  *

  It’s strange looking at Grandma and knowing she’s completely ignorant of her situation. She doesn’t know about Homes and carers and being an emergency. I suppose that’s the only kind part of what’s happening to her: she doesn’t know. Does she? Sometimes, I sense a kind of panic coming off her. She will hold her head, touch her face, as though checking they’re there and if she sees her own reflection she appears transfixed in horror. She will turn and turn till she staggers with dizziness, frantically looking for something. I think she has glimpses. I think she sees into her condition momentarily and the world spins. I don’t think she’s completely oblivious all the time.

  Adrian says, as we eat, that he plans to take a year off and go to Australia next year.

  I’ve been to Australia.

  Have you, Grandma?

  Of course she hasn’t.

  You, mind yourself, I have so.

  When?

  Years back.

  Who did you go with?

  Thingymajig, he’s dead now.

  Did you have a good time?

  Very nice, thank you. The stations were very clean.

  That was Canada, Grandma, you have been there.

  They were very clean there too, lovely.

  Anyway, I’m going to Australia with Kevin.

  I’ve been to Australia.

  I don’t know why Mum had to deny Grandma had ever been to Australia. It only upsets her. Where’s the harm? But Mum says it’s bad for Grandma, that a distinction has to be drawn between a downright lie, which Grandma really knows is a lie, and an exaggeration. Grandma has never been anywhere near Australia. The furthest she has been is Canada, ten years ago, to visit one of her brothers. Otherwise, apart from that big adventure, she has never been out of the British Isles. Adrian, who likes to string Grandma along, asks her if she can give him any advice about going to Australia.

  Take plenty of tea.

  Don’t they have tea, Grandma?

  Not what we’d call tea. And TCP.

  TCP? To put in the tea?

  Adrian!

  For the bites, they midges is terrible.

  Did you get bitten?

  Bitten alive, bites galore, lumps like hens’ eggs.

  So it was very hot?

  Roasting.

  How did you get there, Grandma?

  Bus.

  Bus, to Australia?

  Well, we took a ship to Canada then a bus to Australia.

  I think you mean America, Grandma.

  Australia.

  I think you mean that trip you went on, to New York, remember?

  I remember it fine, it was Australia, and we should’ve taken plenty of tea.

  By now Adrian is openly laughing. He says he’s going to suggest to Kevin that they take a bus to Australia via Canada, hah hah. Grandma is quite pleased at his hilarity. She nods, smiles, whistles and says she liked Australia. I really don’t know why Mum gets so irritated by her innocent enjoyment. But she does. When Grandma, as usual, reaches yet again for the salt, saying she’s a devil for salt, Mum snatches it away and says she will not see good food wasted because it has had half a ton of salt ladled on it. Grandma is hurt. She says she hates waste etc. She says anyone who has lived during the war time never wastes a thing.

  I’ve lived through five wars.

  Five, Grandma?

  Five.

  The First World War, the Second World War, which were the others?

  The Boer War, that was terrible.

  (Pause. Nobody is exactly sure when the Boer War was.)

  But not as bad as the Crimean, oh, it was awful.

  Now Grandma you aren’t that old.

  Hundreds and hundreds of them killed like flies.

  And the fifth?

  I forget now.

  The Falklands! That would make five wars.

  I’ve lived through five wars.

  The memory of all the wars she has lived through, real and imaginary, depresses Grandma. She says it as a boast in the beginning and then, the more she repeats it, the more real it becomes and the more miserable it makes her. She never talks about my grandfather being killed in the war. She can state it as a fact but that’s all. I don’t even know which battle he died in or exactly how. But these memories of surviving wars must surely be connected to that event. Poor Grandma. She’s staring vacantly ahead, crumbling a bit of bread in her strong hands, thinking about war. But she never cries. Occasionally, watery eyes but tears never fall. It suddenly strikes me how extraordinary it is that my grandmother never cries. I have never seen her sob. Mum is hit by remorse. She jumps up and puts the kettle on, even though we haven’t had pudding yet, and finds a tin of Grandma’s favourite digestive biscuits. She even smears a couple of biscuits with butter, which is how Grandma likes them and Mum hates them. Anxiously, she puts them in front of Grandma with a mug of tea. Adrian has stopped laughing. We all watch Grandma, willing her to cheer up. Her sadness is tearing at me, I could cry. She nibbles at a biscuit, picks it up and dunks it in her tea. Mum doesn’t even wince though crumbs and butter float messily around the rim of the mug. Grandma gulps, says nice tea, that she once had a friend who could not make tea and how she dreaded going to her house, but, and she takes another gulp, this is very nice tea if only she had a ciggie. A ciggie is produced. She lights it herself, a miracle, she draws on it and then suddenly throws back her head and laughs and says do we know ‘The Toad Eater’? We say no but tell us Grandma, tell us and she recites, ‘What of earls whom you have supt, And of dukes you dined with yestereen, Lord, a louse, Sir is still but a louse, though it crawls on the curls of a Queen.’

  That’s all that it takes: a cup of strong sugary tea, a digestive biscuit, a cigarette and a bit of Burns. It’s really very simple to make Grandma happy. Or what passes for happy. Mum relaxes. She says when we were small she used to feel such power because she knew that if she tried hard enough she could always make us laugh. Now, she can’t. But she can make Grandma happy. Grandma breaks in to say there’s no point in being miserable, that she abominates miserable people, all frozen-faced. You can always laugh. Grandma says, and looks round for confirmation of this gem. Can you? I don’t think so. But in the circumstances, considering Grandma has only just emerged from the slough of despond, I decide not to take her up on it. It’s not the right moment for mental gymnastics. When Bridget arrives we’re still on pudding and Grandma is very happy. She has managed two helpings of chocolate mousse as well as her digestives. There’ll be none left for Dad when he gets in.

  I can see Bridget sizing up the scene as she comes through into the kitchen. Grandma is between Adrian and me and because of the slight contretemps, which Bridget of course has not witnessed, we are both being excessively protective. Adrian actually has his arm round Grandma’s shoulders. She is being skittish, looking up at him and saying she always fancied a handsome man and a thousand a year. I am spooning in chocolate mousse with the greatest patience. A cigarette steams gently on an ashtray. There is a large yellow tea pot at Grandma’s elbow. I see Bridget taking it all in and being pleased and happy at this evidence of how we love and care for Grandma. I see her wondering why it can’t always be like this. She sits opposite Grandma who takes some time to notice her.

  You’ve taken your time.

  I’ve been working, Mother.

  That’s what they all say. Anyway, I’m not bothered, do what you please.

  Have you been having a nice time?

  What’s it to you?

  Mother!

  Bloomin’ cheek.

  Oh well, I’ll go away again.

  You do that, who c
ares.

  Aren’t you coming home with me?

  What home? Don’t talk nonsense.

  Your own little but and ben.

  Are you mad?

  I’ve come to take you home.

  You’ve taken your time.

  Bridget thinks we’ll all be flattered. Grandma says repeatedly she wishes Bridget would leave her alone, even that Bridget would take herself off to wherever she came from, and curses people who disturb her just when she’s comfortable. Bridget plays this up. She says Grandma obviously has no time for her and wants to be with us. Mum hardly smiles at that and doesn’t reply. Bridget says would Adrian do her a favour? Could he just walk Grandma along and take her in while she has a word with Mum?

  It’s odd that she asks Adrian and not me. I soon see why. There is a certain amount of tension between Mum and Bridget. Often, I feel they’re sparring. Both of them like me to be there, as though I, by my watchful presence, keep them in order, prevent them saying things they might regret, force them to shape their words so as not to startle me. Neither of them want the freedom that privacy would give them and they both want a witness. Bridget never beats about the bush, that’s one good thing. Now, she says outright that she’s thinking of going with Karl to Germany, a proper holiday. Mum says how lovely, you should, good idea. Mum says all the right things but rather too emphatically. Bridget says she’d like to go soon, while it’s still autumn, before the nights get too dark and all chance of sun has gone. But what about my mother Bridget asks? No Mrs O’Malley, no Lola, only Susan. How will we manage? Mum says that will be our problem. She says doesn’t Bridget trust us? Bridget says of course she does. Mum says very well then, book your holiday.

  I grow bold. I ask where Karl lives. Bridget says in Berlin. She wishes she could speak even a word of German, she’s hopeless at languages like Grandma. She tells me Grandma once went to night classes to learn French and German. She only wanted to be able to understand the odd foreign words she came across in books. She got on quite well with French but couldn’t manage the German and swopped to Fancy Salad classes. We discuss how awful it is that the English are so bad at foreign languages, a disgrace. Bridget says Karl can speak five languages and is tri-lingual. He can switch between German, French and English effortlessly. I feel that’s my cue. I ask what Karl does. Bridget says he teaches foreign students, he teaches German as a foreign language and is going to travel the world doing it. At the moment he’s working in some language school in Kensington. Bridget makes a Grandma-type face of derision. Why? Why does she mock what her lover does? I ask her how she met Karl. She says the way she meets anyone, in her hospital. Karl visited a child in her ward, a little German boy who was the son of a friend of his. The child was very ill, Karl came often. Bridget shrugs, again makes a face but I’m not sure of what. She just doesn’t want to talk about Karl: it makes her squirm. Mum says why not bring Karl here for a meal. Bridget shakes her head, grabs for a cigarette. Maybe one day, she says, but not yet. Not until she ‘sees’.

  Sees what? She sounds like Grandma, tailing off to avoid having to explain. She says she’d better go or Adrian will wonder what has happened to her, but she doesn’t go. Something obviously remains unsaid. Mum knows it. Mum probably even knows what it is. Finally, after some chat about work, Bridget makes a huge effort. She stands up, abruptly. She says that the thing is she would really like to have a word with Charlie, that she had expected him to be at home too. Mum says he’s working late, won’t be back until nine, but won’t she do, she can pass on a message, surely? Bridget knows perfectly well that speaking to Mum is the same as speaking to her brother, only better. But every now and again she makes a point of selecting Dad to speak to because he is Grandma’s son and so theoretically Grandma is more his concern. Bridget has no concept of a true partnership – she ought to have, knowing Mum and Dad, but she pretends she hasn’t. She wants to speak to Dad about Grandma and it must be something offensive or she would say it to Mum.

  Bridget can’t decide. She fidgets, stubs out her cigarette, walks to the door, stops. She says it’s silly really. She says she just wanted Charlie to promise he wouldn’t do anything drastic when she goes away: wouldn’t, won’t . . . what? She can’t bring herself to say the words whatever they are. Mum doesn’t help. She stands there looking innocent. Bridget says she realises it might be inevitable in the end, she does admit there has been a deterioration, but she wants Dad to promise not to make any hasty decisions about Grandma when she’s away. Mum says, smoothly, that she’s sure Dad would never make any decision hastily. She asks again, and I do think this is pushing it, if Bridget doesn’t trust us. Bridget is obliged to repeat that of course she does. At last, she goes, running. Mum turns to me and says I’m looking very disapproving. I say I don’t like to see Bridget being cheated. Mum pretends to be shocked – cheated, she queries several times, cheated? You know, I say, you know you’re planning to try Grandma in a Home and you’re just waiting for Bridget to be out of the way. You know she was trying to pluck up the courage to say she wants Dad to promise he won’t put Grandma in a Home while she’s away. Mum says she doesn’t know any such thing. If things get difficult, if we cannot manage to look after Grandma without Bridget, then we might be driven to trying her in a Home on a temporary basis. But Mum insists there are no actual plans.

  She tells Dad as soon as he comes in. He says he will promise no such thing, should Bridget work herself up to ask him, and that she has no right to ask anyway. He just wishes she would get herself off: he’s had enough of Bridget. Mum says he’ll soon eat those words when he has to fill in for his sister. A single night almost killed him when Bridget was ill – how will he cope with three a week. Dad looks appalled. He echoes, three a week? Mum says there are seven nights a week. She’ll do three, he will have to do three and maybe Hannah will do one. Dad says why not bring Grandma here, wouldn’t it be easier? Mum says no, it would not. She would fall down the stairs, she would never find her way to the lavatory at night. The only hope is to keep her in the same surroundings where she instinctively follows the same patterns. The whole house would be disrupted every night, if she were here. Dad says this is unbelievable: here we are in London unable to get one old lady adequately cared for, it is ridiculous. He wonders aloud what is wrong with the unemployed that they don’t want to earn such easy money. Mum laughs. She says he sounds like Mrs Thatcher. Dad says he feels like her. He is sick to death of coming home and having to face the problem of who can look after his mother when he knows, he just knows, there must be hundreds glad to do it. Mum says he’s always been unrealistic, why can’t he understand that Grandma has no job appeal. It’s boring to be with an old woman who can’t even carry on a proper conversation. People don’t want to do it and why should they. Dad says for the money, the excellent cash-in-hand tax-free money, get it?

  The trouble with Dad is that he takes all this as a personal attack. The more Mum points out the difficulties, the more sulky and aggrieved he grows. Dad is kind, he’s gentle, he wants Grandma to be well looked after, but he’s not sentimental. In his own way he could be as ruthless as Stuart if it weren’t for Mum. She is his troublesome conscience and he resents her taking on this annoying role. I can see, anyone can see, he wants Mum to be with him against Bridget. If Mum would give the OK, Dad would have Grandma in a Home in a trice. I think. If he could find such a Home. He’s bored by the whole business but he doesn’t agonise, that’s the difference. He thinks it’s tedious, not heart-breaking. Adrian’s heart is actually more touched than Dad’s.

  Adrian comes back from his indoor football five-aside and sighs. Mum says he’s tired. Adrian says it isn’t that and sighs again. Dad looks up from his paper and asks what all the heavy sighing is for. Adrian says he keeps thinking about Grandma. Dad goes back to his paper. Adrian, addressing Mum and me, says he hasn’t-been able to get it out of his mind all evening. Grandma looked so sad in her flat, she didn’t recognise anything, wanted to go home and when he said this was home s
he said it didn’t look like it. Adrian says it isn’t fair, she shouldn’t be on her own like that. Mum says Grandma is never on her own for more than an hour. Adrian says he thinks even that is too long. I could hit him. He enjoys this, our Upper Sixth friend, conscience of the caring male. He does nothing but, oh, how his heart bleeds. Yet he is affected by Grandma’s plight, much more so than Dad is. Mum says if he has any bright ideas about what to do, then they would be welcome.

  Adrian is still thinking. Must be a record for him. He says he knows this is an awful thing to say but, when people are in the state Grandma is in and there’s no hope, why don’t they – you know – why don’t they – I mean it sounds terrible, but . . . I finish for him. Why don’t they get put down, I suggest. He nods. Dad puts his newspaper down, suddenly willing to enter into this discussion. He says that’s what should be done but can’t be. It’s against the law. It would have an appalling effect on society if old people were bumped off. Adrian interrupts to say he didn’t mean old people just old people whose minds had gone. Dad says it doesn’t make any difference qualifying it, it would still be dangerous, people would still invoke the Nazis and their extermination programmes. Adrian says he’s read of some country where it’s done. Dad says what he has read about is euthanasia in Holland and that the Grandmas of this world do not fit that solution. The Dutch agree to put to sleep people who ask to be put to sleep and whose relatives agree. Think about it, Dad says. Grandma can’t give her permission and, if she could, she wouldn’t, not ever. And neither would her family, he adds after a significant pause. Adrian asks him if he would. Dad twitches his newspaper. He says not quite yet, no. Adrian asks Mum. She says she wouldn’t count, being only a daughter-in-law. Adrian tells her not to cheat, to answer anyway. Mum says yes, she would. Dad looks at her from over his newspaper. Adrian says that, of course, Stuart would, he’d be first in the queue, and Paula, if given a vote, would just follow him, so that would be three and a half consenting adult relatives. Adrian says isn’t it depressing.