Imprisoned by Love

by C. S. Brahams

  Chapter 11

  The White Christmas

  It is finally Christmas Day. People of all faiths and none are celebrating it in their own ways. For some, it’s just a day off. For others, it’s their only chance to reunite with their families. For me, it’s a chance to be my mother’s daughter again. We are a family of early-risers. My mother switches the radio on; it’s permanently tuned into Radio 4, like mine at home, or Radio 2. Christmas music blares out. I hope that the DJ on Radio 2 is old enough to remember John Lennon. But I know that Happy Christmas (War is Over) will make me cry. It always does. And at the moment, I feel emotion­ally labile. I still haven’t had time to get in touch with my old counsellor; it’s on my “things to do list” like everything else. We all drink large mugs of tea and sit around the base of the Christmas tree. I wonder how my father has managed to get it into the house. Eddie mutters under his breath that some­one has obviously been paid to do it, even the decorations. They look too professional. I admonish him for his socialist tone and remind him where we are and why we are here. He apologises. He blames his father. I think this rather unfair but what do I know?

  Olivia rushes to the window and sees the first few flakes of snow falling gently onto the garden. She shrieks with joy, as if she were a child again. The falling snow mingles with the drifting wind. We press our faces against the window seats and enjoy the blizzard from the warm confines of the house. It is a mesmerizing sight. My father breaks the spell by suggesting that we open our presents now – whist we’re still sober – and head off to the Grand Hotel for drinks fol­lowed by lunch. He insists that we wear smart clothes and not silly Christmas jumpers. Michael protests, saying he’s too cold to wear a jacket. We all wear jumpers and jack­ets, just to appease him. We are instructed to wear layers. Michael takes no notice. My mother lends me one of her coats as I stupidly didn’t bring a warm one with me. The coat is too long for me and I am too young for it. I can’t protest, otherwise I might freeze to death.

  We walk for twenty minutes or so, admiring the crash­ing waves and the foam-filled sea. Eddie and Olivia throw snowballs at each other. I’m glad that they have regained their sense of fun, even if it’s just for one day. They look younger when they’re in Brighton. I link arms with Michael. We haven’t done this for a while. He is protective of me and we walk in unison together, even though this means that I have to take elongated steps just to keep up with him. I am just relieved that Michael is being Michael and not a demented stranger.

  After we imbibe drinks at the bar and guzzle down unnecessary crisps and pretzels, my father insists that we take our seats in the dining room. He hates being late for anything. We are the first people in there. We are always the first everywhere we go. I watch him discreetly fold a twen­ty-pound note in his hand and inconspicuously transfer this to the Head Waiter’s. I have underestimated my father. The Head Waiter is dressed in a very smart uniform with epau­lettes on his shoulders. He nods at my father, with a reassur­ing smile, and brings over a complimentary glass of cham­pagne for all six of us. Michael loves champagne. He always has. But the joy on his face is almost surreal; it’s as if he’s sipping it for the first time. He still loves it. Dementia has its compensations, I guess.

  We enjoy the food. It’s not sophisticated but it’s generous and we don’t have to do the washing up. The crackers are a bonus. Mine has a silver keyring in it; Eddie’s has cufflinks and Olivia’s has a miniature silver cruet set. My mother and Michael both have silver dice in theirs. We put them on one side and say that we’re definitely taking them home. The dining room is full now and despite the sub-zero tempera­ture outside, it’s far too hot in the hotel. We peel off our jack­ets and remove our jerseys as well. Michael isn’t wearing anything underneath his so he has to swiftly put it back on. A few of the guests, who aren’t yet inebriated, scowl at him and then scowl at me. How could I let my husband go out like this?

  That aside, the lunch goes rather well. There are no argu­ments, at least. We walk up to the Brighton Marina and all the way back to the house. My parents suddenly look their age and withdraw to their beautiful bedroom. They’re exhausted. It was too far and too cold. I don’t know what we were all thinking, if we were, that is. Ordinarily they would have taken a taxi home. I am not sure how long we should stay with them. Michael, Olivia, Eddie and I sit in front of the television. We start to watch Love Actually. I had forgot­ten that it is a film full of pathos and wish we were watching something more enjoyable. It’s completely lost on Michael. He can barely follow the plot. He keeps asking who’s who. Both Eddie and Olivia are remarkably patient with their father. They don’t mind repeating themselves and do so end­lessly. I can no longer bear it and decide to retreat. I run a bath and lock the door.

  I finally feel quite relaxed again and get into the crisp white sheets. There is no duvet. We have blankets and a pale blue eiderdown instead. I put my head on the luxuri­ous feather pillow and hope that I fall asleep before Michael returns. It’s about five past eleven before he reappears. Eddie has escorted him to our bedroom and ushered him in. I am wide awake but pretend to be fast asleep. He starts removing all his clothes in quick succession until he’s only wearing his socks. He puts on a pair of trousers and a jumper as opposed to his pyjamas. He must be so confused. I can only just make out his silhouette as the landing light it still on. He leaves the room and relieves himself in the family bathroom. I hear the loo flush. I think it’s a reflex action. He forgets to brush his teeth and returns to our bedroom without closing the door. I can’t sleep with the door open. I debate in my head whether it’s worth getting up but this will shatter the illusion that I have been trying so hard to maintain.

  Not satisfied that he might have already woken me up (though I am lying incredibly still, feigning sleep rather well), he clatters and bangs about. It seems deliberate. He starts moving the substantial armchair from one end of the room to the other. It’s just all too much. I tell him that he’s selfish and self-centred. I say it’s not all about him. I am overtired and bad tempered but I can’t stop myself from telling the truth. Of course, I regret this. He reproaches me for pretending to be asleep and reprimands me for not packing his pyjamas. Nothing is his fault. Everything is mine. I ask him if he has finished telling me off. He turns away for a moment, as if to say that he has, but shocks me with a fierce back handed slap across my face. I let out a loud yell but the house is so huge that no one else can hear me. The wind is howling between our window panes and the waves are crashing against each other as if in harmony with his temper. I feel as though I am a char­acter in a novel. I want to tear this page out.

  The snow continues to fall along with the decline or our marriage.

  In the morning, Michael fails to apologise. It is worse than that. He has no recollection of what he has done. I look in the mirror and can see that my face is puffy and swollen on one side. My right eye is tinged with a blackish bluish bruise, about the size of a golf ball. I am not sure whether to run to my father and fold myself into his arms or cry to my mother, who will tell me to put him into a residential care home. I decide that I am not ready for the imperious tone of my host and hostess.

  Michael and I have had more than twenty years of happi­ness together. I’m not going to inform on him now. I cover up the bruise with carefully applied makeup. I almost look normal. I vow to wear my hair down and keep a large cash­mere scarf wrapped around my neck, as if I am cold all day. My husband is changing and so am I. I never used to lie to my parents, or my children, and now I fear that I will be doing both until the day that he dies.

  Chapter 12

  Boxing Day

  It is Boxing Day. Olivia and Eddie want to walk into Brighton again and meet up with some friends. Apparently, it’s the place to be this year. I say this is fine and don’t con­sult Michael. He doesn’t deserve to have an opinion after last night’s misconduct. I still love him but I love him a little less today.

  My mother senses my weariness and suggests we visit her
friends in Rottingdean; it’s only about two miles from the house. Henry and Michael can find something to do here. My response is a little overenthusiastic. I think we should walk or take an Uber but mother won’t hear of it. She tells me to stop being so middle-class and overanxious. We get into her silver BMW convertible with its dark red leather interior. It’s a lovely car. She drives straight to the main road which has been generously gritted. Mother glances at me as if to say I told you so but stops herself. She has seen my bruises and my swollen face. She puts her hand on my face and turns it towards hers. So that’s how it is. Brute. It’s difficult to per­manently hide beneath my hair and scarf. Mother swiftly turns the car around, skidding a little, and heads back into Hove and beyond. She drives too fast for me to leap out.

  She tells me that she has been looking into care homes in the local area. This is news to me. Half of Brighton and Hove is geriatric, she says. I remind her that Michael isn’t ancient. He is nearly fifty, not nearly ninety. My mother doesn’t give up. She has done her research. Residential care homes are more spacious here and they’re less expensive than London. I try to dissuade her but she’s unstoppable in this vein. I sup­pose this is mother’s love. I am her only child.

  When we arrive at Sunny Cliff Grove, I remark on the impressive entrance; it almost resembles a hotel with its double-fronted appearance and empty flagpole. There’s a small but well decorated Christmas tree opposite the recep­tion desk; the surface of which is curved and made out of a light solid oak. The young blonde receptionist is dressed as an elf. She’s all smiles. She points to the large paisley vis­itors’ book and pen attached to a cord; even the pen can’t escape. My mother signs in for both of us. I stand there like a small child. I get the impression that she has been to this place more than once. We are shown to the waiting room where there is a sprinkling of other visitors, all of whom are appear to be related to the “inmates” who they call guests or residents. The room is a perfect square and apart from the chairs, has virtually nothing in it except for a copy of last week’s Daily Mail and a pile of brochures about the care home. We sit beneath the window. I look out and my mother looks in. My view is of a small front garden; it’s covered in a thick layer of snow. There are no footprints on it. I’m sure it’s the same at the back. As I said, they are “inmates” not guests. I feel disloyal to Michael and resent being brought here under false pretences, even if my mother means well by it. It is too soon.

  My mother picks up one of the glossy brochures in a vain attempt to capture my interest. Most of the residents (as I should call them) are either old or in gigantic wheelchairs with head and neck supports. No one looks under seventy, let along fifty. I am not even sure that this place has a licence for people under sixty-five. Mother takes no notice of my grousing. She tells me that some of them have their own bathrooms and they all have en suite lavatories. Wonderful, I say. We don’t even have that at home. I ask her why we are here. I tell her that I can manage. I am not in denial. I am adjusting, that’s all. It’s a learning curve. But she is persua­sive and persistent. This is the future. I insist that it’s the “long-term future” and not the immediate future. We agree to disagree on this matter. She loves me and she wants to protect me. It’s for my own good.

  In contrast to the smiley elf-cum-receptionist, we are greeted by an officious looking woman with shoulder length straight greyish-brown hair. She looks slightly younger than my mother but old enough to be mine. Her name badge says Mary Anderson. Such a lovely name, I think. “Mrs Ash? And Mrs Boswell?” I haven’t heard anyone say “Mrs Ash” for some time. My mother insists that the woman calls her Sheila and I insist that the woman calls me Mary. My mother jabs me very hard in the arm. It hurts almost as much as a tetanus injection. And she scolds me rather publicly for being rude. It is mortifying. Why is that adult children always regress in the presence of their parents? I am on the verge of stomping off in a huff.

  I am informed that there is a whole floor for people with early onset dementia. I ask to see that first but Mary is in charge. Not me. Mother mutters under her breath that M A R Y is not one of my little pupils. I bite the side of my cheek to stop myself from answering her back. Mary strides ahead, next to my mother, and I follow on behind. The woman is very tall. I would say she’s almost as tall as Michael. I can hardly keep up with her. We start with the reception areas and proceed to the main dining room. They’re both clean and tastefully furnished. The chairs are all mauve, as are the walls. There is also a feature wall of cherry blossoms at the far end. It’s tasteful if a bit contrived. A few of the residents are trying to eat a meal (possibly breakfast) and there’s a rather strong smell of porridge. It’s not unpleasant. The home doesn’t smell of disinfectant or urine. To be fair, the staff look very attentive and I note that the ratio between them and the residents is high, even though it is Boxing Day. But as I watch Mary punch in the keycode next to the staircase door, I realise that all the residents are wearing jogging trou­sers with elasticated waists. There’s nothing decorous about an adult wearing a gigantic nappy. I find this depressing and hope that Michael is years away from this indignity.

  As we walk up the carpeted staircase, I worry that this place is simply too quiet. When we reach the first floor, Mary announces that this is the designated floor for people with early onset dementia in addition to young people (that means between fifty and sixty) who are suffering from other neuro­logical issues. She throws open several doors en route. Each of the bedroom doors is painted a different colour in the style of an external front door. The walls on either side of each door is wall papered with imitation brickwork. Everyone’s room has a photograph of its occupant along with his or her name. Some of the signs also have hand-written notes beneath them saying things like: You can talk to me about music, bingo or cards. Or: I like gardening and flowers but I don’t like crosswords. I wonder whether that means you can’t talk to them about any­thing else. I wonder what Michael’s door sign would say. I can hardly bring myself to think about it.

  Some of the rooms are occupied with the residents and their visitors. As we stride past, I see an elegant lady with snow white hair having her nails done. The manicurist looks kind and it is clear that she is trying to have a conversation with the lady though it is only one way. I don’t want to stare so I just smile and we carry on walking from one end of the corridor to the other. Mary tells us that the lady used to be a High Court Judge. Dementia does not discriminate.

  There’s a festive spirit in the home and it really doesn’t seem too bad though the thought of sectioning Michael and abandoning him here is clearly out of the question. There must be more suitable places than this. I need to do my own research, when the time comes. As we walk down the cor­ridor, it is clear that for every six rooms there is one blue door marked bathroom and a darker blue door marked lav­atory, even though each of the residents has an en suite. All the doors have images as well as words on them. We stop for a moment whilst Mary chats to another member of staff. I can’t hear a word they’re saying but it looks as though it is important.

  We have a few seconds to observe. I look down at Mary’s feet and see that she is wearing soft white plimsoles which match her starch white uniform. None of the other staff are dressed like this. They’re all in normal or festive clothes with care-home aprons. She reminds me of Nurse Ratched in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. I suddenly feel like running. She has finished talking to the orderly and is staring straight at me. It is as if she can read my mind. Nurse Ratched (Mary) places her fingers around my upper arm with a vicelike grip. She propels me into the only vacant room on the corridor. It even has a large sign above the door saying “Vacant for Occupancy” in clear black bold letters. She tells me again that the home has a number of people with my husband’s condition. I feel slighted as that’s our word; it’s almost as if she has stolen it from me. For a brief moment I try to resist her firm grasp. I wonder whether she treats her patients like way. I find her intimidating. I certainly don’t manhan­dl
e my pupils like this. I would be sacked on the spot. My mother senses the tension between us and motions us both to sit down. Apparently, I am overwhelmed and oversensi­tive. I can’t even be bothered to respond to her commentary. Mary and Mother choose the only two chairs in the room so I’m left with the bed; it has a pink plastic mattress protec­tor over it which squeaks when I sit on it. The door to the en suite lavatory is wide open. The loo has a rail on either side of the seat. There are no pictures on the magnolia walls and no mirror. The ceilings are mercifully high but the windows look as though they don’t open.

  I tell both matriarchs that I am not ready to put Michael into a home. Think of the expense. It’s thousands of pounds, every month. We simply can’t afford it. I would rather pay for an occasional carer and send MY husband to the Day Centre in West Hampstead. Besides, Michael will never forgive me and neither will Eddie or Olivia. They’re young adults. Shouldn’t they be allowed an opinion about their father’s future? Nurse Ratched (Mary) and my mother (Sheila Who Must Be Obeyed) tell me otherwise. My mother completely takes over. She informs the woman-in-white that my hus­band is violent. She tells her he’s twice my size and that I can’t possibly defend myself when he’s in a rage. I refuse to recognise the man that is being described. I lie and say that last night was the first time Michael has hit me in twenty years but she knows that I am lying. Mother’s intuition. Hasn’t it occurred to me that Olivia could be next? I admit that it hasn’t, and start to take the tour rather more seriously after that. I ask Mary how they “manage” violent patients. She tells me that everything is “well managed” in this place and that I have nothing to fear on that count. My mother and I exchange glances. I think she finally understands my reservations.