In Her Mothers' Shoes

by Felicity Price

  ‘No, you didn’t say anything. You never do.’ Rose ran into the bathroom, banging the door shut behind her.

  She splashed cold water on her face, bathed her stinging eyes with a facecloth and sat on the edge of the bath for a long time, trying to calm herself down, before unjamming the bathroom door and retreating to the kitchen.

  The argument had started when Kate wanted to go to the movies with some friends in Sumner – an hour and two buses away – and complained she wouldn’t be able to see the end of the movie if she had to catch the last bus home. Rose had refused to compromise, which according to Kate, meant she was paranoid.

  ‘Nobody else’s mother is as mean as you. Every body else is allowed out after eleven,’ Kate said.

  ‘I don’t believe that for one minute.’ Rose gripped the paring knife she was using to cut vegetables for dinner.

  ‘You never believe anything I say. I hate you!’ Kate’s eyes flashed.

  Rose could feel herself start to burn with mounting anger. ‘That’s a terrible thing to say.’ The paring knife slipped from her grasp.

  ‘I hate living here,’ Kate shouted. ‘I wish I’d never been born.’

  ‘I wish we’d never chosen you.’ Rose clamped her mouth shut as soon as she’d said it, but it was too late to take it back. She thought of the tiny baby she’d brought home from Essex Hospital, so filled with joy and expectation. How could that tiny baby have turned into such a monster?

  Rose put out her other hand in a gesture of surrender. ‘I’m sorry, Kate. I didn’t mean to say that.’

  ‘I bet.’ Kate had shrugged her off. ‘You’re not my mother. You never were.’ Her gaze was searing. ‘I really hate you!’ she screamed as she fled back up the hallway to her room. The door slammed behind her.

  Stunned, Rose returned to the study where the television was still flickering but the sound turned way down. George was writing down some numbers while looking at his watch.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Timing you,’ he said, adding up the numbers. ‘You’ve been arguing for over an hour and a half so far.’

  Rose felt herself boiling over. ‘How could you?’ She stood in front of him, furious. ‘You’re doing it again. Just sitting there, not taking sides, not backing me up. Did you hear what she said? She said I’m not her mother.’ Just repeating it made her feel like breaking down, like crumpling in a heap on the floor and giving up entirely. What was the point?

  ‘She didn’t mean it.’

  ‘She did. You should have seen the look in her eyes.’ The hatred of the moment burned into her brain. ‘You shouldn’t let her get away with it, you should tell her to apologise instead of sitting there with your stopwatch timing us. It’s … it’s…’ She was so angry she could hardly speak.

  ‘What do you expect me to do? It won’t help if I get involved.’

  ‘It would help me! You should be sticking up for me, George.’

  ‘It sounded like it was Kate who needed sticking up for that time round.’ His mouth was in a tight line.

  Rose knew the warning signs of his rare temper but she ignored it. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I heard what you said. You could hear it all over the house – the neighbourhood probably. You said you wished you’d never . . .’

  ‘Don’t repeat it,’ she cried. ‘It was bad enough the first time.’ She sat on the chair opposite George’s and looked out the window. ‘She knows just how to wind me up.’

  ‘That’s no excuse, Rose, and you know it.’

  She turned and faced him. ‘I’d like to see what you’d do if she called you names like that and was so vile to you. You wouldn’t put up with it.’

  ‘I would like to think I’d turn the other cheek. That’s what you should do.’

  ‘Oh, it’s all very well for you, Mister High and Mighty, sitting there on your throne and pretending you’re above all that. But someone’s got to run this place. Someone’s got to stop her staying out half the night. You’ve got no backbone, George. You never did have. It’s got nothing to do with your condition either. Long before you got multiple sclerosis, you would wriggle out of confrontations and sit on the fence.’

  ‘I say, Rose, that’s hardly fair.’

  ‘You’re supposed to be the man of the house. Well, it’s about time you started. Because I’m sick of making all the tough calls.’

  George picked up his pen and waved it at her. ‘Then you should stop being so strict on her.’ His voice was getting louder with every word. ‘What does it matter if she stays out one night at her friend’s place? It won’t kill her.’

  ‘I might have known you’d take her side when it came down to the wire.’ Rose could feel spittle around her mouth. ‘Now I know why you never stick up for me.’

  ‘I’m not taking sides, Rose. I’m . . .’

  ‘You are. You’re sticking up for her and not me. That’s all the gratitude I get for everything I do for you.’

  ‘Rose, I can’t take sides . . .’

  But she could hear no more. She leapt out of the chair and fled to the kitchen where she sat at the table, shaking with rage. How dare he side with Kate? After all the care and attention she lavished on him, struggling to help him shower in the morning, helping him dress, taking him breakfast, baking him muffins for morning tea, lunches, dinners, getting him back into bed at night – there was no end to it, day after day. And what thanks did she get? Instead of backing her, he’d abandoned her.

  Along the end of the corridor, Kate’s record player started up, breaking the silence, music booming through the closed door: ‘Hey, Jude…’ Rose had never liked the Beatles. They were noisy and uncouth.

  A cold nose nudged at her hand, lying in her lap.

  ‘Tess. You’ve come to stick up for me.’ The little snub-nosed King Charles spaniel had left George and come to her, which was quite something. Normally Tess remained on George’s lap or in her basket at his feet. She fondled the dog’s soft floppy ears. ‘At least you care about me.’

  The dog trotted over to the pantry and looked expectantly at the door. She wanted her dinner.

  With a deep sigh, she stood and fetched the dog biscuits out of the cupboard, doled out a handful into the dog bowl and sat down again while Tess began to crunch through her dinner.

  Not even the dog was on her side.

  She sat there, staring unseeing out the window. The Beatles were telling her not to carry the world on her shoulders. What choice have I got? she felt like shouting. Hey, Jude ground on to the end then silence. Soon afterwards, Kate’s door opened and moments later she appeared in the kitchen, bearing an overnight bag.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going with that?’ Rose couldn’t help herself. After battling for so long, she wasn’t giving up now.

  ‘I’m going to Sumner and I’m staying the night at Barbara’s.’

  Rose jumped up, hurried over to her daughter and stood beside her, holding herself steady on the fridge. ‘You can’t do that. Her parents are never home and her older brother is always having parties. You told me that yourself.’

  ‘You can’t stop me. I’m going.’ Kate brushed past, her backpack knocking against Rose’s shoulder.

  ‘I can stop you, and I will. You can’t go.’

  ‘You’re not the boss of me. I’m old enough to live my own life. I’m not a child any more.’

  ‘You are, actually. You’re not sixteen yet. And that means I’m your legal guardian. You’re not going out tonight.’

  ‘I’ll leave home then. If that’s what it takes, I’ll pack my things and go live with Barbara. Her parents won’t mind.’

  Rose felt herself losing control. She started screaming at her daughter, words just coming out of her mouth unbidden. She was so upset, she had no memory of what she’d said but it had the effect of impelling Kate back to her room, the door slamming behind her again.

  Kate didn’t go to Sumner. Some time later, she came out of her room for dinner. They ate in silence, the news b
laring to make up for the absence of conversation. When he finished eating, George lined up his knife and fork in a neat line on his plate and pushed it to the back of his knee tray.

  ‘Come here, please. Both of you.’

  Kate looked up at him quizzically. Rose knew Kate would take her mother on anytime, but she rarely argued with her father. She went to stand beside George.

  ‘Rose?’

  Reluctantly, she put her plate down on the side table and joined them, standing on the other side of his armchair, keeping her distance as much as she could. She was in no mood for silly games.

  ‘I want to congratulate you both.’ He took hold of Kate’s hand with his right hand – his good one – and raised it high in the air.

  ‘Rose?’

  Rose suspected she knew what was coming and wasn’t happy. She refused to hold his hand.

  He ignored her avoidance. ‘You’re the champions.’ He was smiling with that puckish gleam in his eyes Rose knew so well. ‘You’ve broken your own record.’

  ‘Why, what do you mean?’ Kate looked grim.

  ‘Two hours and forty-eight minutes,’ he said, grinning.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You two were arguing for precisely two hours and forty-eight minutes. That’s an all-time record.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Kate had stopped scowling.

  George let go of his daughter’s hand and pulled out his writing pad. ‘It’s all here.’ He showed them his spidery scrawl – even harder to read than Rose’s own writing since his multiple sclerosis had become so advanced – and there it was, a list of times: stops and starts, with the end of the final round underlined several times. ‘Total, two hours and forty-eight minutes.’

  Kate folded her arms tightly, scowled again and stomped off down the hall to her room but this time didn’t slam the door. Rose silently gathered up the dishes and retired to the kitchen, still angry with both of them.

  She’d never forgotten that awful evening and she’d never said anything like that to Kate again, no matter how much she provoked her.

  ‘You okay, Mum?’

  Rose smiled at her daughter, so different now.

  ‘Of course. I’d better get George settled for the night.’

  ‘You never stop, do you?’

  ‘I often wonder how you fit it all in too, you know.’

  ‘Everybody does that nowadays, Mum. Every woman, anyway. I must be a chip off the old block. Now, I really must go.’

  ‘So you are.’ Rose laughed and kissed her daughter good-bye. ‘Thank you.’

  As she closed the door she looked across the brightly lit courtyard to the old family home beyond, the family home she and George had brought Kate up in until they’d had to build a wheelchair-accessible house in the footprint of the old asparagus patch.

  A chip off the old block? That was one of the best things Kate could have said. She nursed that thought as she prepared George’s hot-water bottle, gave him his pills and climbed into bed with a book. Was Kate really taking after her? Even though she wasn’t flesh and blood, did it mean the time spent nurturing and supporting her daughter through all those difficult teenage years, through births, deaths and marriages, did it mean Kate was really hers? Perhaps she was.

  Chapter 5.

  Christchurch, 1987

  Rose wiped away tears from slicing onions, resisting the temptation to give in and shed real tears. She’d promised when George was first diagnosed with multiple sclerosis that she would never feel sorry for herself and she wasn’t going to start now just because she was under a bit of pressure. Over the years, she’d watched the degenerative disease eat away at his nerves and slowly remove the mobility in his limbs. It had been as hard for her – the carer, whose job it was to provide unflagging support even when she felt like giving up – as it had been for him. In some ways, his comparatively placid and peaceful nature had made his acceptance a little easier. Rose often wished she could be as patient and uncomplaining.

  Hastily, she julienned carrots and celery, set three eggs to hard-boil, and made a roux for Kate’s favourite comfort food: fish pie. She was way behind already: George had to be shifted from his study into the living room, the study needed tidying, the table to be set, her tramping pack and lunch things were still scattered around the kitchen, and the dog was dancing beside the bench waiting to be fed. At this rate, the pie wouldn’t be ready until well after seven and her granddaughter Amelia would be fractious with hunger.

  You will try to do everything at once, she told herself sternly. You should take note of Kate and slow down a bit.

  Easier said than done, though, if she was to have her own life occasionally. It was the tramping trip that had made her late. The walk on the hills with the Over Forties Tramping Club had taken longer than expected because Nellie had hurt her knee coming down off a stile and their usual fast pace had slowed considerably after that. Tramping in the fresh clean air up there, where Rose could look out over the plains to the snowy Southern Alps and across to the Pacific Ocean – it tended to clear the mind and sweep away the distress of dealing daily with George’s disability.

  It was another half-hour before the pie was in the oven and she could turn her attention to George.

  He was asleep in his chair, unaware that they were running late, oblivious to the scattered newspapers and journals around his side-table.

  ‘Time to go into the other room,’ she said loudly to wake him.

  He gave her one of his glorious smiles. ‘There you are Rose. You’ve caught the sun today. You look radiant.’

  ‘Thank you George. It was a lovely day,’

  Tess jumped onto his knee and licked his nose.

  George laughed with pleasure. ‘You’re worth a thousand GPs, Tess.’ The dog nuzzled into him then turned round twice and settled in his lap. He absentmindedly stroked the dog’s brown and white fur.

  'Time for you to move, George. The family will be here very soon.’

  George never complained, never protested at being hoisted in and out of his wheelchair, never let his gradual deterioration get him down. Or at least, not that she knew of. He’d always kept his darkest thoughts to himself.

  Rose adjusted the canvas cradle under George, hitched the four corners onto the hoist and turned the handle to raise him high enough to clear the arms of the chair and settle him back down in the wheelchair. Success. Since the hoist had arrived, she’d not once had to call up Kate or the police to scoop George off the floor.

  Once he was settled on the sofa with the dog and his crossword, Rose gave the study a quick tidy, scooted into the bathroom to clean herself up then the bedroom to get changed out of her tramping clothes. But she’d only just tossed the thick rugby socks and mud-caked trousers into the wash-basket when she heard the familiar clang of the cowbells on the front door.

  ‘Hi Mum, we’re here.’ It was Kate calling from the hall.

  ‘I’ll be there in a minute. You go on in.’

  ‘Grandma? Where’s Grandma?’ Amelia called out. A second later, the four-year-old was in her bedroom flinging herself round her knees.

  She picked her up and hugged her then set her down again. ‘Grandma’s changing. She’ll be ready in a minute. You go and see Grandpa and Tess.’

  ‘Why have you got those funny green tights on Grandma?’

  ‘They’re for tramping. I wear them so my legs don’t get cold’

  ‘They’re funny.’ Amelia giggled. ‘You look like Kermit the frog.’

  Rose laughed. ‘So I do. My tramping buddies would like to hear that.’

  Her granddaughter took off again and Rose soon heard the sound of George’s laughter in the living room.

  Quickly, she peeled off her Kermit tights and slipped on her navy trousers and tartan blouse; then a hasty dab of powder, a scrape of lipstick and squirt of White Linen perfume before hurrying into the living room to greet Kate and her husband.

  ‘David’s got our contribution for tonight,’ Kate said, giving her mother a kis
s.

  ‘I’ll take it through to the kitchen, if you like, Rose.’ David held out the Country Road bag weighed down by its contents.

  ‘Goodness, I wasn’t expecting anything.’ She led the way into the kitchen.

  David picked up a dish and put it on the bench. ‘That’s from Kate. She says apple crumble is your favourite.’ Next he fished out a bottle of champagne. ‘Kate has some good news.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You get the glasses and I’ll pop the cork.’

  ‘Is it a …?’

  ‘No! Don’t say a word.’ David held two fingers up to his lips. ‘Wait for Kate.’