by Hannah Tovey
I stood in front of her, unable to get the words out.
‘Is everything OK?’ she asked.
‘I wanted to tell you that we think you’re wonderful – all of you.’
She looked a bit taken aback.
‘I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done for my sister.’
She smiled. ‘That’s kind of you to say, love.’
‘I’m sorry, again, for being tipsy when I arrived.’
‘I’ve seen far worse.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, maybe not much worse.’
‘That makes me feel better, thank you.’
I walked away, feeling so happy my heart hurt.
12
People say it’s important to honour your loved one’s life; some chose to write poetry or send money to charity. But for me, the way to celebrate Gramps’ one-year anniversary was to go down to the beach and paint. So, the first thing I did when I got home was get out my watercolours and set off down the cycle path.
‘Where’s my invite?’ Mam said, shouting down the garden at me.
I turned around to see her standing by the back door. She had a glitter eye mask on and was wearing an ivory silk dressing gown that made her look like Miss Havisham, only less ruined.
‘I thought you needed a lie-down?’
‘I’m waiting for Linda to call. Guess who saw Beth Boston come out of the bathroom with a very young waiter last night?’
Beth Boston went to Boston once in 1982.
‘Such gossip!’ Mam said. ‘I cannot wait to tell Linda!’
‘So, you don’t want to come to the beach?’
‘No, darling. You go do your painting thing and I’ll be waiting for you with a glass of wine when you come back.’
I waved and walked off.
‘Wash your feet before you come back in the house – I don’t want sand everywhere again!’
I hadn’t been back to Wales for six months, the longest stint I can remember. It had begun to feel like Groundhog Day in London, but as soon as I stepped off the train in Swansea, something shifted. I closed my eyes and saw the sea, and I knew I was almost home. Swansea train station hums of urine and there’s always a group of men hanging around by the entrance, off their faces on God knows what. It’s not exactly the most romantic welcome home, but it’s my welcome home, and I wouldn’t change it for a thing.
As is custom, there were hordes of young boys on their bikes hanging around the beach café, with their arse cracks on show. I found a quiet spot away from them, sat down and looked out to the sea.
Sometimes when I think about last year – about Jamie and Gramps – it feels like a giant is standing on my chest. The only person I used to share this with was Maude; I’d visit her at the care home reeking of last night’s bad decisions and she’d tell me it was going to be OK – but only if I started taking care of myself. She trusted that eventually I would start making good decisions again, which was astonishing, because most people had lost faith in my decision-making skills – and rightly so. But I hadn’t seen Maude in a while, and once again I felt adrift. I kept thinking about Gramps, and whether he’d approve of what I was trying to do with my life. I knew deep down he would, but then Dilys would creep in, and I wouldn’t be so sure.
I was sketching where the waves and shore would be when I heard someone call my name.
‘Prynhawn da, Ivy!’
I turned around and saw Owen, holding his arms out to welcome me.
Owen was my grandfather’s best friend. They are complete opposites; they’d argue over politics, sport, how to treat your neighbours. Gramps would always raise his voice and swear to get his point across, whilst Owen was the most softly spoken man you’d ever meet.
I got up and hugged him close. He smelt of sunscreen and I could taste the sea as I kissed his cheek.
‘Funny I’m seeing you now, bach,’ he said. ‘I was going to pop by your mother’s later; I’ve got something for her.’
He reached into his bag and got out a brown, tattered notebook.
‘Your grandfather’s Welsh vocabulary book,’ he said.
Ivan Thomas was scribbled on the first page, alongside a date: 24 September 1942. Gramps would’ve been twelve.
‘Where did you find this?’ I asked.
‘I must have picked it up when we were helping your mother clear out his house. I thought she could use it, now she’s learning Welsh.’
I flicked through the pages, mesmerised. I remembered reading this for the first time years ago, seeing hundreds of scribbles of Welsh words I didn’t recognise, alongside names: Rhian, Sioned, Megan.
‘Girls he fancied,’ Owen said, smiling.
‘I thought we’d lost this. Diolch yn fawr iawn, Owen.’
‘It belongs with you.’
We hugged again, this time for much longer. He looked me in the eye and smiled his warm toothy smile at me, and I laughed. He got out his hankie and patted my cheeks dry.
‘No more tears today, OK, babes?’
‘I was doing so well until you showed up,’ I said. ‘Do you want to come back up to the house with me? Have some lunch?’
‘I’ll come over later, love. Need to pick up Gaynor from the salon first.’
Owen’s wife Gaynor is never seen looking anything other than immaculate. She gets her hair and nails done every week and is never without her signature bouffant.
‘Good to see you’re still painting, bach,’ he said, looking down at my pad.
‘I’m trying to get back into it. This is for Maude, the woman I see at the care home.’
‘Your grandfather was jealous of her – said she was stealing you off him.’
‘Nobody could do that, could they?’
Owen smiled. ‘How’s your sister doing? And the bab?’
‘They’re good. Anna’s shattered, but that’s to be expected.’
‘And your mother?’
‘She’s having a debrief with Linda … some drama at last night’s charity do.’
‘She told me she was “over” charity.’
‘She’ll attend anything if there’s free booze.’
He laughed. ‘You remind me so much of your grandfather, Ivy.’
‘Hopefully only the good bits.’
‘He only had good bits.’
We said our goodbyes and I sat back down on the blanket and went back to my painting, feeling the giant’s heavy foot pushing down on me again.
I got back from the beach to find Anna in the living room, wearing only her bra and joggers. There were two frozen cabbage leaves covering each breast.
‘My boobs are in fucking agony,’ she said.
‘Can I do anything?’
‘If you can’t breastfeed, then no.’
I walked over to the Moses basket, where Eleanor was sleeping. She was wearing a pink cardigan that Mam’s friend Linda had bought for her from Swansea Market. It looked like it belonged in the nineteenth century, and she was almost drowning in it, but she was so pretty, and peaceful. I couldn’t believe she was ours. Anna came to stand over the basket with me, and we listened to Eleanor’s sweet snore.
‘I don’t know how you get anything done,’ I said.
‘I don’t. If she’s not on my boob then I’m stood over her, like a dumbstruck stalker.’
I started to tidy the room. The carpet was littered with nappies, sanitary pads and creams I’d never heard of, and the last thing we needed was another lecture from Mam about us “spoiling” the house. Whilst I was enjoying having the attention deflected from me for a change, I was sure that if Mam made one more snide remark to Anna, we were going to have a real family drama on our hands. ‘Angry, sleep-deprived daughter kills overbearing mother in final act of defiance.’ It has a nice ring to it.
Anna was making wincing noises from the sofa. I sat down beside her, and she rested her head on my shoulder.
‘Do you know what I find remarkable?’ she said. ‘That my vagina is perfectly intact after delivering
a six-pound baby, but here I am, nipples bleeding all over the shop, and a massive haemorrhoid in my arse.’
She took one of the cabbage leaves off her breast to reveal a bloody, scabby nipple.
‘Do you remember me telling you that you don’t need to share every single detail of your post-birth journey with me?’ I said.
‘Noted,’ she said, putting the leaf back on. ‘At least you know what to expect now.’
I had thought about children when Jamie and I broke up, but only because I was devastated that I wouldn’t be having his children. Though to be fair, that was mainly because I realised that not having his children meant not having access to the family villa in Barbados. There was so much to grieve last year.
Anna read my face and asked me what was wrong.
‘By the time I have a baby – if I ever have a baby – things will have moved on. It’ll be different.’
‘Different how?’
‘I don’t know … It’s not as if motherhood is in my near future.’
‘It doesn’t need to be in your near future – you’re thirty-two.’
‘Yes, but if you do the maths, having children means meeting someone now.’
‘Don’t buy into that shit, Ivy. It’ll happen for you when it happens for you; I’m a great example of that.’
‘I’m on the other side of thirty.’
‘So was I! But countless fertility specialists and two rounds of IVF later, here we are.’
‘I know what you mean, but—’
‘Ivy, please don’t get caught up on this. Babies are really hard work. You’re much better off staying out till six in the morning with Mia and Dan.’
‘You make it look easy.’
This wasn’t entirely true, given my current view.
‘That’s a laugh. I need to master breastfeeding.’
‘You don’t need to master anything. Try being a bit kinder to yourself for once.’
‘I couldn’t even procreate without medical assistance, why did I ever think I’d be able to do everything normal mums do.’
‘Anna, don’t say that.’
‘I’ve never had a problem doing anything in my life.’
‘I know, you exceed at everything. It’s infuriating.’
‘I couldn’t have a baby though, and my nipple literally falls off every time I breastfeed, but still I persist because I’m a fucking perfectionist.’
‘Anna—’
‘I don’t want to talk about it any more. Can I nap on you?’
‘Go right ahead.’
She lay across me, and we both closed our eyes.
We were woken by Mam standing in front of us in a patchwork shirt.
‘I thought you weren’t buying any more clothes,’ I said.
‘It’s upcycled, darling. It’s all the rage in Stockholm. This is one hundred per cent ecologically certified.’
‘Do you even know what that means?’
‘Something to do with silkworms?’
Anna smiled, her eyes still closed.
‘What’s with the box, in the garage?’ I asked her. ‘The one with all the cleaning products.’
Last year, when Mam turned my bedroom into a nursery for Anna’s (not yet conceived) baby, she thoughtfully threw away most of my possessions, but said that if I looked in the garage, I might find one or two things she thought were worth keeping.
‘When did you see that?’ Mam asked. ‘You didn’t touch anything, did you?’
‘Why do you look so concerned? What are they?’
‘I am telling you this in the strictest confidence. One word to your father and that’s it.’
Anna’s eyes flicked open. We both sat up, intrigued.
‘It was a couple of months ago. Linda had told me about this handsome salesman who’d come around her house. He was selling odd bits and bobs, you know, carpet cleaner, that sort of thing. Linda thought they were a bargain, so she bought a year’s supply. But, you see, turns out, he wasn’t a salesman … He was an ex-convict.’
Anna and I burst out laughing.
‘Don’t tease! He ruined the carpet in the hall!’
We ran to see. There was a new house plant in the corner, near the front door. I lifted it up and found a large moss green stain underneath. The carpet was singed, like there’d been a fire. We put the plant back in its place and headed back into the lounge.
‘Your father hasn’t noticed yet, thank God. I’m one of the lucky ones.’
‘So, an ex-convict scammed everyone in your charity group?’ I said.
‘Just me, Linda, Weight-Watchers Wendy and Carol Cakes.’
Weight-Watchers Wendy has been on the programme since 1990 and is yet to lose a single pound, and Carol Cakes’ great-great-grandfather was a baker, or at least worked in a bakery – nobody can remember.
‘You wouldn’t believe the drama it caused,’ Mam said.
‘Oh, we believe it all right,’ Anna said.
‘I can see you’re making fun of me,’ she said, sulking. ‘You’ve got thirty minutes before we need to leave.’
She left the room and Anna and I collapsed in hysterics.
Later, upstairs, Mam asked Anna if she wanted some concealer to cover her bags.
‘I’ve put some on already,’ Anna said.
‘You need more than that,’ she said, squinting her eyes and inspecting Anna’s face.
As Mam walked away, Anna took out an imaginary gun from her pocket and shot her in the back of the head.
‘Stop it,’ I said. ‘You know she doesn’t mean it.’
‘Jesus,’ she said, looking at herself in the mirror, ‘I’ve aged a decade.’
She dabbed some concealer under her eyes then asked me to help her choose an outfit.
‘Wear what you’re wearing now, you look great.’
‘I’m too fat. The zip is digging into my stomach.’
She collapsed onto the bed.
‘Anna, we’re about to pay tribute to our dead grandfather. Nobody cares what you wear.’
‘It’s easy for you to say when your orifices aren’t leaking.’
She started pulling things out of one bag and putting them into another.
‘You don’t need all that,’ I said. ‘We’re only going to the beach.’
‘You have no idea, Ivy. There’s so much stuff when you have a baby.’
‘What can I do?’
‘Nothing, just stay out of the way.’
I wanted to help, but she looked at me with such venom that I closed the door and left her to it. She’d never looked at me like that before.
I walked back towards her room, determined to show her that I could be useful. I opened the door and, before I’d even had the chance to open my mouth, she told me to get out.
13
I found Maude in the communal living room, watching Come Dine With Me. I was thrilled to see they’d finally moved on from Pointless. I don’t know what it is with elderly people and Alexander Armstrong, but the man seems to have a hold on anyone over sixty. She was sitting in her wheelchair, wearing a red velvet eye patch, with her initials embroidered in sequins.
‘Maude! Look at that eye patch, how fancy.’
‘Don’t,’ she said, getting all shy. ‘One of the care workers made it. It’s not very me.’
‘You look ever so glamorous.’
I crouched down to the wheelchair to hug her.
‘It’s so good to see you,’ she said, cupping my face in her hands. ‘And thank you for the flowers, there was no need.’
‘I’m sorry I got you marigolds; I had no idea.’
Maude recently had cataract surgery. She’d been complaining about her eyesight for months, but had refused to go to hospital, for fear she’d never come out. It wasn’t the brightest idea for me to send a giant bouquet of marigolds to her bedside, but how was I supposed to know they were associated with death?
There was an elderly couple by the TV, holding hands. The man leant over and kissed the woman on the forehead.
I watched as she closed her eyes in a moment of sweet reverie. The man caught my eye and smiled at me, and just as he did, Sophie, the resident cat, started rubbing herself against my leg. She purred as I stroked her under the chin. How I longed for someone – anyone – to stroke me under the chin.
I heard Bill call my name from across the room. Bill is my second-favourite resident at the care home; he has dementia, is hugely unpredictable and always in fancy dress. Today, he was dressed as a ringmaster.
He walked towards us, panting. His shirt was undone, and he was soaked in sweat. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow.
‘Good to see you, Bill,’ I said. ‘Great outfit today.’
‘Never mind that, Ivy,’ he said, itching his under arm. ‘Did you bring the script?’
‘Sorry, Bill, what do you mean?’
‘For tonight’s show. I’m Master of Ceremonies.’
‘Bill, please. Ivy’s just got here.’
‘But I need to know the order of the acts, Maude. Are we finishing with Leona the Lion, or is Maureen the Meerkat doing her acrobatics?’
I looked to Maude to rescue me.
‘This is typical of you, Ivy,’ Bill said. ‘Next time you need a hand getting on the unicycle, don’t come rushing to me.’
He puffed away on his plastic cigar.
‘Come now, Sophie,’ he said, striking his whip to the floor. ‘Your dinner awaits.’
Bill stormed off with Sophie sauntering behind him.
‘Bless him,’ Maude said. ‘He’s anxious this week. I’ll write him up a little pretend script later.’
‘Won’t he have forgotten this whole conversation by then?’
‘You never know with Bill. It’ll give me something to pass the time, anyway.’
I pushed her out into the garden, and we sat overlooking the vegetable patch.
I reached into my bag and got out the painting I did for her.
‘It’s the beach by our house,’ I said. ‘Do you like it?’
‘I love it. I’ll hang it in pride of place in my room.’
‘You don’t have to, it’s not exactly Monet.’
‘But you did it, and that makes it special,’ she said, holding it close to her chest.
‘I thought of you when I was home,’ I said, ‘and about what you said to me – that you should give in to grief.’