by Imogen Clark
‘Well, hello there, Anna,’ she said, smiling widely. Anna objected to Adele using her Christian name. It seemed overly familiar somehow – Anna was a client, after all – but being called Miss Bliss seemed wrong as well. She probably just didn’t like Adele.
‘Your mother is very well today. She’s had some lunch and she’s up to date with her medication. She’s just relaxing in the Dale Suite at the moment.’
Adele took great pride in knowing where her ‘guests’ were at any given moment but she was the only one who gave the rooms their allotted names, as if the home were a smart hotel. The Dale Suite was actually the big day room that Mr Argyle had referred to and could only possibly be referred to as a suite because of the folding screen that might be pulled across to make two small rooms but absolutely never was.
‘Thanks,’ said Anna.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘No, thanks. I can’t stay long.’ Anna had an irrational dislike of the pale-green institutional crockery that was in use at Oak’s Reach, although she couldn’t quite put her finger on the problem.
‘Righty-ho. Well, if you have any questions I’ll just be through here,’ Adele said, and then bustled off, speaking to the next person that she came across almost before she had finished talking to Anna.
Anna stood on the threshold of the Dale Suite and cast an eye around for her mother. Old people all seemed to look the same. It didn’t help that they never seemed to be wearing their own clothes. She recognised a cardigan that Sebastian had bought their mother for Christmas on a tiny, birdlike woman who sat in a wing chair by the radiator. It might not be the same one, of course, but it looked like it and it was clearly too large for the woman who wore it.
She continued to scan the room until her eyes landed on her mother. She was sitting by herself on a small sofa between a window and a birdcage. Inside the cage were two blue budgies. Anna had forgotten all about budgies until she came here. The birds had played no part in her life since she was a child yet here they were, bouncing between perches and twittering, and she wondered how they could have got lost in her mind.
Her mother appeared to be asleep. Her eyelids flickered and a high-pitched whistle sounded with each of her shallow out breaths. When she was asleep like this she looked just as she always had done. In repose her face seemed gentler, the deep wrinkles that cut across it less pronounced. It was when her eyes were open that Anna sometimes struggled to see her mother as she remembered her.
She pulled up a chair and sat next to her. The budgies hopped from perch to perch, chattering away to each other. A crocheted blanket, which someone had placed on her knees despite the stifling heat in the day room, was slipping down and Anna reached out to catch it and put it back. The movement of the fabric against her tights made her mother stir and she opened her eyes, smiled at Anna and then closed them again.
The blanket was made of hundreds of granny squares stitched together in bright jewel colours with a stark black border. Miriam had taught Anna how to make them when she was a child. It had taken a while as Anna had kept pushing her hook through the wrong space, causing her work to unravel before her eyes, but gradually, with Miriam’s patience, she had mastered it and soon she’d been churning out squares like there was no tomorrow, snaffling lengths of wool from wherever she could find them. Now, though, she couldn’t remember what had happened to them. She felt sure she would have remembered a blanket so she must never have got round to sewing them together, typically moving on to the next thing before the first was finished. They would probably find them stuffed in a bag somewhere when they started the job of clearing the house.
‘It’s a shame,’ said a voice at her ear, making her jump.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Anna, turning her head towards the voice.
An old lady stood at her shoulder. She was still quite tall, for an old person, and she stood with her head erect although she was leaning on a stick for support.
‘It’s a shame,’ she repeated. ‘What’s left of a person after a stroke. I wonder if they might not be better off dead.’
Anna was taken aback at her bluntness and also wasn’t sure that she agreed with her. For a moment she struggled for a response.
‘I don’t think we can say that,’ she managed.
‘Don’t you?’ the old woman said sharply. ‘What kind of a life is that?’ She nodded at Anna’s mother. ‘Sitting in a chair hour after hour with no hope of improvement, wondering whether it will be apple pie or jam roly-poly for pudding. Hoping that someone will visit, going to bed disappointed, with no prospect of ever getting back to the life that you once had, the life when things were yours for the taking, when you could wake up in the morning and choose how you would pass the hours.’
‘I don’t agree,’ Anna said, realising as she spoke that she did have an opinion on this difficult issue.
‘Of course you don’t. That’s because you want your mother here, with you. You can’t imagine the emptiness of a post-stroke life, of old age even. Try it now. Try to imagine.’
‘I don’t need to imagine,’ said Anna. ‘I know what it’s like. I do talk to my mother, you know. And we’ve spoken to the doctors. She’s in no pain and she does seem happy.’
‘That’s true enough,’ conceded the old lady. She spoke so quietly that Anna struggled to hear her over the racket coming from the budgerigars.
‘But if she could choose, if she could truly choose to carry on like this day after day or to let go and leave, what do you think she would pick? What would you do?’
Anna didn’t reply.
‘There are no choices here,’ continued the old woman. ‘Even I make no choices and I’m still relatively able-bodied. They lay my clothes out for me, they present me with food, they tell me when I should go to bed. It’s a cliché to say that the aged are like children but it’s true. Where is the dignity in a life like this? No matter how successful you were in life, no matter what you did or how much respect you gained, when you are incapable of controlling your bladder or eating without spilling food down your chin then all is lost. The memory of what you once were is totally overshadowed by what you have become.’
Anna still said nothing as she contemplated what had been said. Hot tears were threatening and she tightened her jaw to stem the flow. Then the old lady reached out and touched Anna gently on the arm. Anna could see her veins, blue through her paper-thin skin.
‘Don’t get upset, dear. It’s just the ramblings of a decrepit old woman. And what I say can’t change anything. Your mother survived her stroke, for good or for ill, and there’s nothing that we can do about that until something else happens and changes things.’
When Anna didn’t comment the old woman withdrew her hand and began her slow progression across the room towards the dining room, where the chink of teacups being rattled was starting to be heard. Anna watched her go.
Her mother made a spluttering sound at the back of her throat but then continued to sleep. Anna picked up her hand from where it was resting on the blanket and wrapped it gently in her own. The fingers, once so strong, were now fragile, the skin on them wrinkled and loose. The wedding band, worn thin from years of wear, hung from her third finger. Only the swelling of the joints prevented it from slipping off and being lost.
Was the woman right? Would it have been better if her mother had been taken when the blood clot hit her brain? That was surely nature’s intention. If it hadn’t been for the quick thinking of the woman in the queue behind her in the supermarket, would her mother have died there and then on Asda’s tiled floor?
No. What was she thinking? Her mother’s life here wasn’t so bad. Most days she was perfectly lucid. Yes, her speech was a bit slurred and the names for everyday objects often eluded her, but she could generally get her meaning across. By using a mixture of hand gestures, facial expressions and the words that had stayed stuck in her memory banks for reasons that Anna could not fathom, the two of them could have decent conversations. They were just painf
ully slow.
Her mother’s eyes flickered open again and this time she was awake. Anna gave her hand a squeeze.
‘How are you today, Mum?’ she asked. ‘You look well. It smells like it was fish pie for lunch. That must have been a treat. I know how much you like fish pie. Do you remember how much I hated it when I was little? Dad used to make me eat it and I’d spit it out. I must have been a nightmare.’
Dorothy gave her hand a little squeeze and smiled weakly. Did that mean that she too could remember Anna’s fussy dining habits? Anna hoped so. She pressed on, not wanting to leave the silences that she found so hard to deal with.
‘I quite like it now, fish pie. I mean, I wouldn’t choose it from a menu but if someone served it to me at their house I could manage a portion without spitting it out. I must be growing up after all.’
Dorothy smiled again. She looked so weary, Anna thought, as if merely existing was getting too much for her. Maybe the old woman was right?
‘I spoke to Miriam this week,’ Anna continued resolutely. ‘She’s well. She says she’ll try and get over here at the weekend. It’s a bit busy at their house, she said. Rosie is taking her driving test next week and she’s nagging Miriam to take her out every minute of the day. Miriam said that it’s exhausting but Rosie’s absolutely determined to pass first time. Can’t think where she gets that from!’
Another squeeze of the hand. Dorothy loved to hear news about them all and good news was the best sort.
‘Miriam says she drives well. The instructor expects that she’ll pass but you can never tell, can you? I thought I’d pass first time but I got that wrong, didn’t I?’
‘You . . .’ her mother started, taking care over the word as if the mere act of shaping her lips to sound it out was an effort, ‘. . . were not patient.’ She took a deep, rattling breath before she could continue. ‘You rushed at it.’
It was true. Anna had been desperate to pass her test and unwilling to hear that she wasn’t ready. She smiled fondly at her mother.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Not patient at all. And Sebastian’s good, I think. Holding up, anyway. He still won’t ask for much help but me and Miriam do what we can. I think he’s okay. It’s hard to tell but I think he is.’
‘Thank you,’ said her mother. Anna knew that this was for the help she gave to Sebastian, help that her mother could no longer offer. The stroke had come not three months after Tessa’s accident and Anna knew her mother felt that she had somehow let Sebastian down, which was utterly ridiculous. ‘And Clare?’ asked her mother, her tone expectant.
‘I haven’t been able to get hold of Clare this week,’ said Anna. She hated lying to her mother but there was nothing to be gained by telling her that Clare had totally fallen off all their radars yet again. ‘I’m not quite sure where she is,’ she continued. ‘There was talk of her going to stay with River for a few days so she might be there. I left a message on his answerphone but he’s not got back to me yet. Or she might be with her friend Louise. She often gives her somewhere to stay if, well, if she needs somewhere.’
Did her mother know how bad things had got with Clare? Could she sense it by some spooky maternal instinct? Anna knew that was ridiculous and it was probably her reticence to provide any news that made her mother anxious for more information. What would be the point in telling her the truth, though, that Clare appeared to be caught in a downward spiral that no one could pull her out of? Her mother would just worry and there was no need to put her through that.
‘Anyway, I’m sure she’ll ring me when she gets a minute,’ continued Anna breezily, even though she had rarely felt less sure of anything in her life.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ asked a voice just behind her, making her start. It was the tiny care assistant whose name Anna didn’t catch when she was first introduced and was now too embarrassed to ask.
‘Not just now, thank you. Mum? Would you like one?’
Nothing. Anna wondered sometimes whether her mother chose to play dumb so that people left her alone.
‘I think we’re fine, thank you,’ Anna added. As the tiny woman withdrew, her mother took hold of her arm and squeezed it with a surprising strength, her gnarled fingers quite white with the effort.
‘Anna,’ she said breathily. ‘There’s a will.’
Anna’s heart jolted. She didn’t want to be talking to her mother about death and wills. That she hadn’t got long left was obvious to both of them. What need was there to draw attention to the fact? They would find the will when the time came.
‘Don’t worry about that now,’ she said, stroking her mother’s hand, which was still gripping her arm urgently. ‘We’ll find it.’
‘No,’ said her mother, and the sharpness of her tone seemed out of place in this soft space. ‘You must get it, Anna.’ She was breathing even more heavily now, each word clearly a huge effort to pronounce. ‘Don’t let the others read it.’
Anna was confused.
‘Why not?’
Her mother’s eyes bored into hers. Even though their colour had faded to a milky tan from their once chocolate brown, they still held the steely determination that Anna recognised.
‘There’s a letter with it,’ her mother continued. ‘For Clare. Don’t give it to her.’
‘But . . .’
‘Dorothy’s eyes were closing now with the effort of speech. ‘She’s not strong enough. She mustn’t know.’
‘Know what?’ Anna asked. ‘Mum. What are you saying?’
Dorothy flopped back against the cushions of the chair, her energy spent. Her eyes were closed now and she looked as if she might be sleeping but for a crease that cut deep between her eyebrows.
‘Promise me,’ she whispered. ‘Burn them.’
ANNA – 2015
I
Anna couldn’t believe that a month had passed since her mother’s funeral. Miriam, in true eldest-sibling fashion, had taken control of everything, including replying to the many letters of sympathy that had been sent to them and, in some cases, to their mother – as if she shouldn’t have to miss out on hearing how truly sorry people were at her demise. Anna wondered how the senders expected these letters would ever be read, the recipient being dead and all, and checked to see if they were from the more mentally infirm of her mother’s friends, but there seemed to be no correlation. Maybe writing to the dead person herself was quite common? Anna had no idea.
Miriam had said that they should split the letters between the four of them so that the task of replying would seem less daunting. She had then redistributed Clare’s allocation between the other three, just to be on the safe side.
Anna’s little pile had sat, accusingly, in the corner of her kitchen for well over a fortnight but now she was going to have to do them because she’d told Miriam that they were ready to post, just waiting for stamps. Miriam would find out soon enough if they never hit a postbox. Her network of spies was legendary.
When she finally set to with a packet of bland thank you cards and a biro that both worked and didn’t spit ink, she discovered that she’d got off quite lightly. Hers were mainly from well-meaning members of her mother’s WI who she’d never met and so she could reply in simple platitudes that required almost no emotional investment. She plucked the top one from the pile. It had a picture of a bunch of lilies on the front with the message printed in some curly, seventies-style font. Inside, the quavering handwriting expressed the writer’s deep sorrow for the loss of her mother. She squinted at the name, which the sender had helpfully written in block capitals under her signature. Vera Brown. The name meant nothing to Anna. ‘Dear Vera,’ she began. ‘Thank you so much for your kind thoughts at this sad time. We are all very grateful. Kind regards, Anna Bliss.’ She dithered over adding a kiss, almost did and then decided against it. One down. Loads to go.
‘This is bloody ridiculous,’ she said to Margot, who had leaped up and was sitting, purring in her lap. ‘Miriam is an idiot. Surely no one expects a reply to a sympathy card, d
o they?’
Once she’d actually started, though, she got into a rhythm and soon the pile of envelopes was taller than the pile of cards. She picked up the last one. This card was altogether classier than the others. There was no silver gilt or curly lettering here, just a simple image of a single rose. The handwriting, whilst a little wobbly in places, showed signs of having been flowing and elegant once. Anna looked at her own cramped lettering and felt a little envious. Her eyes dropped to the bottom to see who had sent it. StJohn Downing. The name meant nothing to her but then she didn’t know all her mother’s friends. She quickly scanned the message. It covered the same ground as the others. Terribly sorry to hear of your loss . . . She was a wonderful woman . . . My thoughts are with you, etcetera, but there was something about this one that seemed more heartfelt, as if whoever StJohn Downing was, he was genuinely moved by her mother’s death.
Anna plucked another thank you card from the packet and penned her standard reply. She signed it, addressed the envelope and pulled the white strip from the flap. Whatever happened to licking envelopes. Too unhygienic in these days of anti-bacterial everything. She slapped the last letter down on the top of the pile with the satisfaction of a job if not well done then at least finished. She fished the card from StJohn Downing out of the pile and dropped the rest into the recycling bin. She’d ask Miriam about him, see if his name rang a bell with her.
With the letters done, the next and far more daunting task was now hanging over the four of them like a raincloud at a barbecue.
‘We need to sort the house,’ Miriam said when she rang. ‘And soon. It’s no good to anyone just sitting there empty.’
Miriam was in sergeant-major mode yet again. It was great that she took control but Anna wished she would slow the pace down, just a little bit. Throwing away what was left of their mother was hard enough without running it like a military campaign. There was no point suggesting this to Miriam, though, not if you wanted her to carry on being in charge. Anna took a deep breath. ‘I know.’