Chapter Two
Twelve months later – Tuesday 7th May
‘Happy birthday, Mum.’
Ella stooped, pecked me on the cheek, then flopped down on the squashy sofa opposite me.
Thanks to the still relatively early hour, I’d managed to bag a window seat at the local Costa. The only other current occupants were a handful of mums. They’d pulled some tables together to enable a group gossip. Having safely overseen their offspring to the school gates they were discussing someone called Mr Hadley. According to the platinum blonde with dark roots, Mr Hadley was sex on legs, and she wanted a one-to-one with him on Parents’ Evening. Cue much cackling, nudging and winking.
‘How does it feel to be sixty-one?’ asked Ella with an impish grin.
Sixty-one. Sixty-sodding-one. How the hell could I be sixty-one when my heart was only twenty-one? But mirrors don’t lie. There were blue bags under my eyes that hadn’t been there last year. I was also aware that, when I swung my legs out of bed in the morning, there was a moment of stiffness. That the body took a moment to recalibrate. Bones would crack, as if remembering where they belonged before realigning themselves.
‘It feels fine,’ I shrugged.
‘Good,’ she nodded. ‘And I’m looking forward to spending the day with you. Some girly time at Bluewater. Lots of shopping. Then dinner at Browns with the others.’
My heart rose at the thought of later seeing Tim, Ruby and their partners. Showing off what I’d bought with Ella. Ruby agreeing that of course I could still get away with a short skirt, so long as I teamed it with dark tights and fashionable lace-up boots.
I leant across the table and squeezed my youngest’s hand.
‘Thanks for taking the day off work, darling. I hope your boss isn’t missing you.’
‘Too bad if he is.’ Ella pulled a face. ‘I didn’t take all my holiday last year. Nor was I allowed to carry it over. I’m not losing out this year,’ she said fiercely. ‘Anyway, it’s your birthday and I want to spend it with you.’
I could see Ella discreetly scanning my face. Looking for signs of tension. My youngest was the one that worried about anything and everything – and that included me.
The last few months had been awful, but I didn’t want the parent-child roles reversing. Not yet. It was too soon. Maybe in another thirty years. When I was ninety-one. Although hopefully I would’ve popped my clogs before such role reversal.
I didn’t want the kids experiencing what I was enduring with my own parents. Where, almost daily, I reached screaming point with two stubborn oldies who refused any outside assistance.
‘Why do I need help’ – my father had recently roared – ‘when I have you and Freya.’
‘Freya?’ I’d snorted. ‘Dad, you know full well that Freya doesn’t help. She leaves it all to me.’
‘She’s a busy lady,’ my father had countered. ‘She works.’
‘And I don’t?’
‘You know what I mean,’ he’d harrumphed.
Yes, I’d known what he’d meant. Freya worked in an office in London, whereas I was self-employed. My sister had made it clear that her job as a PA was utterly exhausting. Totally stressful. Under no circumstances was she to be disturbed at work – although she would make an exception if one of the parents was gasping their last.
‘Ultimately, Freya’s job is more important than yours,’ Dad had said.
‘I’m not sure my brides would agree,’ I’d muttered.
‘What?’ he’d barked.
‘Nothing,’ I’d quickly answered. I hadn’t wanted an argument.
My father believed that being a photographer was no different to being a window cleaner. That my job was flexible. I could pick it up and put it down as and when. Certainly, he had no compunction about expecting me to drop everything at a moment’s notice. To beetle up the motorway and do whatever bidding was required. From acting as chaperone when visiting the doctor. Taxi driver to the dentist… the chiropodist… or the dementia clinic for Mum. Then there were the trips to the supermarket – Dad abhorred online shopping. And let’s not leave out housework, washing, and ironing. Sod Maggie’s life. Or that’s how it seemed anyway.
I tried hard not to feel resentful, but the human part of me couldn’t help it. I wanted my life back. Obviously, I didn’t wish my parents dead. Of course not. No, what I wanted was for someone else to deal with the daily grind. A live-in carer. After all, it wasn’t as if Dad didn’t have the financial wherewithal to pay for it.
‘Mum to Earth,’ Ella prompted.
‘Sorry, darling,’ I apologised. ‘My thoughts were elsewhere.’
‘Let me guess. You were thinking about Granny and Grandad, right? Feeling guilty that you’ve given yourself the day off and won’t be calling in on them.’
‘Honing your psychic skills?’ I grinned.
She gave a half-shrug.
‘I don’t need to be psychic, Mum. We all know what you do for them. Did you even remind Grandad it was your birthday?’
‘No, of course not.’ I shook my head. ‘My father would feel awful about forgetting. And anyway, as bad as it sounds, the best birthday present he can give me is letting me have an entire day to myself. However, if I’d told him that he’d have been offended. He thinks he and Granny are no trouble at all.’
‘Do you think Grandad has dementia too?’ said Ella tentatively.
‘The thought has crossed my mind. In the last few months, he’s not been so sharp.’
Recently my father had wanted to revise his Will. He’d made an appointment with a local firm of solicitors. I knew because I’d seen it written on his calendar. On this occasion he’d declined using me as taxi, saying it was a private affair and he didn’t want me there.
Later, I’d asked how the meeting had gone. Dad hadn’t known what I was talking about. His face had then cleared. ‘Oh, wait. I remember now.’ He’d looked momentarily distressed. ‘Maggie, can you ring Gardener and Stewart. Apologise on my behalf. I’ll defer the matter for now.’
I sighed and gave Ella a frank look.
‘I’m not sure if he’s showing signs of dementia or if it’s just old age. You know, being a little fuzzy. After all, he is ninety-two. And we can all have moments of forgetfulness.’
‘Did you speak to Social Services? You said you wanted to express your concerns. See if they could back you up about having some home help.’
My eyes darted around the coffee shop. A fear response. My parents knew nothing of this. You see, in my head I had a plan. To seek reinforcement. For the officials to get involved. To sternly tell my father that this situation couldn’t prevail. That it was, at times, comparable to supervised neglect, particularly where my mother was concerned.
It was one thing to drop everything to do their bidding, but it was quite another to have two Golden Oldies left alone at night.
Last month, my mother had been found wandering by a late-night dog walker. The gentleman was local. He’d recognised Mum and guided her home. I’d known nothing of this until recently. Visiting my parents, I’d parked on their drive and the same man had been passing by with his dog. He’d stopped me. Enquired after the confused old lady within. I’d listened, horrified, as the man had told me about Mum, barefoot, dressed only in a nightdress, roaming the street and unable to convey where she lived.
When I’d confronted Dad, he’d switched to his now familiar default mode. Humour. He’d laughed it off.
‘Ah ha ha ha,’ he’d chortled. ‘How your mother and I split our sides. Your mum simply fancied a bit of fresh air. Unfortunately, she had one of her moments.’
For one of her moments read completely lost the plot.
‘My scatty Deirdre,’ Dad had said fondly.
He’d given Mum a misty-eyed look. She’d batted her eyelashes coquettishly.
‘I’ve always been a bit scatty,’ she’d giggled, as if we were talking about burning the toast, not disappearing into the night. ‘What’s the problem?’ she’d asked, her eyes wide and uncomprehending.
I’d regarded them both with incredulity. This man. My father. Someone who’d once been so sensible. Or had he? Rather, it had been my mother who’d been the capable one. The practical one. The one who’d waited on my father hand, foot, and finger. All he’d ever had to decide was whether to read his newspaper in the conservatory or the lounge.
Naturally I’d told Freya about Mum’s latest dementia episode.
‘You’ll have to move in with them,’ she’d declared.
I’d held the handset away from my ear. Boggled at it. No way. I’d go loopy within a month. I’d put the receiver back to my ear.
‘Absolutely not,’ I’d said firmly.
‘It’s not as if you can’t,’ she’d pointed out. ‘After all, Greg–’
‘Leave Greg out of it,’ I’d snarled.
I wasn’t discussing Greg. Nor was I moving in with the parents. And that was that.
Ella touched my arm, once again scattering my thoughts.
‘Mum,’ she said, her voice low. ‘I’m worried about you.’
‘You don’t need to worry about me,’ I protested, a smile instantly on my face. ‘Anyway, look at the two of us sitting here like a pair of ninnies. It’s my birthday, for heaven’s sake. I need cake!’
Ella relaxed slightly. Leant back. But her eyes were still locked on mine.
‘My treat,’ she murmured. ‘Cappuccino and a slice of carrot cake?’
‘Yes, please,’ I beamed.
She pushed back her chair.
‘Coming right up.’