Chapter Four
I awoke the following morning minutes before the alarm went off.
Six fifty-five. Always six fifty-five. It didn’t matter whether I set the clock for seven or later, my body was a law unto itself. I lay there for a moment, gently coming to.
The house was quiet. I put out a hand. Touched the area beside me. The space was empty. The cold sheet let me know that Greg hadn’t been in bed for a while. Again. I sighed and threw back the duvet. Padded off to the bathroom.
Fifteen minutes later, I went downstairs and headed for the kitchen. Greg was already there. I gave him a friendly smile.
‘Morning,’ I chirped. I didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, I busied myself. Filled the kettle. Slotted bread in the toaster. I made a large pot of tea and gestured to Greg.
‘Help yourself when you’re ready. I won’t pour for you. After all, you have a habit of letting my cuppas go cold.’
It was said lightly. After all, there was no need for any bad feeling. Neither of us liked undercurrents. I got on with buttering my toast. Spreading marmalade. Gave Greg another pleasant smile as I picked up my plate and cup.
‘I’ll be in the study. I’ve been making some notes about the Golden Oldies. I have something else to add. I’m convinced Dad isn’t feeding Mum properly. There’s more flesh on a scarecrow. Dad doesn’t look much better. Most men of his age have a paunch. Instead, his belly button is cosying up with his spine. It’s ridiculous. Do you know, only the other day I insisted on putting his shopping away and, when I went to the fridge, I was horrified. There were eggs dating back to last Christmas, and all the fresh veg I’d previously bought hadn’t been touched. Most of it had gone off. The cabbage stank.’ I heaved a sigh. ‘The two of them seem to exist on tinned salmon and sweetcorn. All the dinners I made them are still in the freezer. Why can’t my father use the microwave? It’s not rocket science. That said, I have a feeling he’s forgotten how to use it. But he’d never confess to that truth. Anyway, later on, I’m going to phone Social Services. See if I can get someone to pay a visit and talk some sense into Dad.’
I rattled to a stop. Glanced at Greg. He met my eyes.
‘Well,’ I said, suddenly awkward. ‘I’ll… er… you know.’ I nodded my head in the direction of the study. ‘If you, um, want me, I’ll be in there.’
God how I hated this. This wall of silence. It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t. I didn’t deserve this. I really didn’t.
Come on, Maggie, said my inner voice. Buck up. Don’t waste your breath. You know it isn’t going to get you anywhere. Drink your tea. Eat your toast. Catch up with your emails. You have a wedding this Saturday and the bride hasn’t paid the balance. A polite reminder is required. By the time you’ve emptied your Inbox, the phone lines will be open to Social Services. And then you can pour your heart out. Hopefully that person will be sympathetic or, at the very least, offer some solutions.
By nine o’clock, I was on my second cup of tea and had the handset clamped to my head. After going through a merry-go-round of an automated phone system, I ended up speaking to a lady called Irene. She was part of the Old People’s Team. As I opened my mouth to relay the concerns about my ancient parents, to my shame, I burst into tears.
‘Sorry,’ I said, trying to get a grip on the waterworks. ‘It’s such a relief to talk to someone.’
At the other end of the line, Irene gave a wry chuckle.
‘If I had a pound for every person who’s said that to me, I’d be able to give up work. So, Maggie. Give me some background on your parents.’
‘I think my mother is dying,’ I said, stemming a fresh flow of tears. ‘I don’t mean to sound dramatic, but my father doesn’t feed her properly. He doesn’t feed himself properly. They’ve lost so much weight. Sometimes I cook extra food in my house, then run two hot meals over to them. However, unless I do that, I’m not sure they’re eating. But I can’t keep doing it, night after night. Not when I’ve already spent half the day with them. I have my own life.’ I foraged up my sleeve for a tissue. Blew my nose. ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘You have no idea how ashamed I feel admitting all this.’
‘Please don’t feel guilty,’ said Irene. ‘You’re entitled to a life of your own. Is there any other family member who can help?’
I told Irene that the kids pitched in where they could. Visited their grandparents. Gave me respite. But they were young. Had their own lives. My parents weren’t their responsibility.
‘And there’s my sister Freya,’ I added. ‘But she works.’
‘I see.’ I could hear a keyboard being tapped. Irene was making notes. ‘I take it you’re retired?’
I blinked.
‘No. I work too.’
‘Part time, then?’
‘Well, not really, although I suppose it might seem that way. I’m a wedding photographer. The work is seasonal. I do other stuff. You know, parties. Teens that want to glam up. Family portraits. I’m never not busy. There’s always something to do, even if it’s just admin and promo work.’
‘I see,’ said Irene thoughtfully. The keyboard continued to rattle away in the background. ‘I’m second-guessing that, because you can juggle your work schedule, the care has mainly fallen to you.’
‘Yes,’ I nodded. At last. Someone who understood. I wasn’t sure Freya would appreciate Irene putting it so succinctly.
Irene continued making notes. How my father sometimes took himself off. Left my mother alone. How Mum wandered. Got lost. Didn’t recognise where she lived. That, left to her own devices, she was dangerous. How Dad had once returned home to a plastic kettle melting over the gas hob, smoke alarm screeching.
Irene gave me a list of numbers which included a ‘sitting service’. This provided three free hours a week allowing Dad to go out leaving his wife in safe hands. Irene also gave me the number of an Alzheimer’s support group. She suggested Dad could take Mum for a coffee, and at the same time chat to other carers. Make new friends. I noted everything down. However, I knew Dad would refuse to follow up on any of this information.
A care assessment was also arranged. Irene warned me to be patient. There was a waiting list, and every name upon it was urgent. I told her that I understood.
The relief was huge. I’d now taken a positive step in asking for help. However, I wasn’t looking forward to telling my father what I’d done. He might be ninety-two and frail, but when he lost his temper there was nothing doddery about his voice.