by Jane Corry
‘What about Daisy?’
‘At her painting class.’
Our youngest always goes to the Sunday-morning session at the local arts centre. What’s happened to my brain?
‘Don’t worry,’ he says kindly. ‘None of us wanted to wake you so Mum said she’d collect her after her class. They’ll be back soon. Mind you, they had a bit of an argument about something before they left. Daisy found an old photograph album of Mum’s and she seemed to get really upset.’
‘Who? Daisy?’
‘No. Mum. I told Daisy she shouldn’t have been in her grandmother’s room in the first place.’
As if on cue, Betty bounces in wearing one of her purple berets. She has a collection of them in different shades, hanging on a row of hooks in her bedroom. This one is pale lilac. As well as the beret, Betty has her yoga outfit on. This ensemble of a pale pink leotard under a cream floaty tunic top plus loose trousers teamed up with ballet pumps might seem incongruous on anyone else, but my mother-in-law can get away with almost any combination of clothes and still look stylish. In her younger days, apparently, she modelled hats for a department store. She has an old faded newspaper cutting showing her in a fashion show, which she brings out every now and then. Sometimes I wonder if she needs to reassure herself of her worth as a person in her own right, rather than ‘just’ as a mother and grandmother. I get that. Isn’t it what my own work is about? There’s certainly no signs of an earlier argument over those photographs Stuart had referred to, so I decide not to mention it.
Daisy follows her in, carrying a canvas.
‘Look what your youngest daughter has done!’ beams Betty. ‘Go on, show them, love.’
It’s pretty amazing, I have to say. A wonderful mélange of pink, green and blue hills. Where does she get it from?
‘Such a clever girl.’ Betty holds Daisy close to her and once more I feel so lucky that my kids have had the opportunity of living with their grandmother. They will have a close bond that many families don’t have. A bond that needs to be kept safe.
Then Melissa marches in.
‘You should have cancelled your driving lesson after drinking last night,’ I say, trying to get close to smell her breath.
‘Get off me, Mum,’ she snaps, shaking me off. ‘I was fine this morning. Ask my instructor. He thinks I’m nearly ready to take my test. When’s lunch? I didn’t have time for breakfast.’
‘Blast,’ I say. ‘I meant to go food shopping.’ That’s the thing about working from home. You get glued to the computer and forget to do normal things like dust or cook. Or you stay overnight at Christmas parties and find yourself talking to a man you once loved …
‘Tell you what,’ says Betty brightly. ‘Why don’t you and Stuart go out on your own for a change. The girls and I will do our own thing.’
My husband and I look at each other. ‘We could,’ he says doubtfully.
‘Maybe it would be nicer if we had a family lunch together with the children,’ I retort, hurt by his lack of enthusiasm.
‘Come off it,’ snaps Melissa. ‘We’re not babies any more. Just go. It will be nice to have time with Gran and not be nagged all the time.’
I wince. Why is it that you always get told off for trying to do your best?
‘Now now,’ says Betty, ‘that’s not the way to speak to your mother.’ I see her giving Stuart a pointed look. He takes the hint.
‘Mum’s right. Let’s have some time on our own. We could go to that new bistro on the other side of town and then have a family evening in tonight.’
‘Great,’ I say, trying to sound as though I mean it. Haven’t I been wishing that my husband would spend more time with me? I need to try too. It might make up for the guilt I feel after seeing Matthew. Not, of course, I remind myself for the umpteenth time, that I did anything wrong.
‘Everything all right?’ asks my husband as we drive in his car. I’ve told him about my collision and he was surprisingly unfazed, saying it was ‘one of those things’. He seems just as distracted as I feel, in fact.
‘Fine,’ I say. But the truth is that I can barely string a sentence together, with all the emotions whizzing round in my head. Then again, Stuart and I aren’t great talkers. We can sit for hours in the car without saying anything. It’s not a problem. Neither of us takes offence. But I do sometimes wonder if it’s because we have little in common apart from the family. Then again, isn’t that enough? I didn’t realize, until I had children, just how full-on parenting is. How does anyone manage it on their own? It’s hard enough with the two of us – and we are particularly lucky to have Betty to help.
My phone bleeps. Another domestic drama already? But it’s an urgent call-out message from a production manager seeking extras who are five months pregnant. No more or they might go into labour early and then claim it was the stress of the shoot. (You have to be so careful with health and safety.) And no less or they won’t show.
I’ve got the perfect woman! ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Just got to send some emails.’
Stuart is used to this. Business doesn’t stop, even on a Sunday.
Then an incoming call flashes up on the screen. It’s Sally. Her voice sounds odd.
‘Doris has just rung me. She tried to get through to you but you were busy. Apparently she fractured her shoulder when she visited your house last night to sign a contract.’
Fractured?
‘She fell in my study,’ I say, my mouth going dry. ‘She was wearing heels and one caught in the carpet. But she said she was fine.’
‘Caught in the carpet?’ repeats Sally. ‘Do you have public liability insurance?’
‘No,’ I say, feeling nervous. ‘I didn’t think I needed it.’
‘You might if people visit your premises for business purposes.’ Sally’s voice is crisp. ‘Doris’s shoulder got worse after she left and she went to A&E. She doesn’t need an operation, thank goodness. But she’s got to wear a sling and she’s also in a great deal of pain – which means she can’t work for at least six weeks.’
That’s awful. But something else is also worrying me. ‘Is she blaming us?’ I ask with a lump in my throat.
‘No. And we hope she doesn’t think of it. You’ve got home insurance, I presume?’
Sally doesn’t normally sound so headmistressy, but she has a right, this time. I never even thought about the safety implications of inviting Doris round to the house. She feels more like a friend than a client.
‘Yes. Of course I do.’
‘That should cover you,’ she says, sounding slightly less strained. ‘Can you check the small print?’
‘Sure.’
‘Meanwhile, we’ll have to find a substitute for that ad shoot that Doris was meant to be in.’
That’s all I need right now. Another job to do. But I feel dreadful about poor Doris’s shoulder – and on her birthday too. I’d been meaning to replace that carpet for ages. It just came low down on my list of priorities. What bad luck that Betty had moved the sofa.
‘Oh and I’ve got the perfect vicar part for Ronnie,’ continues Sally, sounding brighter. ‘It’s only small but it might lead to something.’
‘Great! Tell me about it …’
When Stuart and I reach the bistro, I tell myself I ought to turn off the phone. But I can’t relax. We’ve been put at a corner table close to the kitchen doors, which keep opening and closing. After we order – chunky vegetable soup for us both as starters, followed by tofu salad for me and asparagus tart for him – we sit there, quietly. I wait for him to ask me more about the party but he doesn’t. I’m both relieved and offended. It would be nice if he showed a bit more interest in my work. Sally – who’s become the nearest that my schedule allows to a friend – said once that this is probably because it’s so far removed from his own that he doesn’t want to show his ignorance.
‘He could ask questions though, couldn’t he?’ I had said.
‘In my experience,’ said Sally, ‘men don’t like doing that. They
think it makes them look weak.’
‘One of my retired vicars has been picked for an extra in a new crime series,’ I now tell Stuart.
He finishes his soup before replying. ‘Really? That’s nice.’
I could tell him about Doris and the carpet but I don’t want to put a dampener on our lunch. Besides, I keep telling myself, we have home insurance, don’t we?
‘So did you see anyone you knew at the conference?’ I ask as we wait for the mains to come.
‘Quite a few,’ he says. ‘The keynote speaker was pretty great. He was talking about this new technique for …’
He then goes into dental-speak, which, as usual, and despite myself, I zone out of until realizing he’s stopped.
‘Sounds fascinating,’ I say.
He seems pleased. ‘I thought so too.’
There’s silence.
‘Actually, I’ve come across something else that’s rather interesting,’ he then says.
My heart pounds. For one moment, I fear this is his way of saying he knows I ran into Matthew. But how could he?
‘I’ve been using a different painkiller in certain cases,’ says Stuart. ‘Some of the patients find it really helps. There was a piece on it in one of my dental magazines. Seems to work quite well.’
I breathe a sigh of relief. ‘Sounds fascinating.’
He frowns. ‘You said that just now.’
‘Did I? Well, it is. Both bits, I mean.’
Frankly, I’m beginning to wish I was back at my desk or with the kids.
I look across at the next table, where an older-looking couple are leaning across to coo at each other. Their legs are entwined underneath. Both are wearing wedding rings. I feel a flash of envy. Then doubt. Maybe they’re married to other people. Perhaps they think they’re safe from prying eyes. But all it takes is for one person to spot them. I shiver.
They clink glasses. Giggle. Then the waitress comes over carrying a gateau with a mini-firework candle in the middle. On it is written ‘Happy 10th Anniversary’, in swirling icing.
So they are married! Mind you, ten years isn’t that long, considering they’re hardly spring chickens. Is this their second marriage? Or did they wait until they found the right person? Had they been brave – or selfish – enough to cast their first family aside (if indeed there had been one) and take a chance with someone different?
If only I could ask. Then again, their choice is not a blueprint, I remind myself. We all have to make our own decisions. And I have made mine. Haven’t I? And it doesn’t – it can’t – involve Matthew Gordon, even if he wanted me. Which, of course, he doesn’t because he is married. To a disabled wife.
The main courses arrive, much to my relief. It saves me having to think. My husband tucks in. Maybe he feels the same. We attempt some more conversation, mainly about the children.
‘Melissa will be hearing from her choices soon,’ Stuart says.
Inwardly, I groan. It had cost us blood, sweat and tears to help fill in her personal statement. I had felt a bit guilty about this until I realized loads of parents do the same. Yet now Melissa wants to go to drama school instead of reading drama at university. I agree with her, but Stuart favours the latter. Then my phone rings from the bag next to me. I jump.
‘Thought we said no phones over lunch,’ Stuart says with a hint of reproach.
‘I forgot,’ I lie. The truth is that I’d found myself unable to put it on silent or turn it off in case Matthew rang. Even though we are only friends, it would feel awkward to have a conversation with Stuart here with me. But I’m also scared of missing Matthew’s call and then wondering what he’d been going to say. Could this be him? I can barely breathe. ‘Sorry. I’ll leave it until later.’
The screen flashes to indicate that someone has left a voice message. There’s no contact name. Just a number I don’t recognize. I’d not yet keyed in Matthew’s details to my phone. So it might be him.
‘Better check it in case it’s the kids,’ says Stuart noticing.
I should have played safe and switched the wretched thing off at the beginning. Now there’s no getting out of it. Turning away so my husband can’t hear, I listen to it.
‘In a spot of bother,’ says a familiar voice with an air of desperation. ‘Ring me, can you?’
‘It’s Dad,’ I say. ‘But it isn’t his usual number.’
Stuart rolls his eyes. I know what he means, but his unsympathetic reaction also annoys me. My father is as traditional as Betty is eccentric. Or at least he used to be. After Mum left, he’d soldiered on, resisting the advances of divorcees and widows who flocked to get his attention. And no wonder! He’s a handsome man, my father. But then the forgetfulness set in. Once when I made it down to Worthing – I found that the oven was piping hot with a charred cottage pie inside.
‘How long have you had this on?’ I’d asked.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he’d replied, batting the question away. ‘I can’t quite remember.’
Alarm bells started ringing in my head. After all, dementia is a subject very much on the mind of anyone with elderly relatives or friends.
Since then there have been other things. My father has begun to look rather unkempt. Last month when I visited, he had egg stains down his shirt. ‘I can’t seem to work the washing machine,’ he told me.
When I investigated, there was a tin of baked beans inside. Open. On another visit, I smelt burning and found the iron standing face-down on the board. ‘I only left it there for a few minutes,’ said my dad defensively.
My suggestion that he should see his doctor about memory loss went down like a lead balloon. So I contacted the practice manager myself to say I was concerned about him. The GP paid a visit and gently suggested a routine ‘overall check’. ‘No way,’ he said. ‘Nothing wrong with me.’
What can you do?
But now he is actually asking for my help.
I ring back the number.
‘Not at the table,’ Stuart says.
‘This is an emergency,’ I retort. ‘You’d be worried if this was your mother.’
My father picks up immediately. ‘Eileen?’
That was my mother’s name.
‘No. It’s Poppy,’ I say gently. ‘What’s wrong, Dad?’
‘Nothing. Why should it be?’
‘But you just sent me a message saying you were in some kind of trouble.’
‘Did I? I don’t remember. I’m fine.’
I picture him in the bungalow he’d stayed in after Mum had left. Anything could be going on there. The iron might be face down again. The washing machine could be churning with baked beans. Not for the first time, I wished there was a kindly neighbour I could ring. But my father had hacked them off through either his romantic rebuttals or his eccentric behaviour.
‘Why’ve you got a different number?’
‘I broke the last phone. So Reggie got me another with one of those new simmy things.’
‘How?’
‘From a shop, of course. What do you think?’
‘How did you break it, I mean.’
‘Dropped it in the lav, didn’t I? Bloody thing fell out of my pocket.’
‘Look, Dad,’ I say, glancing across at Stuart, ‘I’ll come down.’
My husband pulls a ‘What?’ face.
‘I’ll be there before the evening,’ I say, glancing at my watch and mentally working out the train times. It’s easier to go that way because I can work while travelling, which I obviously can’t do in the car. ‘Do you want me to bring anything?’
‘Milk,’ he says quickly. ‘You can never have enough, can you? But make sure it’s the green lid stuff.’
We have this conversation every time. I always arrive with the promised two pints of green only to find that the fridge door is already stacked with them.
‘Thanks, Poppy.’
His voice is soft now. Almost like a child’s.
‘But I thought we were going to have a family night in,’ says Stuart, when
I finish the call. There’s a reproving tone to his voice that irritates me. We have his mother living with us, don’t we? And although we couldn’t manage without her, Betty needs us too. Just as Dad needs me. It’s not as though I have any brothers or sisters to help out.
‘I have to look after my father,’ I say. ‘You could come down with me if you want.’
He shakes his head as though the suggestion is ridiculous. ‘I’m on call tomorrow morning.’
‘Aren’t you worried about him too?’ I demand.
‘Of course I’m concerned. But if he got some proper help, he’d be all right.’
I put down my knife and fork. ‘He might have dementia, Stuart. People aren’t in the right frame of mind to make decisions when that happens.’
‘Or he might just be stubborn.’
Stuart had never cared for my father after he’d overheard Dad telling me, soon after I’d introduced them, that ‘this new boyfriend of yours isn’t as much fun as that other chap’.
‘What other chap?’ Stuart had demanded and I’d brushed off his jealousy with a ‘someone I dated briefly’ remark instead of mentioning Matthew by name. I didn’t feel strong enough to go into our relationship right then. And there hasn’t seemed a good time to mention it since.
That was years ago, but Stuart is the kind of man who takes umbrage if he feels slighted. Betty had warned me about that in the early days. ‘He’s a bit like his dad was, in that respect,’ she said quietly. I’d never noticed that. Then again, Jock had died when the girls were quite young, before I’d got to know him. I sensed he was a private kind of person.
‘How can you talk about him like that?’ I say now to my husband. ‘I wouldn’t speak like that about your mother.’
‘That’s because she’s kind and does so much with the children. Your father has never been very interested in them.’
I’d put that down to the fact that my father was scared of getting close to anyone after Mum had left. Stuart has no right to criticize Dad. He has no idea what it was like to come from a broken family. He doesn’t realize how lucky he was to have parents like his. I couldn’t manage without Betty. Not just because she helps us so much, but also because I really love her.