But we have a new helper. She even comes with glowing references and not from a newsagent’s board or an agency. Dr Carruthers passed her onto us and we almost wept on his neck with gratitude. Her name is Mary, so Grandma will be sure to think it is her aunt and that will start every day off most satisfactorily as she remembers the Mary she once knew. And she is Scottish, what Bridget calls Edinburgh-posh. Her references show she has worked looking after elderly people for the last twenty years (she is sixty-two). Charlie pointed out that every job she has had has lasted a minimum of two years and has come to a natural end. Mary has never given notice. Either the old person has died or gone into a Home or hospital, with Mary faithful to the end. The only disadvantage is that Mary is lame. She has a club foot. Dr Carruthers did not even mention it so that when Mary called on us, we were taken aback, visibly. How could a fairly small, slight elderly woman with a club foot cope with a large, heavy even older woman who sometimes fell and needed to be lifted? It seemed impossible. Nobody dared say so. Bridget said later she wanted to laugh, it was so ridiculous, so farcical. But Charlie, who had seen a solution to our problem within his eager grasp, was not going to let it go. Boldly, he asked Mary if she thought she would be able to manage a fairly cumbersome old woman who often needed help getting up. Mary took his point: she said her lameness had never been a handicap in any of her jobs and that she was tougher than she looked.
So we have Mary, Mary Black. She starts tomorrow and will do all of Bridget’s five nights leaving us only one each. God knows how it will work out, but, like Charlie, I am desperate to give it a try. Bridget, because she is going away, has had rather less to say on the subject than she normally would have. It is in her interests to be a mite more enthusiastic and she has tried to be. But she makes it clear that she realises it lets us off the hook. I think she was looking forward to Charlie having to do what she does week in and week out, just so that he would appreciate her more. If so, she is very silly. If Charlie had to do four or five nights a week with his mother, the effect would be to make him rapidly overcome those scruples he still has – he would have Grandma in some kind of institution within a week. He would refuse to endure that kind of tyranny, I know. So Mary has saved Grandma’s bacon, for the moment. With Mary’s help we may stagger on for some time yet. Until something new happens.
I fantasise all the time, to an alarming extent, about what that ‘something’ will be. I used to think it would be a heart attack, that I would go for Grandma one afternoon and find her on the floor, dead, and that would be that. How naïve of me. Grandma’s heart beats soundly in her wretched body, sending blood reliably to her dying brain. It is not going to stop suddenly, that’s for sure. So I dream of a fall in which she breaks her leg and in that fantasy I pretend to be a neighbour and ring for an ambulance because I do not want Grandma at home with a broken limb and I am terrified that if they see she has a daughter-in-law on hand, not to mention a daughter across the hall who is a nurse, then no hospital will take her. Once in hospital she gets an infection and dies. Equally unlikely: Grandma’s falls, if they are falls, never seem to hurt her. This leaves me with the burglar fantasy which I do not like and rarely allow myself to resort to: a burglar knocks Grandma on the head – only a little tap, she hardly feels it (I don’t want her to suffer) but her skull fractures because it is thin, and she dies. Only I bet Grandma’s skull is as thick as brick and she would be so obliging with any burglar he would have no need to hit her. Lately, I have another quite attractive fantasy taking shape: Grandma thinks her pills are mints and takes a whole bottle which has accidentally been left around. She goes into a deep sleep and dies. But I see the flaw already: the pills are bitter – it is a great fuss to get Grandma to take any – and she likes only sweet things. She would never take an overdose.
No, the ‘something’ is impossible to envisage. It is more likely to be a growing nothing. Grandma will go on and on and on, able to do less and less and needing more and more and more care. It will all happen at home. I see it and groan.
Hannah
THIS MARY IS unbelievable. She’s too good to be true. No wonder Bridget is suspicious. The first time Mary met Grandma she kissed her and said the Lord loved her. Grandma said she was glad someone did as she was like the last rose etc. etc. Makes me suspect this Mary’s Scottishness – Scots don’t kiss on first meeting. Maybe it’s just that she’s lived in the soft South so long she’s picked up our ways. But she has the accent all right and seems to know her Scotland and can even recite a few lines of Burns though only what most people can manage – ‘My love is like a red, red rose’ and that stuff.
Grandma is greatly affected by Mary’s club foot. She whispers ‘poor soul’ in her hearing and wonders how it happened, people should take more care. Grandma’s anxious, sympathetic eyes follow Mary’s club foot in its polished boot-like shoe as she limps across the room. She tut-tuts and heaves herself up in order to persuade the Poor Soul to sit down and rest her leg. Mary has explained she was born lame, that her right leg is shorter than the left and was bent under in her mother’s inside (she doesn’t say womb) which made it worse and then she was a breech birth and the forceps got stuck – it goes on for hours and Grandma loves it. I shouldn’t think Mary loves it by now, not after having to relate the saga so many times because Grandma greets her every day as a stranger. But Mary copes with this well. She’s obviously quite familiar with senile dementia. And she has her own theories, does Mary. She’s a diet freak. She thinks Grandma’s memory cells wouldn’t be dying off at such a rate if she ate the right food. She brings molasses and honey to replace the white sugar Grandma uses in such quantities and has substituted low-sodium salt for the ordinary kind. Mum says there’s no harm in it and Mary’s right. What Bridget will say when she comes back, God knows.
I do the hand-over every day at the moment. I walk along now with Grandma muffled up in shawls even though it’s not really cold. Grandma is moaning like mad and shivering and saying the weather isn’t fit for a dog to go out in and there is no rest for the wicked and what has she done to deserve this and then some mumbling about January’s bitter blast o’wind. I say it’s only just November, not January and the wind is not bitter, in fact there’s no wind or that tree in front of us would be moving. Grandma says trees don’t move where she comes from. I say she knows what I mean and by that time we’re at her gate. We stop, I bend to open the gate. Grandma asks if I know the people here. I say yes, my Grandmother and Aunt both live here. Grandma says that’s nice for them. There’s a light on in the kitchen. Mary is always early, I never have to wait for her. She hobbles smiling to the door and opens it, ushers us in. She must’ve been here at least three quarters of an hour because she has baked gingerbread. It’s standing on the table, steaming gently. Mary says she has just this minute taken it out of the oven and Grandma must wait till it cools. Grandma’s greedy eyes light up, her big hand stretches out and she says quite distinctly, ‘Get lost.’ I remove the cake. Grandma glares at me. I tell her hot cake will give her indigestion and then she will have Mary up all night.
Who the hell’s Mary when she’s at home?
Grandma!
Grandma yourself. I want my cake.
In a minute, when it’s cool.
You mind yourself, give it here.
No.
I’ll take a strap to you.
Grandma!
So I will, bloomin’ cheek, I never get anything, always the same.
Mary’s made it specially for you.
I made it, I’ve slaved all afternoon and that’s the bloomin’ thanks I get, go away with you.
No, Grandma, Mary very kindly made it.
Who the hell’s Mary when she’s at home?
But Mary only has to limp over with some tea and the limping action arrests Grandma’s attention and instantly she forgets about the cake. I know I’m just waiting to catch Mary out. I’m conscious of scrutinising her, of looking for the iron fist in the velvet glove. She’s so tender with G
randma, even when Grandma is cross. She seems not to mind being mildly abused, only smiles. And now Grandma is allowed the gingerbread and gorges, ramming into her mouth with indecent haste and spraying crumbs everywhere as she says it’s delicious. Mary invites me to have a taste. I say no thanks. Grandma goes into overdrive trying to persuade me. As I well know, she can’t bear people not to like what she likes, she will not believe they don’t share her tastes. I can see Mary thinks I could easily take a token piece to please my Grandma, to keep her quiet and I could. But I won’t. Grandma is getting spoiled and it’s not good for her. I don’t want gingerbread, I happen not to like gingerbread and I absolutely refuse to pretend I do just for the sake of indulging Grandma. I am not like saintly Mary.
Mum is in love with Mary. Dad is in love with Mary. Mum says Mary restores her faith in human nature, just to know there are such good people in existence who only want to give. Mum says there can be no other motive for Mary’s devotion. Who else but a saint would want to be cooped up with Grandma five nights a week, getting wakened half of them too? Dad agrees Mary is a saint but, being Dad, feels obliged to point out that money may well be a consideration. What other job could club-footed sixty-two-year-old Mary get? We give her £200 a week in smackeroos, Dad says. Mum points out that by the hour that is not so much because Mary starts at six o’clock when we take Grandma back and doesn’t leave till Susan arrives at 9 a.m., making her hours longer than those any other night helper has ever done. Dad launches into sums and calculations of every sort and still concludes Mary, in her circumstances, has a good deal.
Who cares? So long as Grandma is looked after and kept out of a Home.
*
Mum says would I like to go to St Alma’s with her when she takes Grandma today. Would I like to? Does she mean as a treat? It isn’t the sort of outing anyone would like, is it? But I say yes. I really should inspect one of these Homes if just to argue better against them. I have never been in one. Mum says St Alma’s will not be typical, that it’s the best, that she wouldn’t dream of suggesting I visited the other place she and Dad looked at. She says I will see immediately how lucky we’ll be if we manage to get Grandma into this very wonderful place. She has her fingers crossed.
Susan of course is given the morning off but not told why. Mum doesn’t want her to know where Grandma is going or why. She says Susan is against Grandma going into a Home because she would lose her job. Mum doesn’t want to have to put up with Susan ‘in a mood’. It’s important to keep Susan sweet so she’s given the morning off with pay and Mum mutters on about taking Grandma into the country for a drive. Is East Finchley the country? Actually, it does look remarkably green as we drive along Totteridge Lane. We pass a horse, a pony, in a kind of paddock. There is a van parked in front of what must be stables and Mum has to stop until it has moved. Grandma has plenty of time to stare at this pony.
Poor horse.
It looks happy enough, Grandma.
All on its own.
Maybe it likes being on its own.
You’d think they could give it company.
Company?
Even a chicken or two.
Do horses like chickens?
Poor horse.
The van moves, we move. We leave the horse behind. Grandma thinks it’s the Highlands starting and peers out of the window to see if she can see any cattle. Mum says under her breath that she has never seen any landscape less like the Highlands.
St Alma’s looks all right, I suppose. If only Mum would shut up, I’d be quite prepared to notice for myself the attractive house and pleasant gardens, the freshness of the paint and brightness of the knocker. Grandma thinks it’s the manse and again Mum is irritated, casting her eyes to heaven and asking me if I have ever seen a Glasgow manse? It really annoys Mum when Grandma makes that kind of stupid comparison based on no connection whatsoever. Mum says it has nothing to do with Grandma’s mental condition now, that this is part of the old Grandma. It just makes me smile.
Grandma is quite happy going into St Alma’s because I’m on one side and Mum on the other. The floor is very shiny. Grandma says it must’ve taken some polishing, it’s like a skating rink and she’s afraid she’ll slip. Mum says it isn’t in the least slippy and demonstrates. It’s true, the floor only looks slippy but isn’t. Grandma refuses to be convinced. Every step we persuade her to take is followed by ‘Oh help!’ from her. She won’t even try to walk properly. She says she should have brought her skates but then remembers she only has one because she loaned her cousin the other and never got it back, she wonders why, he has a damned cheek keeping it all this time. We get her across the hall to the Matron’s office and Mum knocks as Grandma asks what in the name of heaven is going on, do we have to knock to get in our own house now?
I hate the Matron – on sight. She looks like Mrs Thatcher: stiff, smarmy, pretend-kind. She’s even dressed like Mrs Thatcher with a floppy bow blouse and a greyish suit, and she has the cardboard hair and the bland smile. Grandma hates the Matron too. Grandma starts sniffing loudly, always a sign of her nervousness. She nudges me, I nudge back. This Matron is exactly the sort of woman who intimidates Grandma, though funnily enough Grandma loves Mrs Thatcher. What she likes best are Mrs Thatcher’s harangues about working hard, and her jingoism, and her constant hypocritical harking back to Victorian values – Grandma loves that in a Prime Minister. But not in this Matron. I’m not sure about Mum. Mum may not hate this woman, she can’t hate her or she wouldn’t have brought Grandma here or called St Alma’s desirable. But Mum is wary of her, not at all comfortable. Lucky Bridget isn’t here. She would immediately have said could Grandma have a seat. Bridget wouldn’t be intimidated.
We do sit and tea is brought in. Grandma looks at the china and says who pinched her wedding china, she wondered where it had gone. The Matron says it is pretty isn’t it. Grandma says it should be back in the china cabinet where it belongs, she did not give permission for it to be taken out, this is not a special occasion so far as she knows. Mum placates her. Grandma has great difficulty getting her fingers round the rather pretty delicate cup. She sips the tea and says in the name of God it reminds her of a friend she once had who could not make tea etc. etc. The Matron smiles and says does Grandma like her tea strong. Grandma is emphatic, she does not like tea strong, never did, but she likes tea that is tea and not coloured water and she likes it hot, it’s no good if it isn’t hot, and she likes a decent mug to drink it out of. The Matron copes well. Still smiling glacially she goes to a cupboard and gets a mug and puts her own electric kettle on and makes Grandma a mug of tea herself, using two tea bags in the mug. Grandma tastes, approves, thanks God but not the Matron.
The Matron asks Grandma if she would like to join the others.
‘What others?
The other ladies, they’re painting at the moment, it’s our painting morning.
I’ve done enough painting to last a lifetime.
You like painting do you Mrs McKay?
Somebody’s got to do it and my lazy lot won’t.
(Mum explains hurriedly that Grandma thinks Matron means home decorating.)
I think you’d find this sort of painting fun, Mrs McKay.
Fun? It gives me a bad back.
Shall we give it a try? Shall we join the others?
What others?
We all troop out and cross the hall and go through what looks, in passing, like a pleasant sitting room with chintzy chairs, into another room at the back. It has a black and white checked floor and is full of easels. At each easel there is an old woman, wearing a smock. Some have paintbrushes in their hands and are managing to dip them occasionally into paint and splodge on the paper in front of them. There is a vase of autumn leaves on a table in the centre of the room round which the easels are grouped. Three women in pink overalls are looking after the twelve artists. They make encouraging noises all the time, like coo-ing birds – oooh-ow, oooh-ow, they go. Grandma is totally thunderstruck. She just stares. Mum is taken a
back. She says she didn’t see this the last time she came. Matron says no, but then she came in the afternoon and afternoons are Resting, Reflecting and Ruminating. She laughs as she explains these three Rs are very important at St Alma’s – the mornings are for stimulation of one sort or another and in the afternoons it is the three Rs for a couple of hours.
Grandma allows us to take her coat off and is quite uncomplaining about having a smock put on. One old lady who looks as though she has died at her easel is removed (remarks are made about Elsie having worked too hard but on her paper there are only two wavy green lines and a spot of yellow in the corner). Grandma is put in her place. Mum is finding this hard but not as hard as I am. We need Adrian. Adrian would laugh, he would have hysterics at the sight of Grandma-as-artist solemnly picking up her paintbrush – oooh-ow oooh-ow go those in charge – and dipping it in red paint and then very deliberately and unexpectedly putting it quickly in her mouth and sucking it. Consternation, squawks from the helpers, sniggers from a couple of the brighter old ladies and protests from Grandma who maintains she was just testing. Her mouth is cleaned, the paintbrush returned to her hand and all three helpers surround her. One guides Grandma’s hand. A red line is made on the paper. Matron says shall we go? We go. Grandma, as effectively trapped in a smock as she would be in a straitjacket and with three attendants blocking her view of us leaving, makes no sound.
Have the Men Had Enough? Page 17