Remember, Remember

by Hazel McHaffie

  ‘Ahhh, you’re awake again, Mrs Mannering. I was just going. Thank you so much for talking to me. Very nice to meet you.’

  ‘Nice to meet you too. Would you like a coffee?’

  His handshake is firm and warm. ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘I’ll see Mr Coulthard out, Mum, and I’ll be straight back.’

  I can hear them. Out there. In my hall.

  ‘I suppose she recited all the prime ministers since William Gladstone for you!’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘And once you’ve gone and we’re back to the two of us, she’ll probably insist that she’s the prime minister!’

  ‘I know. It can be immensely frustrating. But I’ll get my report off this week and hopefully the appointment will be with you in the next month or so. I would advise you to take any help the social people can provide. Caring for someone at this stage is exhausting and demoralising. And it does help if you can get away and do your own thing occasionally.’

  ‘Thank you. It’s good to talk to someone who understands.’

  ‘Take care of yourself too, then.’

  I must get that cake cut up. They’ll be here any minute.

  There it is. My favourite knife. Always the same one. It’s in all the pictures.

  I’ll just… What’s she doing in my kitchen?

  ‘Mum! Put. The. Knife. Down. Please.’

  ‘It’s time. I must get it done.’

  ‘Pop it on the table. There’s a good girl.’

  They’ll be here any minute. I must get ready. Why does she stand there, right in the way?

  ‘I can’t let you… Mum, let go! Let go!’

  She’s hurting me. I must get away.

  ‘Let. Go. Of. The Knife.’

  Ohh. She’s hurting me.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Mother! You’ll be the death of me.’

  ‘I don’t like you.’

  Why is she crying? I don’t like it.

  ‘I don’t like you.’

  ‘You don’t like me! Because of you I’m losing everything I care about. My home. My peace of mind. My freedom…’ and then in a whisper, ‘My love.’

  I have to go now. I must get ready.

  ‘Oh no, you don’t! Didn’t you hear me? Enough’s enough. You are going to go to your room and I’m going to lock you in before I kill you with my bare hands. It’s one thing after another. And I can’t… I absolutely can not take any more.’

  Her fingers dig in. It hurts.

  ‘I don’t like you.’

  ‘And at this precise moment, I hate you,’ she hisses.

  I hear the key turn in the lock.

  ‘George? Help. Please help me.’

  The noise wakes me. Scraping.

  It’s the door. Someone’s coming in. It’s the old lady. Tears running down her cheeks.

  ‘I’m so, so sorry, Mum. I didn’t mean to hurt you. But I’m so tired. I didn’t mean what I said. I do love you. Really I do. I know it’s not your fault.’

  I need the toilet.

  Chapter 17

  Two years earlier

  SHE SIMPLY WALKS IN.

  ‘Hello, Doris, how are you today?’

  ‘Hello. I’m fine, thank you. Nice to see you. Have you come far?’

  ‘I’m Lily, from next door, dear. Brought you a nice piece of sponge.’

  ‘Thank you very much. That’s very kind of you.’

  ‘Is it OK if I come in for a minute? Take the weight off me feet.’

  ‘Please come in. Nice to see you.’

  She walks past me. KEEP THE DOOR SHUT the sticker says. I close the door.

  PUT THE LIGHT OFF LAST THING. I flick the switch.

  ‘Ahhh, that’s better. Now, I can see you!’ she says, smiling. ‘I’ve been thinking. How would it be if I had a key, and then you could keep the door locked?’

  ‘Thank you for calling.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll speak to Jessica, then, eh? Coffee? Shall I do the needful?’

  She’s in my kitchen. She’s touching things. I’m sure they’re my things. THIS IS THE KETTLE. HOT. BE CAREFUL. It is my kitchen. SUGAR. TEABAGS. COFFEE. OVALTINE. MARMITE. BISCUITS, it says. She’s reading it. SPOONS. KNIVES. FORKS.

  ‘Did I invite you?’

  ‘No, dearie,’ she laughs. ‘I popped round. Like neighbours do. I’m Lily. Remember?’

  ‘Thank you for calling. It’s my favourite. I’ll pop it in the kitchen.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Oh, it grieves me to see you come to this, I must say. You that was always so busy, looking after everybody, loads of visitors and everything. Sad.’

  ‘We’re going on holiday tomorrow. I must pack.’

  ‘Are you? Well, that’s nice. I’ll see myself out and you mind and keep the door shut tight now.’

  It’s… it’s… my daughter! She kisses me. She’s pretty when she smiles.

  ‘Mum, you look nice today. That cardigan suits you. So, all set? Our appointment’s at 11. Nothing to worry about. It’s just a wee check-up.’

  ‘I want to go home now.’

  ‘This is your home, Mum. Bradley Drive. Remember? You and George bought this house. We grew up here, didn’t we?’

  ‘He doesn’t like it. He’s cross.’

  ‘Nobody’s cross. We only want you to be safe. So let’s get you to the toilet and then I’ll take you down to the surgery.’

  He’s nice. ‘My name’s Dr Robartz. And I’m going to ask you a few questions.’ Irish like… like… all stiff and starchy…

  ‘Can you tell me your name?’

  ‘Doris Elizabeth Fenton.’

  ‘Well done. And where do you live, Doris Elizabeth Fenton?’

  ‘Bradley Drive.’

  ‘And do you know who I am?’

  ‘You’re the doctor.’

  ‘And who’s this lady?’

  ‘My daughter.’

  She splutters. He puts a finger to his lips.

  ‘Please don’t be cross,’ I say.

  The doctor leans towards me. ‘Nobody’s cross. But I want you to concentrate on me right now, Doris. Please. This way. Over here. That’s right.’

  I smile. He smiles back.

  ‘What year is it?’

  ‘2002.’

  ‘What day is it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen the newspaper.’

  ‘Fair enough. One day seems much like another when you’re in the house, doesn’t it?’

  ‘I’m not in the house.’

  He laughs. ‘Touché.’

  The one I know smiles. I smile at her. That’s better.

  ‘Do you know who the prime minister is, Doris?’

  ‘Mrs Thatcher.’

  ‘Right. Where are we now?’

  ‘At the doctor’s.’

  Backwards and forwards it goes. Makes me dizzy. I want to go home.

  ‘Well done, Doris. That’s all for now. Thank you. You’ve done very well.’

  He smiles. I smile. She isn’t smiling. She looks sad.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

  She pats my arm. ‘It’s not your fault. Nobody’s blaming you.’

  The doctor leans back in his chair.

  ‘So is it… you know?’ she says.

  ‘Well, I can’t say for sure.’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘The only sure way is at post mortem. But MRI scans can give us indicators. And these cognitive tests along with the medical history.’

  ‘Nobody seems to want to give it a label.’

  ‘In the early stages I think most people are reluctant to do so. It’s a condition that needs to be monitored over time. The people in our memory clinics can help us firm up the diagnosis and track the deterioration. But I think we’ve got a fairly classic picture of messages not transmitting properly in the brain – difficulties in remembering, making decisions, expressing thoughts, and communicating generally, understanding what other people are saying, finding her way around.’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, I don�
��t want to hear that’s what it is. Only without a label, it’s hard to explain to people.’

  ‘I understand. You’re in limbo. And that’s why…’ He swings his chair to face me. ‘Doris, I’d like to refer you to a specialist. We aren’t quite sure what treatment to give you, so we need somebody else to see you. That OK?’

  ‘I’ll have to ask George.’

  ‘She insists she wants to stay in her own home. She was always adamant that she wouldn’t live with any of us. But is that…?’

  ‘I think we must get her properly assessed, first. I’m afraid it might take a few weeks before someone is available, but I’ll certainly write the letter as soon as I can. This week if possible.’

  ‘Well, thank you.’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor.’ I say, smiling. Nice man. Irish… like… I can’t remember.

  From the doorway I can see her. She’s reading. A card. She’s pretty when she smiles.

  I must tell her…

  Oh, the smile’s gone. She’s stuffing the card behind the clock. Secrets.

  ‘Is it your birthday?’

  ‘No, Mother. That’s not till December.’

  ‘Is it my birthday?’

  ‘No. That’s in April.’

  ‘That’s a card.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s only a note from somebody. It’s not for anyone’s birthday. Now, almost time for lunch. You sit there while I go and make it.’

  ‘Is it for me?’

  ‘No, it’s for me. You’re in my house this morning. You’re going back to your home later. The post here is for me. Your post will be waiting for you at Bradley Drive.’

  She puts a book in my hand. ‘There you go. Some nice pictures to look at for a couple of minutes while I get the lunch ready. You can imagine you’re wandering through all these lovely places. Look. Cornwall. Remember going there?’

  Cornwall. Nice. ‘Clovelly’, it says. ‘Olde worlde charm, steep cobbled streets.’ Nice.

  I can see my card. It’s sticking out behind the clock. I know it’s for me. She keeps hiding things. Why does she hide things?

  My dear Jessica

  It was sweet of you to send the card but honestly no apology was needed.

  You were understandably exhausted from being phoned seven times in the night. At the best of times the dimness of the theatre and a rare opportunity to sit down and relax are conducive to sleep; you didn’t stand a chance.

  But far from being disappointed I have to confess that having your head on my shoulder was by far the sweetest and most exciting part of the evening. I look forward to a repeat performance!

  I do worry about you though. Won’t you reconsider and let me help you share your heavy responsibilities? I’d be more than willing to.

  See you Friday (your mum permitting!)

  Yours (truly, sincerely, faithfully and as ever)

  Aaron x

  ‘D’you fancy mushroom omel… Mother!’

  She snatches the card out of my hand and holds it against her chest. She’s angry. I can see it. Feel it.

  ‘How dare you read my private letters? How dare you?’ She’s white and trembling.

  ‘It’s not nice to snatch,’ I say.

  ‘Not nice!’ She’s making a horrible noise and banging her clenched fists against her head. ‘I can’t do this! I can’t bear it.’ She’s crying.

  I don’t like it. I’m frightened.

  ‘You’re not content with ruining my life, but now you want to meddle in my private correspondence as well. And you blame me for snatching!’

  I must get away.

  ‘Oh, no you don’t! You jolly well stay there in that chair and drink this juice, or I’ll pour the whole bally thing over your stupid head! And see, if you spill it…’

  ‘I want to go home.’

  ‘You’ll go home when I say so and not before, even if I have to chain you to the table! I’ve got things I absolutely have to do this morning and I am not going to spend six more hours scouring the lanes and ditches looking for you. So for goodness’ sake, just drink that juice.’

  ‘Can I go home now? I don’t like it here.’

  ‘And I don’t like you being here either, so that makes two of us.’

  She glares at me. I don’t like it.

  Oh, I’ve got some juice. I like juice.

  ‘Well, hallelujah! Five minutes’ peace.’

  ‘May I have a biscuit?’

  ‘You can have a whole tin-full of biscuits if it’ll keep you quiet and out of mischief.’

  Bourbons. I like bourbons.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  She stands watching me. Then she’s crouching beside me. Too close. Is she going to…?

  ‘Mum,’ she whispers, ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to shout. I know you can’t help it. But I’m so, so tired. Forgive me.’

  ‘Can I have a biscuit?’

  ‘Course you can.’

  I must phone Eugene. Tell him. Where’s the number? Ah, I know. She showed me. Press 4.

  It’s ringing.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello? Who’s this?’

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Mother?’ the voice hisses. ‘What on earth are you doing ringing at this hour? It’s three o’clock in the morning over here! What’s wrong?’

  ‘Where’s George?’

  ‘Mother, is Jessica there? Put her on the phone will you? Now.’

  ‘I need to tell Eugene. He’s my son. Can I speak to Eugene, please?’

  ‘This is Eugene speaking, Mum. I’m in Australia. And it’s the middle of the night over here.’

  ‘I have to tell you about Lionel.’

  ‘Lionel’s been dead for years. Now listen. I’m going to ring off. Your phone bills will be sky high if you keep phoning us like this. I’ll ring Jessica tomorrow and sort something out so I can have a chat with you another time.’

  ‘I need to speak to Eugene.’

  ‘You can. But not tonight. Bye, Mother.’

  It’s ringing.

  ‘Hello? Hello?’ I say. Why doesn’t he answer?

  The policeman is calling somebody. It must be official then. Have I done something bad? Why am I here? Why isn’t he taking me home?

  ‘Hello? Mrs Burden?… Yes. This is PC Colin Armitage. I brought your mum home when she went wandering into somebody’s house a couple of weeks ago… Yes, I’m afraid so… No, this time she was off to see her solicitor.’ He laughs. ‘Well, she is now! She’s quite happy at the moment but we can’t keep her here all night and we can’t take her back to an empty house… By all means… That’ll be fine. See you soon.’

  He gives a big sigh. ‘What are we going to do with you, Doris?’

  ‘Is that my solicitor? Can I go now?’

  ‘Yep. You can go soon, darling, but we can’t leave you all on your ownio. Your daughter’s on her way. But you need to be more careful, you know. Next time you decide to go for a wee dander it mightn’t be somebody friendly like me that picks you up and then where would you be, eh?’

  ‘Oh, you look lovely,’ I say. She’s all dressed up. ‘Are you going somewhere nice?’

  ‘I was somewhere nice,’ she says. Her eyes aren’t smiling.

  ‘Have I got time to get changed before we go?’

  ‘No, Mother, the only changing you’re going to do is into your pyjamas. Thank you so much for taking care of her, PC Armitage.’

  ‘I’m only sorry I had to spoil your evening, Mrs Burden. Like your mum says, looks like it was something special. Hope you can make up for it later on.’

  ‘If only.’

  ‘They’re a real handful, aren’t they? You need eyes in the back of your head. Can we give you a run home?’

  ‘That’s very kind, but we have a car outside, thanks.’

  ‘OK then. Night night, Doris. Best of luck, Mrs Burden.’

  She holds me too tightly. The doors swing shut behind us. It’s cold out here.

  A man hops out of a black car
right outside the door. Smart. He’s smiling.

  ‘Mum, this is Aaron. Aaron Wiseman. He’s very kindly said he’ll run us home.’

  ‘Good evening, Mrs Mannering,’ he says.

  I shake his hand. ‘Good evening,’ I say. He looks nice.

  She sits in the back with me. He’s the chauffeur. I wonder where we’re going. Somewhere smart by the look of it. Good.

  It’s very quiet. Purring along.

  ‘This is a lovely taxi. Is it yours?’

  He laughs. ‘Thank you. Yes, it is mine. I’m glad you like it.’

  ‘Are you a policeman?’ I ask him.

  ‘No. I’m a friend of your daughter’s. I’m a solicitor.’

  Hah! I was right. I told them that.

  ‘I was coming to see you.’

  ‘Were you?’

  ‘We need somewhere private.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Are you taking me somewhere nice?’

  ‘I hope so. I’m taking you home. And it’s always nice to come home when you’ve been away.’

  ‘Are we going out for dinner?’

  He smiles. ‘Not tonight. It’s too late for going out now.’

  She leans right over. ‘Mother. Look at me. We. Are. Going. Home. It’s bedtime.’

  ‘You look nice, dear. Are you going somewhere special?’

  ‘No. I’m taking you home.’

  Everybody’s very quiet. I’m tired.

  Beatrice is crying.

  I don’t know what to say.

  ‘Crying won’t change anything. Come on, Bea. We’ll sort something out.’

  ‘You won’t tell, will you?’

  ‘Mother. Wake up. We’re home. Thank you so much, Aaron. And I’m so sorry about tonight.’

  ‘Don’t be. Glad I could help.’

  The driver gets out of the car and opens the door for me. He helps me. A real gentleman.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  ‘You’re welcome.’ Lovely smile. I smile back.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘For the dinner, and the lift. Thank you. I’m truly sorry. Goodnight.’ She isn’t looking at him.

  ‘Oh.’ He stands there. The smile has gone. He moves a step towards her. ‘Jessica, let me at least stay until you’re ready, and run you home.’

  She shakes her head without looking up. ‘Please.’

  ‘I can wait in the car.’