Gone to Pot

by Jennifer Craig

  Serve the greedy buggers right. That’s what you get when you care more about dollars than people. The amount of money some people made by doing nothing was…what’s the word, obscene. Oh bugger—what about Nordwall Enterprises?

  “Safe as houses” my financial advisor had said. “By the time you’re ready to retire, you’ll have a nice little profit that will yield a comfortable income.” Right. At my son’s urging and against my better judgment, I had put my small nest egg into the hands of a friend of his, a financial “expert,” when I should have followed my instincts and put it under my mattress. Now, my only retirement income was likely to be the government’s Old Age Security monthly allotments.

  Maybe Nordwall Enterprises hadn’t been affected. I needed to ask Jason. I dialled his number. My daughter-in-law answered. “Oh, hello Amy, it’s Jess. Is Jason there?”

  “He’s busy at the moment, Jess. Can he call you back?” Amy’s tone was distant, as though she were dealing with a demanding client.

  “It’s important that I talk to him. Is he there?” I could hear the family clatter in the background.

  “Nicholas, stop that. I’m talking to Granny.” Amy’s voice became louder. “He’s just going down to his office. He has a really important project to deal with. I’ll tell him you called.”

  “I’ve just heard some bad news and I wanted to talk to him about the investment he suggested. Have you heard of Nordwall Enterprises?” The prolonged silence told me Amy had hung up.

  Trust Amy to try and stop me talking to my son without her being in on it. She never passed on my messages, so I dialled Jason’s office number.

  “Hi, Mum. What’s up?”

  “Have you heard the news?”

  “About the Canucks? Don’t tell me you watched a hockey game?”

  “No. Not the Canucks. The stock market.” Why would I be interested in the bloody Canucks?

  “Oh that.” Jason sounded bored. “I don’t think it’s a big deal.”

  “Well it is for me. Remember Nordwall Enterprises?”

  “No. Should I?”

  “Well you suggested I go to Robert.”

  “Oh. Right. I’d forgotten about that. Is Nordwall involved?”

  “I don’t know. That’s what I want you to find out.” As he’d been the one to suggest I invest, he should know who to contact.

  “Okay, Mum. I’ll phone Robert right now and get back to you. Don’t worry. I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

  I tried to enjoy my tea, but I found myself pulling my ear lobe, something I’ve done all my life despite my mother slapping my hand away. Would Jason be able to find out anything? Perhaps Nordwall wasn’t affected? I washed up, wiped the counter tops again, and watered the poinsettia that refused to die after its Christmas glory. I couldn’t understand why it lived when I tried all means to make it unwelcome, other than dumping it out. I even cursed at it as I’d heard that plants understand when you talk to them. It should have shrivelled from lack of self esteem after I’d finished, but no, it continued to bloom.

  What would I do if I’d lost all my savings? I’d never be able to retire, that’s all. Not the end of the world when I still had some get up and go left in me. At least I had a house. I found myself humming “Count your blessings one by one.” It was a favorite song of my mother’s. Gracie Fields used to sing it during the war, evidently, in an effort to cheer up people whose houses had turned into rubble.

  My major blessing was the family home that Frank and I built in Kerrisdale after we’d emigrated to Canada. Little did we know, when we saved ten thousand dollars for the lot, that property values in the neighborhood would skyrocket. Those were good days—both of us working, planning and building the house, getting ready to have children. I can never remember when it went sour. But the house turned out to be a great investment. When we sold it, I ended up with enough money to buy a house here in Nelson with something left over to live on into my old age. Or so I’d thought.

  The phone rang and I slopped tea down myself. “Not good news, Mum, I’m afraid.” Jason sounded like a doctor telling a patient he had inoperable cancer.

  “Tell me, Jason.” I can’t stand waffling.

  “Nordwall stocks are down eighty-five percent. But they’re still in business. And the good news is…you still have fifteen percent.”

  “Fifteen percent? That means there’s hardly anything left.” I wanted to cry. I also wanted to thump Jason for being so cavalier about my money.

  “This is going to be a problem for Robert. He’s pretty bummed.”

  “Oh dearie me. Poor Robert.”

  “They may come up again, Mum. It might be a temporary setback. It’s a good company.” Jason’s voice had a ‘there, there,’ tone about it.

  I didn’t answer.

  “Mum, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, luv,” I managed to say. “I’ll do what Brits always do in bad times—have a nice cup of tea.”

  “Amy and I can help out, you know.”

  “Thanks, but there’s no need. I’ll be fine.”

  “We’ll see you tonight and talk about it then.”

  I had got out of bed in the morning, feeling cheerful, looking forward to the day and then, just a few hours later, I was unemployed, facing poverty, suffering from an injured knee, and had no hot water.

  I went out on my small balcony and bellowed at the world, “Bugger you! Bugger you all. You won’t get my house, you know. You won’t get my house!” With my fists clenched and holding back my tears I began to sing, “There’ll be blue birds over, the white cliffs of Dover, tomorrow, just you wait and see.”

  A small girl making a snowman in her yard across the lane looked up. I waved. She smiled, waved back and carried on digging. I went in to put the kettle on.

  2

  I set off for dinner with my son. How could he be so—what’s the word?—nonchalant, yes nonchalant, with my money. With my future. He cared more about what happened to his mate than he did about me. Poor Robert. Bummed was he? Tough tatties.

  I should never have let Jason talk me into investing. I’ve always thought it was a risky business, but my mother told me men know about these things and women don’t. And look at her. When Dad died she didn’t even know how to write a check or how to pay the bills or anything to do with money. He decided how much she needed for housekeeping, not her, so we ended up at the end of the week eating bread and chips.

  I kicked Jason and Amy’s gate open. They lived in a modern house—well, modern compared with mine—in an area that had been a quarry. Its garage was a full frontal assault with the attached house added as an afterthought. The immaculate bordered path around the garage, the polished brass mailbox, and the white pedestal vase of artificial Shasta daisies were a prelude to the hygienic neatness of the interior.

  A small boy opened the door and stood holding the handle, smiling.

  “Who are you?” I asked looking around. “Have I come to the wrong house?”

  “I’m Nicholas,” he said with certainty. “And you’re Granny.”

  “No, that’s not right. I do have a grandson called Nicholas, but he doesn’t look at all like you.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “He’s got reddish hair and freckles and brown eyes.”

  “I’ve got reddish hair and freckles and brown eyes.”

  I peered into his face. “Why so you have. But you can’t be Nicholas.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Nicholas is four and you’re a baby, not a big boy.”

  “No I’m not. I’m four.” He drew himself up to his full thirty-six inches.

  “You might be four, but you’re still not Nicholas.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Nicholas always gives me a big, big hug.” He let go of the door and launched himself into my arms and I carrie
d him into the house. Amy was out of sight, thank goodness. She didn’t approve of the way I talked to her son. “You are teaching him to lie,” she once told me. I ignored her. She’s a daft woman when it comes to her kids—or when it comes to anything, for that matter. Whenever I tried to be funny with my grandchildren, she’d bustle about with a stiff look on her face and say things like, “Granny’s only joking, you know. Leprechauns aren’t scary.”

  Then there was the time I was telling a story about me fishing for newts and falling in the canal and I used the word bloody, which is common enough in Yorkshire and not meant as a swear word. Well, Amy put on a face like a fig and said, “Not in front of the children.” I wanted to belt her one. After that I felt like I had to watch every word, which doesn’t make for a relaxed visit.

  As usual, the place smelled of polish, but also of something delicious cooking. Nicholas led me into the kitchen where Amy stirred ingredients in a wok. “Hi, Jess.” She half turned her dark head to lift her face so I could kiss her cheek. A smell of perfume took over from the stirfry. “Dinner’s nearly ready.”

  I turned to the 18-month-old in her high chair. Tapping on her tray I chanted, “Inketty dinketty poppetty pet, the ladies of London they wear scarlet.” Julie, the image of her mother, held out a miniature carrot to me in her little dimpled hand and I bit off the end. She giggled and threw the other end on the floor.

  “Julie, food is for eating, not throwing.” Amy wiped the floor around the high chair with a cloth that smelled of disinfectant.

  “Granny, come and see what I’ve made.” Nicholas tugged at my arm.

  “Not now, Nicholas. Time to wash your hands,” Amy said. “Jess, can you let Jason know that dinner will be on the table in five minutes? He’s in his office.”

  “Nicholas, I’d love to see what you’ve made. Can you show me after dinner?” I said before I went downstairs.

  Jason’s office in the basement was reached by a set of wide carpeted stairs. Basement really isn’t the right word to describe a level big enough to hold storerooms, a bedroom, bathroom, playroom, and an office, but that’s what they called it. Jason was on the phone when I entered. He waved and indicated a chair.

  His office, unlike the rest of the house, was not the realm of a tidy person. In fact it was a wonder he knew where anything was. Stacks of file folders spewed their contents over the floor, a bookshelf held cables and computer parts, books were piled on the floor, and you couldn’t tell what his desk was made of as there wasn’t a bare area to be seen. A large monitor and computer dominated the desk—hardly surprising given his work as a programmer.

  The only personal item in the room was a photo of him and two friends laughing over beer steins at some student gathering. Youth and exuberance glowed at me from the frame as I compared his life then with the present. What had happened to the carefree, laid-back, generous son I used to know? Was it simply age or was it being married to Amy? I had never thought she was right for him, but you have to tread very carefully as a mother-in-law.

  When Jason finished his conversation he swivelled his chair to face me and spread his hands. “Oh Mum. Look, I’m really sorry about your investment. I wish I hadn’t suggested it. But there is hope.”

  “I’m not holding my breath.” I still felt resentful.

  “At least you have the house. That’s the best investment you ever made.”

  “Yes,” I said. No thanks to you. I stared at him. Was this the boy I gave birth to and raised? The boy who did a paper route and bought me flowers with his first pay? He used to give me big hugs that lifted me off my feet and we’d go out for a beer and laugh over things like a painted sign that said, “My cow and me welcome thee.” I hardly ever saw him on his own any more—Amy made sure of that.

  “Let’s talk about it after the kids are in bed. Amy will be out, so there’ll just be the two of us.”

  “Dinner’s ready,” we heard Amy call down the stairs.

  Jason stood up and held out his hand to me. “We better hurry. Amy gets upset if we’re late.”

  “Heaven forbid we upset Amy,” I said.

  “I don’t think you understand how fragile she is,” Jason said as we hurried upstairs.

  Fragile my foot.

  We never ate dinner in the kitchen, because Amy liked the formal dining room better. I shifted in my chair and tried to stop pulling my ear.

  “Nicholas, sit down,” Amy said as she pulled Julie’s high chair closer to her. It slid easily on the plastic sheet underneath it.

  As Nicholas sat down, he sent his glass of milk flying. Amy said, “Nicholas, I keep telling you to be more careful. Now look what you’ve done.”

  I ran into the kitchen for a cloth and mopped up the milk while Amy found a bowl of carpet cleaner and another cloth to scrub the flowered carpet with. If we’d been in the kitchen, with its tile floor, it wouldn’t have mattered if the kids spilled stuff. But let’s make life difficult for ourselves to keep up appearances.

  Nicholas carefully picked out the mushrooms from his stirfry before settling down to eat. I tucked into mine. Whatever I thought about Amy, she was a bloody good cook, and I didn’t need to be told about starving children in Africa to enjoy her food.

  “Have you heard from Lisa lately?” Amy asked about my daughter in New Zealand.

  “Last I heard she was in Rotorua working on the preservation of kiwi birds,” I said. “The mail is terrible. I will get two letters close together and then nothing for weeks.”

  “Julie, eat your broccoli,” Amy said as she leaned over to poke at the infant’s plate.

  “I’ll have to get you a computer, Mum, so you can email,” Jason said.

  Amy laughed. “Jess doesn’t need a computer. She can’t even use the TV remote you gave her.”

  Jason stared at Amy briefly, then turned to me.

  “Thank you, luv,” I quickly said, “but I don’t think I’ve got the gumption to use one.”

  “Sure you have,” Jason said. “I can teach you. It’s easy when you know how. And think what you’d save on stamps.” He laughed as he always had when he saw me soaking unfranked stamps off of envelopes so I could use them again.

  Amy began to collect the plates. “You’re busy enough, Jason, without taking on a student.”

  Jason’s mouth set in a firm line, but he didn’t say any more.

  “Well, Mum,” Jason said after the children were in bed and Amy had departed for her Pilates class, “what are you going to do?” He put down a tray of herbal tea in front of the gas fire and turned up its flames. In that light he looked just like his father with his reddish fair hair, soft brown eyes and full lips, which, as a child, could pout dramatically.

  “I’m going to look for a job, of course. I’m sure something will show up. An elderly soul needing care, maybe.”

  “Are you okay for money?” he asked. “We can help out.”

  “That’s good of you, but I can manage.”

  He leaned forward. “Amy and I think you should come and live with us. We could easily turn the basement into a suite.”

  “Why? I’m not ga-ga.”

  “Of course not. But Amy and I want to look after you.”

  Since his marriage it was always “Amy and I.” He wasn’t just Jason but a Jason-Amy combo, so I was beginning to think of him as Jamy. My eyes narrowed. “You mean you want a built-in babysitter?”

  He paused to pour tea. “There is that,” he admitted. “We’d pay you, of course. Then Amy could go back to work and your financial troubles would be over.” He leaned back as if he’d solved all my problems.

  “I don’t need to live in your basement. I have a house.” I tried to keep my voice even as I said these words slowly. He didn’t pick up the cue.

  “Amy and I think you should sell it. Make it work for you. The market is good right now. In fact, Amy has asked a realtor friend to
do a market evaluation.”

  “What?” I could hardly believe him. “How dare she? You’re my son, not my bloody keeper.” I got up to find the laundry basket. I needed to do something with my hands. Jason didn’t answer. He sat staring at the fire while I began to take small garments out of the basket and thump them into folded shapes.

  I thought that he had finally grasped how angry I was until he said, “I know you’re upset what with the fire and the investment, but when you’re rational again you’ll see the sense in it.”

  My house, built for a tradesman in 1900, had two grander houses on either side. Their gabled roofs looked down on mine, and where they had lawns with trees and shrubs, mine had only a small patch of grass. At the front nothing separated our gardens but a row of high grass where lawn mowers had marked out the property lines. At the back, a garage took up much of my yard and an ivy-covered fence separated me and the vegetable gardens on either side.

  I fell in love with the house when I first saw it for sale. Its two dormer windows, capped by small gables, looked like friendly eyes with decorated eyelids, and the curved roof down either side looked like a judge’s long wig. A panelled door off a small porch welcomed me when I came home and I loved the smooth feel of the antique brass handle that let me into my haven and the Victorian stained glass window, inset in the front door, which cast a rosy glow into the hall.

  The front of the house was level with the road but because it was on a hill, the back, with the basement showing, was higher than the lane that separated my row from the row below. One day, like the neighbors, I wanted to grow vegetables and to plant flowering vines that would camouflage the decrepit garage.

  I grew up in a row of smoke-blackened brick houses in Sheffield, England, with a view of a gas works at one end of the street, a belching factory chimney at the other, and washing lines strung across the road. I tried to recall that memory before I looked up my tree-lined street and admired the view of lush green mountains around me. My house represented all I came to Canada for—smoke-free air, natural beauty, freedom from class distinctions, and prosperity. It was mine. I could furnish it how I liked, paint it purple if I wanted to, (I didn’t), keep ferrets if I wanted to, (I didn’t), or cover the walls with paintings if I wanted to, (I did). It was mine. I bought it by myself, I moved into it by myself and I looked after it by myself. And whatever Amy and Jason said or did, I was keeping it.