by Anna Maxted
These days, my mouth is dry with fear. I get out of bed in the morning and I think, ‘This could be the day I die.’ I feel my heart beating and I think, ‘This could stop at any moment.’ Of course, I reason to myself, ‘Get a grip, you silly silly cow.’ But then I think, Princess Diana didn’t get out of bed on 31 August 1997 and know that this day was her death day. And people do just drop down dead – people who, might I add, eat fewer Dime bars than I do and exercise more regularly than once a month. There’s no guarantee. I’m jittery. Snappy. Tense. Unless I’m engaged in a specific and enjoyable task – namely, watching Xena: Warrior Princess, reading murder books, or sleeping – I feel hollow and detached from the world and in the absence of anything better, my default emotion is terror.
For instance. Last weekend Tina drove to the Lake District for a shagfest with that prototype of man Adrian – who I have so far managed to avoid because I feel unable to summon up the requisite awe that befits our premier meeting – and her Escort conked out on the motorway at two hundred mph. She recounted her brush with early violent death as if it were a fairytale! Something like: ‘We’re doing eighty down the middle – and there’s this bang on the underside of the car. Like something had dropped off. And we’re hurtling along in this bloody box! No acceleration, no engine, no gears. Adrian was shouting but I coasted it to the side of road. Didn’t flap. It was just, “Bang, bloody hell, the car’s gone.” And the brakes worked. Turned out the timing belt had snapped. Cost me a bugger to replace.’
And that was her last, carefree word on the subject! I said, ‘Tina, promise me you’ll be careful,’ and she looked at me in a funny way and said ‘I’m on the Pill.’ I meanwhile, lie in bed six days later, dry-mouthed, shaking like a geriatric, playing the scenario over and over in my head like a weaselly tune from the Eurovision song contest. My pulse races and I think, ‘Tina, you could so easily be dead. There are so many reasons why you could so easily be dead. I could have walked into the office on Monday and heard Laetitia say, “Did you hear about Tina? Tina’s dead. She died in a car crash at the weekend.”’ Death is so random. Tremble, sweat, wheeze . . . what if?
As I struggle in my neurotic pyschotic phase, my mother graduates from what ifs. Possibly, the What Ifs are infectious and I’ve caught hers. Because, in the weeks following my discovery of the pink paper mountain and literary fridge, she became obsessed. What if she’d forced my father to economise on his egg intake? What if she’d ordered him out for a brisk walk after dinner? What if she’d bought him Allen Carr’s Easy Way To Stop Smoking?
To which I could only reply, in my head, ‘What if my father was another person – specifically, one who didn’t come from a family riddled with heart disease?’ To her face, I said, ‘Mum, please don’t torture yourself. You did everything you could. If it was going to happen, it was going to happen. And anyway, you know Dad wouldn’t have listened.’ As these lumbering platitudes were as novel and astonishing as a model dating a rock star – what can I say that isn’t a cliché? – my mother sped on with the verbal self-flagellation.
What if she’d postponed plucking her eyebrows and was watching my father eat lunch? What if she’d made him a salad (no dressing, obviously)? What if his indigestion after Thursday night at the Harrises wasn’t down to the high density of Leila’s bread pudding? What if it was a warning sign of an impending coronary? ‘Mum!’ I shouted. ‘Now stop it! If you’d made him a salad he’d have thrown it in the bin and booked a table at the Dorchester. What if you were a specialist cardiac nurse for god’s sake?’
I intended this retort to be ironic but – and I should have known – she took it seriously and embarked on a fresh and superfertile woe-is-me route. What if she had chosen a medical career rather than the teaching profession? To which the honest answer was: there’d probably be at least ten more dead people in the world. So all I said was, ‘Mum. You were a brilliant partner. You made him very happy. You have nothing to feel guilty about.’ This made her cry and I realised, with annoyance, that I had expressed to my mother practically the exact trite sentiments that, not so long ago, Lizzy had expressed to me.
However, after three cosseted cocoony months (you didn’t want to be there) my mother has perked up. Though I fear her fridge will never be the same again, she appears – as Leila Harris puts it – to be ‘coping better’. And Vivienne observes, ‘Your mother’s lucky. She’s young. She can find someone else. If they’d been married for fifty years it would be different.’
Happily for my mother, who is napping upstairs, Vivienne makes this draconian observation to me. Unhappily for Vivienne, she makes it when I am feeling – ooh, let’s pick a mood out of the mood-swing hat – snappy. ‘You what!’ I snarl, banging my coffee cup on to the table and narrowing my eyes to slits. ‘That’s a fucking outrageous remark! Lucky! You don’t grieve according to a, a mathematical chart! You don’t grieve less because you’re fifty not ninety! Don’t you presume to know the measure of her loss! Her life will never be the same again. And I tell you something. If she—’ at this point, mortifyingly, my face crumples like a pink tissue – ‘if she should ever, as you put it “find someone else” she will be making do. Because for her, my father was The One. And if she knew he was coming back in thirty years,’ – now I’m sobbing like a footballer – ‘she’d wait.’
I am shaken and stirred by the violence of my own rage. I feel like a Molotov cocktail. Vivienne – who is equally shaken and stirred – jumps back like a startled cat and whispers, ‘Helen, Helen. Calm down, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, oh how awful of me, I’ve so upset you, I feel ter—’
Here, I interrupt my own blubbing to shout, ‘You haven’t upset me! This isn’t about me! It’s about her!’
Wisely, Vivienne clams up, nods, and says nothing. I feel a teeny bit guilty because, despite her limitations, Vivienne has been attentive to my mother. After the sympathy-surge subsided (halfway through month three as I recall) Vivienne continued to visit regularly, issuing tea invitations, doling out gossip, and bearing cake. I’d go as far as to say that Vivvy has vyed with me to keep my mother afloat.
I win though. I’ve become such a social worker it’s a constant surprise to me that I haven’t started wearing a smock.
I started off by cooking for my mother. I made vegetable risotto from the recipe on the back of the risotto rice pack (on the fifth attempt I stopped writing off saucepans and burning the rice), Tina’s coriander chicken recipe (chop and fry onion and garlic in olive oil, chop and add chicken, then coriander, white wine, and half-fat crème fraîche – in deference to my father) and – because I can – potato wedges. After our fourth potato wedge dinner in a row my mother screeched, ‘I’m sick of potato wedges! They’re junk food!’ and threw her plate across the room. At this point, I would have happily left her to starve.
Instead I hissed, ‘Alright, Wiseguy. You’re so clever, you show me how it’s done!’
This rashly thrown gauntlet heralded the start of phase two – an unenjoyable period in which I spent every Monday and Wednesday night in my mother’s kitchen spoiling the broth and being shouted at. She had fun, though. I think she misses overfeeding my father. Our Monday and Wednesday night liaisons continue – breaking them off isn’t worth the aggravation – but gradually I’ve managed to wean her on to the odd takeaway. And Lizzy has been a sweetie.
During an extended session on soufflés (I tried to dissuade her), my mother confided that one of the worst things about widowhood was ‘the lack of human touch’. I wanted to say, ‘Try being me,’ but restrained myself and said ‘Oh.’ But when I told Lizzy she nearly choked on her aduki bean stew. ‘I’ve just had my first attunement!’ she trilled, ‘I’ve got the perfect plan!’
Three days later Lizzy started performing reiki on my mother. ‘What is reeky?’ she demanded, when Lizzy arrived, brimming with positive chi.
‘It’s an ancient art, a way of sending universal love and energy to heal people,’ replied Lizzy.
‘Do I have
to be naked for it?’ said my mother suspiciously.
‘Oh no!’ tinkled Lizzy. ‘You just lie there, and I act as a channel for the life force energy that will unblock your auras and chakras, and balance the left and right hemispheres of your brain and enable an emotional release.’
My mother looked startled so I explained, ‘You lie down, fully clothed, and Lizzy pampers you.’
After the first session, my mother leapt up and cried, ‘Am I unblocked now?’
Lizzy’s face fell so I said hastily, ‘Mum, it’s not like a plumber clearing a drain.’
Lizzy smiled stiffly and said, ‘Didn’t you feel floaty or tingly, Mrs Bradshaw?’
My mother shook her head and said, ‘I didn’t feel a thing!’
Lizzy replied, ‘Well, you might develop diarrhoea and a rash—’
At which point I interrupted with, ‘Lizzy, she loved it, she’s just overwhelmed, no no, of course you won’t, Mum, Lizzy was joking, yes you were, say thank you now, alright, Liz, thanks so much, see you tomorrow . . .’
The last four months haven’t been easy. Maybe I shouldn’t have shouted at Vivienne. I return to the flat and have a lie down.
With the benefit of hindsight, two Valium, and a coldish shower, I ascribe my hissy fit to the fact that yesterday – three months after I renewed my biblical acquaintance with Jasper – he suggested we ‘cool it’.
I was stunned. ‘Why?’ I said, gnawing at the skin on my lip. ‘I thought we were getting on really well.’ This, crazily, isn’t a lie. We only met occasionally. And when we did, we had proper conversations. Jasper told me about going to boarding school and being unfavourably compared to his brilliant elder brother. I told Jasper about wanting to go to boarding school. Jasper told me about his parents moving to Singapore and seeing him once a year. I told Jasper about my parents living in Muswell Hill and seeing me once a quarter. I thought Jasper and I were having fun. Admittedly, the sex wasn’t quite as fabulous as before, but that was mainly because I worried my father was watching.
‘We were getting on well,’ said Jasper, ‘we do. Babe, I really like you. You’re a great girl. And one day, you’ll make someone a great wife. But, don’t take this the wrong way, I think you need a break.’
Oh here we go, I thought – the wife jibe upstaged by the ‘I really like you’ alarm bell – he’s not binning me because he wants out, he’s binning me for my sake. ‘Jass,’ I replied crossly, ‘don’t give me that! I do not need a break! If you want a break, say so.’ I raised a combative eyebrow. ‘Is this because of my mother?’ I growled. Jasper hesitated. I said coldly, ‘You know she’s got no one else. And you can always join us on our Sunday visits to the zoo and Kew Gardens and bloody Leeds Castle. Open invitation.’
Silence. ‘Well?’ I demanded.
‘Well,’ he replied, ‘it’s partly this thing you have about spending time with your mother, but er, you remember my ex-girlfriend Louisa . . .’ This is not a question.
‘Yeeees,’ I said, ‘if she’s the same Louisa you’ve been slagging off for the past twelve weeks. What about her?’ The penny dropped like a wingless plane. ‘Oh my God,’ I shouted, ‘not again!’
Jasper waggled a finger to silence me. ‘Helen, shussh, it’s not what you think.’
I spun round in one of those uncool I-don’t-believe-this circles. ‘What then?’
Jasper coughed. ‘I’m broke, the lease is up here, and Louisa’s just bought a two-bedroom flat and needs a lodger.’
To which my witty riposte was: ‘Bollocks.’
But Jasper widened his paradise blue eyes and insisted. ‘She’s seeing someone, there’s nothing between us, Babe, hand on heart.’
You don’t have one, I thought. Then I had another thought: ‘So if you’re not shagging Louisa,’ I enquired cunningly, ‘why should we cool it?’
His risible excuse? ‘It’s a single room.’ He started to waffle about ‘time out to reflect’, but I held up a stiff hand in protest and he shut up.
My parting shot: ‘Actually, Jasper, if you’d cared to ask you’d know that I’m also buying a flat. And my second bedroom will be a double.’ Okay, it wasn’t a whipcracking touché but nor was it a turkey. At least it wasn’t until I bristled out of the door with my nose in the air and tripped over the step.
This morning, before work, I relate the outrage to Luke in florid detail. My disappointment at his response reminds me of how I felt, aged five, when my scoop of ice cream fell off its cone, plopped to the pavement, and was instantly devoured by a large dog. Luke’s first bathetic comment: ‘But you had nothing in common.’ Luke’s second bathetic comment: ‘So are you buying a flat?’
I roll my eyes in despair. Some men have truly no idea about how to talk to women. ‘Luke,’ I say patiently, ‘I don’t want you to make unhelpful comments and ask silly questions. I want you to say “oh dear”, “what a bastard”, and tut a lot.’ He looks hurt so I add quickly, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. But, no. I’m not buying a flat. Me and Fatboy are staying right here.’
What I don’t tell Luke is that as of two days ago, I could buy a flat. That is, I could put down a deposit for a modest pad in a reasonably un-crime-ridden area. The reason for this is I have, to put it bluntly, profited from Dad’s death. To cut a boring tale short, a month ago, our solicitor, Alex Simpkinson, informed my mother – as executrix and main beneficiary of my father’s will – that the probate papers were ready to check and sign.
My mother rose to the occasion. She’s progressed. After the first hear no evil see no evil month, Mr Simpkinson had – in desperation – offered her the option of renouncing her legal responsibilities to another beneficiary, i.e. me or Nana Flo. My mother considered it. Then, as she declared to me over a TV dinner – brandishing her empty fork in emphasis – ‘I told myself, “Cecelia, if that’s what Morrie wanted, you do it.”’ I think she needed an excuse to renew the FT subscription. And the kindly attention of tall men in tailored suits never went amiss. Another factor is that she suffered a financial fright after his assets were frozen (my mother only afforded her lifestyle because my father topped up her account).
But most importantly, my mother realises that Maurice Bradshaw entrusted the fruits of his working life to his special princess and, like a good royal, she takes her duties seriously. She scrutinises the share prices each morning without fail. She has also become a devout fan of the Sunday Times Money section and plagues my father’s broker every Monday to ensure he’s investing in the latest tip stock. I’m not saying Cecelia Bradshaw has turned into Gordon Gekko. But, she may have turned a corner. Her return to school last week – she spent the first half of the autumn term at home on sick leave on full pay – has also helped.
I think even she was impressed at the joy with which Mrs Armstrong, the headteacher, welcomed her back. Even if her boss’s delight was financially related. Consequently, when probate was granted fourteen days ago, my mother shared a cab with Nana Flo to the freeze-dried offices of Messrs Pomp, Simpkinson & Circumstance and – as she told me proudly – ‘Alex went through everything again and I understood every word.’
She’d suggested we meet afterwards for tea but her offer clashed with a features meeting. Anyhow, I didn’t dare ask Laetitia if I could leave work early because I sense she is bored to and beyond death of the bereavement saga and approximately one millimetre away from firing me. ‘But it was a matter of life and death!’ squeaked Lizzy.
I shrugged and misquoted some dead person Luke likes to rave about: ‘Features are more important than that.’
Anyway, it didn’t matter. I got a cheque in the post. As I opened the envelope, details of the will being read aloud on my father’s funeral day loomed into focus after months of blurred forgetfulness. Specifically the short paragraph, boomed out by Mr Simpkinson, beginning: ‘I bequeath the sum of £20,000 to my daughter Helen Gayle’ – (Dad knows I hate my middle name!) – ‘which I hope she will invest wisely, for instance, in property . . .’
I h
eld the cheque in my hand and grimaced: ‘Posthumous parental guidance!’ Any other time I’d be straight down the shops but right now, I don’t have the life in me to spend spend spend. Nor the strength to beat off estate agents. So despite my words of bravado to Jasper, when I tell Luke I’m staying put, it’s the truth. I also find myself paralysed by Nana Flo’s short verdict on the final account: ‘My son, reduced to a few bits of paper.’ I wish she hadn’t said it in front of me. I act against my better judgement and tell Luke.
He says ‘Oh dear!’ and tuts. Then adds, ‘I suppose it’s another nail in the coffin.’
Chapter 14
THE KEY TO maintaining a fabulous relationship with the one you love is, according to Girltime’s agony aunt, to learn something new about them every day. So imagine my joy at discovering I possess a skill I didn’t know I had. I realised it this morning after breakfast.
I’d just kissed Fatboy goodbye and was bolting out of the door when Marcus stopped me with a loud, crabby ‘Hoi!’
I paused for a cool second, turned on my heel, and said with forced born-again sunniness, ‘Good morning to you too, Marcus.’ I smiled patiently as he struggled – and failed – to control his temper.
‘I’ve just about had it with you—’ he began.
‘Oh I agree,’ I exclaimed, ‘that’s how I’d describe it too.’
When Marcus got the insult his face turned scarlet. He stepped closer and hissed, ‘Don’t push it, Helen.’
I played innocent: ‘What have I done?’
He glared, ‘What haven’t you done. You haven’t paid rent, you haven’t washed up, your sodding pasta pan has been soaking on the sideboard for two weeks, you haven’t—’