My father (Henry) takes Michael into the sitting room where they open up a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-pap and chomp down salty Kettle crisps. My mother gives my father a slightly disapproving look. I tell her to give him a break and remind her how lucky she is to be married to him. And that she shouldn’t take him for granted. Just because Michael has dementia doesn’t mean that Henry won’t develop it too. I know this sounds harsh. She makes us both a pot of tea and pours boiling water into a spare jug. She thanks me for buying the semi-skimmed milk. We usually only have skimmed. We sit down at the kitchen table and talk. I tell her about the MRI scan and how unpleasant it was for Michael. She’s managed to get to her age and has never had one. Lucky her. They know that I’m fast approaching the busiest week of the school term. I can’t take any more time off. They will take Michael to the Memory Clinic for his activities and also to all of his appointments. My parents are bordering on saints. They’re fond of Michael but they’re doing it for me.
When the weekend comes, the four of us sit down and talk about how we’re going to tell the twins. Even Michael agrees that we should do it in stages. They tell us that they will book Christmas luncheon at the Grand Hotel in Brighton for the six of us. The twins must be home by then. I agree.
I have very little experience in breaking bad news to my own relatives so I Google this. The advice isn’t particularly helpful. I am not sure what I expected to find on the internet that wasn’t already common sense. I take a deep breath; open up my laptop and Facetime Olivia and Eddie. They look happy and well. They’re sitting in an Australian friend’s family kitchen-diner; it’s so bright that it almost looks like a show home. I ask them to find a quiet room. We need to have a private conversation. I don’t tell them that there’s nothing to worry about. There is everything to worry about.
There is no easy way to tell one’s children that their forty-nine-year-old father has a particularly aggressive form of early onset dementia. And that it’s affecting his frontal lobe, which means that he will become aggressive. They immediately want to come home. They don’t even hesitate. Their grandparents offer to pay for the flights. We all agree to meet them at the airport. We will have to get up at about 4 am At least the traffic will be minimal: every cloud and all that.
Chapter 8
Fran
My children are on the long-haul flight from Sydney to London Heathrow; stopping over at Hong Kong for one night. They will land at 5 am unless they’re delayed. As the twins will soon be reoccupying their rooms, my parents will have to relocate. I help them find quite a spacious apartment through Airbnb. It’s not expensive and they can stay there for a week. After that they will return to Sussex and start preparing for Christmas. The owner of the flat is a psychiatrist. He’s away in Germany for a series of lectures. I pay our cleaner – who only comes once a fortnight – to wash and change the sheets; hoover up; tidy up and generally make the house feel fresh. I also place an Ocado order for Saturday afternoon. My life has become as series of lists. Michael’s life has become a series of appointments.
At school, we celebrate a raucous evening performing the pantomime in front of pupils and a considerable number of their parents. Although the panto is an annual event, this year it is funnier than in previous years. It is an opportunity for our students to laugh at us and for us to let them do so. For me, it a chance to escape the new reality that is my life: total responsibility.
Fran and Freddie, neither of whom participated in the School Revue this year, have been very preoccupied. I invite the nervous couple into my office. Fran is looking huge and extremely uncomfortable. Technically she is due in early January, but her waters could break at any time from here on in. Fran looks as though she is ready to rupture. She tells me that she’s expecting twins (which I already know) and asks my advice. I take a deep breath and tell her to get lots of sleep; to stick to a routine; to read Gina Ford’s book – A Contented House with Twins – and to enlist as much free helps as possible, and not just go along with the army of paid help her mother has already engaged. They may be helpful but they won’t be her friends. I advise her to stay in touch with her antenatal group. She listens and even makes notes on her iPhone. Freddie simply looks petrified at the thought of being a father. He is only sixteen and won’t be seventeen until the summer. Neither Fran nor Freddie is in any rush to leave my office. They remark on how peaceful it is and what a pleasant contrast it is to the Year 11 classroom and the Sixth Form common room respectively. I don’t disagree. I let them stay whilst I respond to the plethora of kind comments about the staff’s performance in Cinderella.
I am mid-flow when Fran lets out a loud yelp. It has started. Freddie is clueless and thinks she has simply wet herself. I immediately call an ambulance and am now grateful that my office is on the ground floor. I reassure her that everything will be fine. It is not unusual for waters to break before labour. I tell her mine did though the truth is that I had a planned caesarean. There’s no point telling Fran the truth now.
Once again, I find myself being the first port of call with the paramedics. There are some benefits of having a school in town though this one won’t be making it onto our website. The two paramedics – both of whom look very experienced – are light-hearted, chatty and positive. I don’t know how they do their jobs. They tell me that they’ve just come from a stabbing in Euston and before that they were giving CPR to an old man who had collapsed in his retirement home on the Finchley Road. Fran is plonked straight onto the wheelie stretcher. Freddie looks as though he should be on one too. His face looks like a rice pudding with no jam.
I immediately call Fran’s mother and Freddie’s mother. We’re off to UCLH, again. Fran is most insistent that I stay with her in the ambulance. When we arrive, I once again marvel at this state-of-the-art hospital. I’m told it has two birthing pools. I don’t think Fran will be using either of them. There is a sense of urgency as we all pile out of the ambulance. The contractions have started and Fran is looking paler than usual. She is clearly in expert hands and is whizzed off to the appropriate ward whilst I hang around with Freddie until we are told where to go. Fran and Freddie’s mothers arrive very quickly. They are armed with mobile phone chargers, iPads, camcorders and cameras.
I send Freddie off to be with Fran and suggest he buys her some flowers from the hospital shop. I give him £10. I explain that it’s not appropriate for me to be there too but that I will be in the waiting room slurping a café latte, savouring the few minutes that I have to myself. He relaxes a little and totters off in the direction of the maternity ward. He’s left his backpack with me. I phone Principal Peter and update him. I want him to go ahead with the end of term assembly and not delay it on my behalf, not that he would. I promise to keep him in the loop. He may even have something to say other than Merry Christmas.
I phone my mother’s mobile and tell her what’s happened. She’s at the Memory Clinic with Michael. It’s in Willesden. It’s just a few stops going north from Swiss Cottage on the Jubilee Line. My father is going to meet them for lunch afterwards. He’s in Willesden library, reading the newspapers and journals in there. He got fed up with reading Freud, Carl Jung and Jean Baker Miller in the B & B flat. I forget to ask about the appointment.
Things move rather faster than I expected. Fran gives birth to two perfectly formed beautiful babies: one boy and one girl. The boy weighs in at 5lbs 4 ounces (2381g) and the girl weighs in at 6 lbs 6 ounces (2891g). They’re incredibly cute but they’re swiftly put into special care. It’s just a precaution. Immediately Dr Enderby and Mrs Adebayo (Freddie’s mother) burst into happy tears. I am the first non-family member to be included in the celebration. I feel intense happiness. The twins are perfect – just like mine were – and I feel a great sense of hope for all present.
I phone up Louisa, our receptionist back at school. She’s very good about answering the phone within six rings. Fran and Freddie are the proud parents of twins: Sophie and Peter. I am so touched by the name
s that I dissolve into tears over the phone. I gather from Louisa’s version of events that Principal Peter is emotional too. He’s such a hulking figure – always towering over everyone within his sight – but on this occasion, he speaks softly and quietly. The tension in the school hall is palpable. Most of them watched the ambulance leave through their classroom windows. But when he announces the news, the pupils and staff break into a spontaneous round of applause. He also wishes them a Merry Christmas.
Chapter 9
The Festive Season
We are a family of four again. A proper little nuclear family. Despite cutting their excursion short, the twins are pleased to be home. It is a huge relief to have them here. Eddie takes Michael off to the swimming pool at Swiss Cottage (on the Finchley Road) and Olivia and I go for a bracing walk on Hampstead Heath. We take the spare stale bread with us and feed the ducks. Half the pond is frozen so most of them are waddling around on the little stretch of sand and stones. It’s surprisingly relaxing and cathartic. We are surrounded by cheerful toddlers wearing bright red and blue wellies. Olivia is eighteen but she will always be my daughter. We talk non-stop. We have always been close. I tell her almost everything. I am not ready to tell her about the assault. I am not even sure she will believe me; it was so out of character. Olivia’s eyes are watery. I’m not sure if it’s our conversation or the cold weather that has brought this on. I think it’s both.
We walk towards the ponds. It’s so cold that we eventually abandon the heath and head for a café near Highgate Cemetery. We drink hot chocolate and share a toasted ham and cheese sandwich. She asks me how long daddy has been sick and why none of us noticed it before. I repeat what the doctor has said to me: word for word. She is young and hopeful. There must be a cure. What about going to America? I look at her again and think how beautiful she is. We start walking back across the heath towards the Royal Free; it’s such an ugly, grey monstrosity of a building but I can forgive it its exterior because of the wonderful miracles that are performed within its prison-like walls. We are a short walk from home and I wonder what drama has prevailed at the swimming pool.
Olivia and I are frozen again. We turn the radiators up and huddle under a soft blanket on the sitting room sofa. She raises it to her nostrils – just as I did with her pink hoodie whilst she was away – and says it smells of Grandma and Grandpa: perfume and aftershave. Fragrant not overpowering. Like them. She takes out her iPhone and shows me numerous pictures of Australia; she’s taken hundreds but says she doesn’t want to bore me. She can never do this. I admire her photographs. They’re mostly of beautiful people in beautiful places. The sky is so blue it looks as though it has been photoshopped. But I know that all of her pictures are unadulterated. Like her.
Eddie and Michael return about half an hour later. They’re both in desperate need of a haircut. I am already planning their next outing. They’ve had lunch at the café that overlooks swimming pool, one level up. I am relieved. Sometimes I yearn to have live-in help but mostly I don’t. I think that day might be coming soon though. The four of us exchange stories. The atmosphere is congenial. But after a few minutes, Michael yawns ostentatiously and says he is shattered. He takes himself off to the bedroom for a nap. We are all quite relieved. I have barely had a moment with both Olivia and Eddie together. Someone else has always been there: one of their friends, a neighbour, a friend of mine. Someone. I need to talk to them properly. I ask Eddie how he found Michael. He confesses that the outing was hard work though daddy remains a very strong swimmer. I don’t think he will lose this skill for a long time; at least I hope not. Swimming can become a weekly activity, can’t it? But Eddie is less enthusiastic. Michael struggled to use the padlock on the locker and for some inexplicable reason, he refused to accept help. The actual swimming part was fine. But afterwards, he didn’t want to have a shower in front of other people because he thought they would laugh at his hairy chest; he’s never been paranoid before. And his chest isn’t all that hairy anyway. Eddie looks a bit fed up. I ruffle his long, shaggy hair and thank him for looking after his dad. He asks me what we’re going to do. Even mothers don’t have all the answers.
The landline rings. I know it’s my parents as no one else calls us on it anymore. Eddie picks it up and chats for ages. Olivia is desperate to interject but he uses his long arms to distance the phone from her outstretched ones. It’s a game that they play. There is no malice in it. Eventually, after about forty-five minutes, Olivia speaks to her grandparents and I get my turn too. I take the portable phone to the sitting room so that I can be alone. Michael is still sleeping. He has started to turn day into night and night into day; this isn’t good for the rest of us, least of all me.
My mother’s call is reassuring. We should all head down to the Sussex coast on the 23rd December, before the Christmas rush. She reminds me to use our Family Railcard and book seats with a table. We are not to bring any food. They don’t want to receive presents; they neither want nor need anything! My mother asks me what I want: the impossible, I say.
Chapter 10
Christmas Eve and Christmas Day
Global warming is a distant memory in Sussex this year. It is freezing. The sea looks an unwelcoming greenish greyish dark brown. It isn’t really a colour at all. There is no hint of blue in it: it’s a stark contrast to the dazzling May Bank Holiday visitors enjoyed earlier in the year. We didn’t go though. The twins had their A Levels; Michael was working flat-out and I was too. I even held additional English A Level Literature revision sessions on the Bank Holiday Monday. We were all committed. I start to think that it wasn’t worth it.
Despite the cold weather, the six of us are all out in force. We have been brought up with the phrase: there’s no such thing as bad weather. Only bad clothes. Or something like that. The promenade is substantial in its width so we can even walk six abreast. But after a few minutes, we break off into pairs. We walk into Brighton. The festive decorations and lights are up in abundance here; this is in contrast with Hove where they’re barely noticeable. My parents insist on popping into the Grand Hotel to use the euphemism and also check that our Christmas luncheon booking is confirmed. My parents don’t like sitting in either a draft or near the kitchen door. Sheila and Henry are united on this. When we leave the hotel, Michael stares up at its beautiful white Renaissance-style façade. He is amazed how quickly it has been rebuilt after the bomb. He asks me if Margaret Thatcher is alive. I tell him she isn’t. But I know that we are talking at cross-purposes. Eddie and Olivia regard the incident as history; for me, it’s just the past. I remember it well.
I suggest we wander into the Lanes. My father, Michael and Eddie all go into the barber’s for a haircut. I ask dad to make sure that Michael is given a professional shave. Mum, Olivia and I wander around the clothes shops. Everything seems much easier in Brighton. My daughter refuses to go into Will’s – she says it’s no longer hip and fashionable – and pulls me into a second-hand clothes’ store instead. She chooses a pair of long brown boots and a brown suede skirt. She tries them on and my mother and I both offer to pay for them. She looks lovely in everything. No matter what.
When we emerge, the “boys” all look like shorn sheep, even my father. I suppose their hair will grow back. They wrap themselves up in their long scarves and complain that their ears are cold. We decide to have a cup of tea but struggle to get a table anywhere. We refuse to go to Starbucks (or rather, the twins do) and I don’t admit to being a regular whilst at home. Eventually, we return to the Grand Hotel. Michael asks why we haven’t been there before; it’s lovely.
We borrow the newspapers off the rack and share them between the six of us. I insist on ordering the afternoon tea. After all, it is Christmas Eve. We are all cold and hungry. Even my mother, who doesn’t usually order her own cake, consumes everything in sight. Michael very much enjoys this “new experience” and says it’s the first time he has tasted scones. Can I make them for him at home? At least I am not on my own and
Michael’s nasty temper has held off thus far. He is happier here in Brighton. I think we all are.
We return to my parents’ house in Hove and do what we want. No one is obliged to do anything. “Shingles” is magnificent. It is a double-fronted, white washed Regency building which is perfectly symmetrical. Eddie, whose social conscience is getting ready for university, says it could be converted into four flats. I elbow him to be quiet and whisper that one day he might be grateful to escape here, especially when I am back at work. Unlike our poky little mews house, “Shingles” is spacious and has magnificent high ceilings. There is a lovely hall with black and white squares stretching to the central staircase which is carpeted in tasteful pale blue and green stripes. There are two sitting rooms on the left off the corridor and a modern kitchen-diner on the right. The windows are generous and there’s a lovely window seat in both curved bays. Upstairs, there are five large bedrooms. My parents’ room faces both front and back. They have an en suite bathroom which is bigger than our bedroom back in Belsize Village. There are two further bedrooms on the right and another room in the attic which has its own bathroom. It has the same black and white squares on its floor as the hall. Olivia decides to take the room at the top. I tell Eddie to choose next but in reality, there’s only one other room he can take as ours has a double bed in it and the other one doesn’t.
None of us wants to eat supper. We are full of scones, cream and jam. My father switches on the television. He says there are too many repeats but we eventually find something we can all watch. The sitting room is a beautiful mix of antiques and modern sofas; they just blend in effortlessly. And the sofas are so comfortable. Everyone can relax. I feel so calm or worn-out that I fall asleep. When I wake up it’s dark, except for the lights on the enormous Christmas tree. There are several well-wrapped presents beneath it. There are two for the twins and one for us. I have bought my parents “an experience” since they didn’t want anything tangible. I didn’t really believe my mother when she said she didn’t want anything. No one has dared to wake me up or move me. I’m alone in their elegant but comfortable sitting room. The television has been switched off. Someone has kindly put a rug over me. It’s so quiet. I can just about hear the waves crashing against the breakwaters. Sometimes the wind and the gales are so forceful that the stones are hurled onto the promenade. I’m hoping that it will snow. I wouldn’t mind being holed up here forever.
Imprisoned by Love Page 9