Remember, Remember

by Hazel McHaffie

  ‘Could they maybe give her something? Make her drowsy?’

  ‘They aren’t keen on sedating them.’

  ‘Why ever not? I’d have thought it’d be preferable from her point of view to be out of it.’

  ‘Sedatives can have side effects too – some of them a bit like dementia. And anyway we don’t know if Gran would consent to them if she knew what they were.’

  ‘You mean – you aren’t serious?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Mum! Look at her! You’re doing everything else for her. Surely, if she’s out of control, you have the right to decide she needs sedated. You need a life, too.’

  ‘But that’s exactly why they don’t like to do it. Putting the interests of the carer above the patient’s. It wouldn’t be morally right.’

  ‘What nonsense! If you’re totally exhausted and depressed and unable to think straight, surely that’s not in her best interests?’

  ‘Will you pass that blanket to Charles and Diana. Please. Charles and Diana,’ I say.

  ‘Have your tea, Mum.’

  Mm. Nice. Warm. Lets me think. Quiet.

  Reuben, Jack and Sydney are hiding.

  ‘Coming, ready or not!’

  It’s Derek’s turn to be seeker.

  He turns round, his eyes darting from side to side in case the boys leap out at him straight away. They won’t though. I can see them all from the tree house. They’re pelting away as hard as their much longer legs will carry them.

  Derek wanders off. It’s only a few minutes and he’s back.

  ‘Doris, have you seen the others?’

  ‘Nope.’ He looks small and frightened down there, all on his own. ‘Why don’t you come up here an’ play with me instead?’

  His pudgy little fingers are white with the effort of hanging on to the ladder into the tree house. He flops down on my cushion – the one I keep just for me. The dolls aren’t allowed to use it.

  ‘Want a drink?’ I say.

  ‘Yeeah!’ His eyes sparkle.

  ‘Whooosh. There you are. It’s dandelion an’ burdock. Mind you don’t spill it on my cushion,’ I say fiercely, handing him a chipped china cup from my second-best tea-set.

  Derek bursts into tears.

  ‘What’s up?’ I say. He can be a pest sometimes.

  ‘It’s all empty!’ he wails.

  ‘Course it is. It’s pretend.’

  ‘But I’m thirsty!’ he wails.

  ‘Go home then.’

  ‘Will you come with me? So Reuben an’ them won’t jump out at me.’

  He has this daft idea that I can protect him from his three older brothers. As if!

  I sigh. I’d better. Mum always says we have to look after the little ones. Only the boys reckon that’s me, not them. I was having fun too partying with all the dolls and everything. All on my own, nobody to laugh at me. ’Cos the boys do scoff – specially Sydney. Two things he really despises: sissies and school. He told me: books are a punishment God thought up. And right now Sydney’s into punishment. Ever since Beatrice came he’s had more than his share of it.

  …

  Mamma sighs. ‘Yes, your Alicia’s right, sadly. I’m afraid Sydney was sent home from school again this week but this kind of behaviour is very much out of character. He’s never been in trouble like this before.’

  ‘Boys will be boys, Mrs Fenton. And all I can say is, I’m glad all mine are girls,’ says Mrs McFilligree from next door. She folds her arms under her bosom, gives it a hoist, like she does. I can see her through all the twigs and leaves, but they can’t see me sitting inside the hedge. Not if I keep ever so still.

  ‘I’ve had four boys, Mrs McFilligree, as well as two girls,’ Mamma sounds sharp, like her corset is chafing, ‘And both have their pluses and minuses. But I can tell you this is more than being a boy. Something troubles him, that I know. Something or someone.’

  ‘Is it the baby? Only when my youngest was born the next one up took to tantrums and screaming and all sorts. It took a good leathering to bring her to her senses.’

  ‘Yes, but you see Sydney isn’t the next one up. That’s Derek. Four years he’s been the baby but he adores his baby sister. It’s Sydney who’s the trouble. He’s the third one. And he’s eight, going on nine.’

  ‘Eight? Old enough to know what’s what, I’d say.’

  And then… Atttishoo. It comes before I even know it’s laying eggs inside my nose.

  ‘Doris! Come out of there. At once!’

  I’m glad Mamma isn’t Mrs McFilligree. I’d have been leathered sure enough.

  ‘Off to bed, young lady. And if I ever catch you…’

  I cry hard enough ’cos of missing my tea, never mind leathering.

  And then there was the rat.

  …

  ‘Sydney Fenton!’ Mamma roars. ‘You will be the death of me! What on earth possessed you to take Barnaby to school in the first place?’

  Now usually Sydney knows you have to act like you’re sorry even when you aren’t deep down inside, but this time is he acting? No, sir! He is not! He’s totally indignant, that’s what.

  ‘Mrs Gussman was tellin’ us about rats. They started the plague an’ it was dead interestin’. But some of the girls were like eeuuuuch an’ I thought if they could see Barnaby…’

  ‘…you’d convert them! Sydney, Sydney, Sydney,’ Mamma says, shaking her head till her curls come unstuck. ‘What am I going to do with you? Poor Mrs Gussman’s had half the parents of the children in your class up in arms. I despair of you. Really I do. Whatever will you think up next?’

  Mamma’s done a fair amount of despairing lately. As far as Sydney’s concerned.

  This time she’s mad as fire! I can hear Sydney’s yells from here. Papa’s giving him a real skelping. And it must be bad to burn down the pampas grass ’cos Mamma doesn’t usually tell Papa. She can slap hard enough all on her own. But everybody in our house knows you don’t touch matches. He reckons he didn’t mean to make a blaze, only light one little strand. But Mamma says it’s been a totally dry summer and he should’ve known it would go up like a bonfire. The wonder of it was he didn’t kill himself too, she says. And that’s when she gives him a hug that swallows him up. Only she looks like she knows she shouldn’t oughta.

  ‘Muummy! Karah won’t let me have a go on the swing.’

  ‘Oh Max! Look what you’ve done. You’ve woken Granny D.’

  ‘But Karah’s being mean.’

  ‘Children, come upstairs and play. Mum, here’s your book about the royal family. Look, there’s the Queen, visiting America. Doesn’t she look lovely? And who’s this? The Duke of Gloucester, and the Duchess. You could have told me that, couldn’t you?’

  ‘I never knew that,’ the young one says.

  ‘Oh yes, Gran was always very keen on the royals.’

  ‘I’m bored. Can we go now?’ It’s a little girl. What’s she doing here?

  ‘I’m coming,’ Sad Eyes says. ‘Keep an eye on Gran, Pandora. Look, Mum, there’s the Queen. Wearing your favourite colour. Powder blue. Lovely. Why don’t you tell Pandora all about the time you made a dress like the Queen’s, eh?’

  ‘You made a dress, Gran?’

  ‘Did I invite you? Have you got my purse?’

  ‘No. Look here’s Prince Andrew. And Edward...’

  I’m sleepy…

  Here’s Sad Eyes.

  ‘Right. A fresh cup, Pandora?’

  ‘No, thanks. I’m not really a tea drinker.’

  ‘Coffee then?’

  ‘No. I’m not keen on instant. Actually, we’d better be going. I only popped in to see how you were doing. I’m having my hair done at 4.30 and I need to get the children to Claire’s before that. We’ll come for longer next time.’ She opens the door. ‘Karah! Max! Time to go.’

  ‘Ohh, Mummy! I don’t want to go yet. Can I stay with Nana?’

  ‘Shsh. It’s too noisy for Granny D. Let’s go out into the hall. Say goodbye to her, and then ou
t we go.’

  ‘Goodbye, Granny D.’

  ‘Bye, Gran. See you soon.’

  ‘I’ll be back in two ticks, Mum.’

  Lovely. Nobody here.

  It’s dark in the corner. Something’s humming.

  Is that you, Frank? Are you there? Go away.

  I’ll close my eyes. I don’t want to see it.

  The shed’s humming. Uncle Frank is getting it out…

  No! I don’t want to! I don’t want to.

  ‘Mum! Mum! It’s OK. You’re quite safe.’ Sad Eyes pats my arm.

  ‘Don’t let him get me!’

  ‘There’s nobody here, only you and me. Wasn’t it nice of Pandora to call in to see us? Shame they couldn’t stay longer.’

  Her sigh whispers against my cheek like the edge of a cow’s tail.

  Chapter 16

  Eighteen months earlier

  I MUST FIND THEM. It’s important. I know it is. But where are they? I put them in a special place. Ahh. Fresh air. Lovely.

  ‘Oh Mum. I can’t have you all muddy and wet today, you’ve got a visitor coming to see you. Come on back inside.’

  ‘Beatrice?’

  ‘No, Mum. I’m Jessica.’

  ‘This is my garden.’

  ‘Yes, it is. But I’m living with you right now. Come on. There we go, back in your own chair. Right beside the photograph of Dad. Remember? George? Your husband? See. There he is.’

  That’s not George. He’s too old.

  He’ll come out when she’s gone. I know he will. He was always shy, George.

  ‘Here’s one of your favourite books. Prince Charles and Lady Di on their wedding day. I’ll be back in a minute with your drink.’

  Lady Di. Lady Di.

  What’s all that stuff round her? What a mess. Why don’t they tidy her up?

  Pretty face. Like… Beatrice.

  ‘Please, Papa. Please don’t be cross with him.’

  ‘Stay out of this, Doris. I will not have any son of mine scaring little girls out of their minds.’

  ‘But, Papa, it wasn’t nearly as bad as Bea’s making out.’

  ‘She’s years younger than you, Reuben. You should know to make allowances.

  ‘But he thought I’d find the spider, not Bea. And I wouldn’t have minded. I like it when he treats me like the boys.’

  ‘Is this the truth, boy? Did you intend it for Doris?’

  ‘Yes, Papa. And I’m sorry Bea got scared. I wouldn’t do it to her. She’s such a cry-baby. No fun in teasing her. But Doris, she’s a sport. She doesn’t mind.’

  ‘And if I could think of things I’d do them back, Papa. Only I can never think of anything bad enough to scare Reuben.’

  Papa half-smiles. ‘Off you go then, Doris. I need to have a chat with your brother.’

  …

  ‘Thanks, kiddo,’ Reuben says roughly. ‘Only, I don’t need you to fight my battles. Got that? I told Papa so, an’ all.’

  ‘But you wouldn’t have told on Bea. I know you wouldn’t. And if she hadn’t made such a fuss, Papa wouldn’t have known about that spider.’

  He grins. ‘Pretty life-like, huh? My mate, Barry, got it from a joke shop. I bet you’d have shrieked if you’d found it first.’

  ‘Bet I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Course you would. But you wouldn’t have gone crying to Papa. You’re OK, Doris. For a girl!’

  Reuben? Are you there?

  ‘You all right, Mum?’

  ‘Is Reuben here yet?’

  ‘No. He’s been dead years.’

  No! Oh no. Not Reuben. My Reuben.

  ‘Don’t be sad. It was all a very long time ago. Here, why don’t I pop a video on and you can watch it until your visitor comes. I must get things cleared up. See? Hyacinth Bucket. One of your favourites. You enjoy all the pickles she gets herself into.’

  Where is it? They steal things in here. I know they do. I must keep them out.

  ‘What on earth? Damn it! What have you done now? Come on. I need to get in. There’s somebody coming to see you any minute now. So be a good girl, move whatever it is. Mum, please. I’ll bring you some Ovaltine if you let me in.’

  ‘Where’s my purse?’

  ‘Here. You’ll need to open the door so I can give it to you.’

  ‘That’s not my purse.’

  ‘Yes, it is. Listen. Hear the money in it.’

  ‘I need the toilet.’

  ‘No, Mum. You don’t. You can’t. You’ve been eight times at least this morning.’

  What’s that? Ringing.

  ‘Oh no!’ she wails. ‘There he is and look at us! Right. Sit down, Mother. Sit! And don’t move while I get the door.’

  I hear her.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello. Mrs Burden? I’m Ray Coulthard. I think you’re expecting me?’

  ‘Yes. Please, do come in. I’m sorry, we’re in a terrible mess. I’m not usually as bad as this. Mother’s been playing up this morning and now she’s shut herself in, and barricaded the door with something.’

  ‘Don’t worry on my account. I’m not here to see the house, just your mother. And I know all about them playing up, believe me.’

  I want to see who it is. Who put that there?

  ‘She wouldn’t do it when I asked…’

  ‘Don’t worry. I know.’

  ‘I’m so sorry about the mess. But please, do go in. This is my mother, Doris Mannering. Mum, this is Mr Coulthard. He’s come to chat to you.’

  ‘Hello, Mrs Mannering. May I sit beside you?’

  ‘Would you like a coffee?’ she says.

  ‘That would be very nice. Milk, two sugars, please. And what about you, Mrs Mannering? Will you join me in a coffee?’

  ‘Did I invite you?’

  ‘No. I’ve come to see how you’re getting on.’

  ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘So we’ll both have a coffee, then, yes?’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. The one I know is watching. ‘Don’t forget the serviettes,’ I tell her. ‘And the silver tongs.’

  She shoots me a look. But then she’s gone.

  He gets out a paper thing. He smiles.

  ‘Right. Do you know what year it is, Mrs Mannering?’

  ‘2000 and… 2000 and…’

  ‘And what day is it today?’

  ‘Is it special? Is it my birthday?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so. How old are you? D’you remember?’

  ‘Twenty-eight.’

  ‘And who’s the prime minister?’

  ‘Winston Churchill.’

  ‘Where are we now?’

  ‘I don’t know. Do you know?’

  ‘Yes. We’re in your home. In Bradley Drive.’

  ‘Are we?’

  ‘Is anyone else living here?’

  ‘No, I live alone now.’

  ‘Mrs Mannering, I want you to think of three objects, OK? Can you tell me what you’re thinking about?’

  ‘Nelson Mandela.’

  She barges in, no knock, nothing. Rude.

  ‘Sorry to take so long. I couldn’t find the coffee. Someone had put it in the cupboard under the sink.’

  ‘Smells wonderful,’ he says.

  She clatters around. He’s waiting. I don’t know what for.

  ‘Thank you.’ He takes a sip. ‘Lovely. We’ll leave it there for now. Concentrate on talking, yes? You were thinking of three objects.’

  I’m waiting.

  ‘You know, Mum. Things like coffee, cups, things like that.’

  ‘Yes, please. No sugar.’

  ‘Please, Mrs Burden… your mother…’

  ‘Sorry.’

  She goes away again.

  ‘Would you like a coffee?’ I ask him.

  ‘I have one, thank you. Can you think of three things, Mrs Mannering?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘A cup.’

  ‘And this?’

  ‘A book.’

  ‘And this?
’

  ‘A pencil? A pen?’

  ‘Three things. A cup, a book, a pencil. Now can you tell me those three things?’

  ‘Pencil.’

  ‘Three things. Cup, book, pencil.’

  ‘Cup, book, pencil.’

  ‘Very good. Now, can you spell pencil backwards?’

  ‘I don’t know. Can you?’

  ‘All right, I’m going to say something different. I want you to concentrate.’

  ‘Concentrate.’

  ‘Good. Here it is. No ifs, ands or buts. Can you say that?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s in the book. The red book.’

  ‘Now I’m going to ask you to do a couple of things for me. Here’s a teaspoon. I want you to pick it up, and place it on the saucer.’

  The coffee’s almost cold. I give it to him.

  ‘Now I’d like you to read what it says on this piece of paper and then do what it says.’

  It says, clap your hands.

  The coffee is too cold. He hasn’t drunk it.

  ‘Fine, that’s it. Now you can relax while I talk to your daughter. You can listen and chip in if you want to ask anything or comment.’ He smiles at me. I smile back. He gets up. Calls, ‘Mrs Burden.’

  He smiles at her. She doesn’t smile.

  ‘I’m sure you don’t need me to point out the problem areas.’

  The old lady darts looks at me, at him, at me.

  ‘Do we have to do this in front of her? She does follow some things still.’

  ‘Indeed. And it’s important there’s no suggestion of plotting behind her back.’

  He smiles again. I smile.

  ‘We’re now at the stage where I think we need a more thorough and expert assessment. There’s a significant deficit and from what you’ve told me, looking after your mother is putting a considerable strain on you and your relationship.’

  She flashes me a look. Guilty. What has she done?

  ‘It’s been helpful for me to see your mother in her own home environment.’

  ‘Actually, I’ve only recently come to stay in Mum’s house. She was living on her own before. But sometimes I wonder, is it adding to her confusion? Me being here, I mean. She thinks she’s living years ago when my father was alive. She’s always calling for him.’

  ‘Yes. That often happens. The past is much clearer than the present and she will have better recall of long-ago events than the things that happened this week. As I’m sure you’re only too well aware.’