Chapter Six
‘Hello, darling,’ said Dad.
My father stood in the open doorway. The light from the inner hallway haloed his body. He seemed stiffer. More stooped. Why was it that some old folks seemed to collapse in upon themselves, while others strode about as if they owned the planet? I remembered how I’d once admired a photograph of the Queen riding her pony. It had been taken at the time of her ninetieth birthday. Yet my father couldn’t mount a stepladder to change a lightbulb, never mind a horse.
Because he hasn’t moved, said my inner voice. He worked at a desk for years. Now he sits in front of a television.
I made a mental note to move more. To keep moving with the years. Thank goodness I’d defied Greg about getting a dog. There was no excuse not to move when you had a four-legged friend. I’d be out in wind, rain, and shine.
Dad stepped forward to kiss my cheek, wincing as he did so.
‘I was going to ring you later,’ he said. ‘I need a few things from Asda.’
‘In which case’ – I pecked him back – ‘give me your shopping list. I might as well go now.’
‘Oh, I don’t need much. A loaf of bread. Some more milk. Maybe one of those iced walnut cakes. Your mother is very partial.’
‘I can get those things from the corner shop. Tell you what, you put the kettle on. I’ll be two minutes.’
Dad’s local shop was run by the Patels and was open all hours, including Christmas Day. The owner, Sanjit, was a kindly man who always asked after my father. He’d been amazing during lockdown, always leaving a bag of groceries outside my parents’ front door. Letting my father settle-up later.
Sanjit greeted me with a grin.
‘Hello, Maggie, love. How are you?’
‘Not so bad, thanks, Sanjit.’ I returned his smile, then quickly located the bread, milk, and cake. There was no one else in the shop as I went to pay.
‘If you don’t mind me saying’ – Sanjit’s brow furrowed as he scanned the items – ‘you’re looking a little tired.’ He popped everything into a small paper carrier. ‘I expect you’ve been worrying about your father, eh? Especially after that nasty fall.’
‘What fall?’ I frowned.
Sanjit looked at me curiously.
‘Didn’t your dad tell you?’
I felt the familiar knot of anxiety start up in my gut. It was as if my intestines were being squeezed by an invisible hand.
‘He hasn’t told me anything. What fall?’ I repeated.
Sanjit looked wary. As if he’d said too much.
‘Perhaps he didn’t want you fretting,’ he said carefully. ‘But I was very concerned. Trevor stumbled up the pavement kerb. Just outside this shop. He tripped and went down with a bang. Hurt both wrists and his ribs. An off-duty paramedic happened to be passing, which was a stroke of luck. The guy gave your dad the onceover, before helping him home.’
My mouth pursed. It seemed to be doing a lot of that lately.
‘Thank you for telling me,’ I said quietly.
I couldn’t believe my father hadn’t told me. Well, actually, I could.
‘There’s something else, Maggie.’ Sanjit regarded me anxiously. Unsure whether to impart further information.
I took a deep breath.
‘Spit it out,’ I sighed.
‘I don’t think your father should be driving.’
‘I agree. However, he won’t listen to me. Dad tells me to stop interfering. He can get very… you know… angry. And when he’s angry, he says rotten things.’
‘I sympathise. Truly. But, well, he was wearing shorts the last time I saw him, and I couldn’t help but notice his right leg. And the foot. Both are very swollen. I don’t think his foot can properly feel the pedals in his car. Recently, I witnessed him having a confrontation with another motorist. It got ugly.’
‘What?’ I gasped.
‘It happened outside the shop. At the junction. Trevor was in his car. He had trouble braking. He nearly ploughed into a vehicle that was travelling in the opposite direction.’
I briefly closed my eyes, imagining the scene.
‘The other driver’ – Sanjit continued – ‘was furious. He got out of his car. Strode over to your dad’s vehicle. Then banged on the window. There was a big commotion. Enough to have me running outside. Trevor had buzzed down the side window. He was yelling at the other driver. A young man. Shouting that he was a lunatic. I thought the man might punch your father. Instead, he leant into Trevor’s car. Snatched the keys from the ignition. Yelled that old people shouldn’t be allowed to drive. At this point, I intervened. Tried to calm down both men. The young guy gave me Trevor’s keys. He was furious. He said he’d made a note of your father’s licence plate and would be reporting him to the DVLA.’
‘Oh God,’ I breathed. If Dad was banned from driving, he’d be apoplectic. And yet I knew it was the best thing that could happen. My father should not be driving.
‘Anyway,’ Sanjit sighed. ‘I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Maggie. You have enough on your plate. I heard about Greg–’
‘Thanks,’ I interrupted. ‘We’re okay. I’m okay. It’s all fine.’ Sanjit gave me a look that suggested otherwise. ‘I’m getting a dog,’ I said brightly, abruptly changing the subject. ‘Greg has never been a fan of dogs but, you know’ – I gave a little shrug – ‘I thought it might be therapeutic. Help the situation.’
‘Yes,’ he nodded, but I’d caught the look in his eyes. He knew my mother had lost the plot. That my father might be losing the plot. Was the daughter, perhaps, going gaga too?
‘Right,’ I said, suddenly brisk. ‘I’d better get back to the parents.’
‘Give them my regards.’
‘I will. Thank you. And give Sushma my love.’
I left with my head bowed, paper bag tucked under one arm.
Breathe, Maggie. Breathe. Don’t return to your parents’ house and explode with frustration and anger. It won’t resolve anything.
‘That was quick, darling,’ said Dad, as he opened the door. I had my own key to the house. However, I didn’t like to assume to let myself in, unless he was indisposed. ‘I envy you having a pair of pins that work properly.’
‘Indeed,’ I said, with a tight smile. ‘Shall we have our coffee in the kitchen?’
‘Yes. I did what you said. Put the kettle on. It won’t take a second to re-boil.’
He shuffled off and I followed slowly behind.
‘Where’s Mum?’ I asked. I placed the cake on the table, put the loaf in the breadbin, and left the milk alongside the kettle.
‘Upstairs,’ said Dad, as he pottered about.
‘What’s she doing?’
‘Oh, you know,’ he said vaguely.
No. I didn’t. I hadn’t a Scooby what my mother did in her bedroom. But whatever it was, it could keep her occupied for hours. Literally.
‘Is she getting dressed?’ I hazarded. Any time before lunch would be a miracle.
‘Having a wash I expect.’
Dad abandoned making the drinks. Instead, he pulled out a chair and sat down heavily. I took over. Found a jar of instant.
‘Don’t you help her?’ I asked, spooning coffee granules into cups.
‘Why would I do that?’
‘Because I recently caught her putting soap on her toothbrush. She wondered why it wouldn’t foam.’ I added the hot water and milk. Stirred the drinks overvigorously. An outlet for further frustration. ‘Don’t you see, Dad? The poor woman no longer recognises certain things.’
‘Nonsense,’ he protested. ‘Anyway, interrupting her is more than my life’s worth. She’s a fiery little thing, your mum. The last time I checked on her, she told me to fuck off. I only wanted to see if she was up for watching Coronation Street.’
Of late, Mum’s language had become rather fruity. The dementia had taken an aggressive turn. In the beginning, it had been mildly amusing to see this tiny lady balling up her fists and threatening to punch your lights out. But now it was alarming. I’d spoken about it with my mother’s surgery. Tried to personally speak to her GP. But they’d refused to address my concerns on account of me not producing a Power of Attorney.
‘Oh, but there is a document,’ I’d breathed. ‘I’ll find it. Show it to you.’
‘Is it registered?’
I’d blinked.
‘Um, what do you mean?’
‘You need to see a solicitor. Get the POA registered. Then and only then can a doctor speak to you about your mother.’
‘Right,’ I’d said, making a note in my diary. Why was life so full of red tape?
I took the drinks to the table. Gave my father one of my looks. One that said I was not going to be fobbed off.
‘Dad,’ I said, sitting down opposite him. ‘Don’t you think it’s time to get some help?’
His eyes bulged, and he instantly looked outraged.
‘Absolutely not. We manage perfectly well.’
I didn’t immediately answer.
That’s it, Maggie. Count to ten before speaking. Stay calm.
‘I know Mum isn’t easy to manage,’ I said, picking my words carefully. ‘You’re doing a good job, Dad.’ I took a sip of coffee. ‘A very good job.’
His chest swelled. Flattery could achieve much.
‘I know,’ he agreed. ‘There aren’t many folks in their nineties living on their own.’
‘Sanjit told me about your fall,’ I said abruptly.
‘It was a stumble,’ he quickly countered.
‘He also told me about your altercation with another motorist.’
Dad rolled his eyes.
‘I always knew Sanjit was a bloody gossip. That’s what comes from owning a corner shop. Nattering with all the people that come in. Finding out their business. Then telling others.’
‘I’m not others,Dad. I’m your daughter. Sanjit was right to tell me. What if you’d busted a rib? Broken your wrist? Had to go to hospital?’
‘Well I didn’t,’ said Dad belligerently. ‘So, change the topic, Maggie. You’re starting to sound like a stuck record. And I have enough of that listening to your mother all day, repeating herself over and over. It’s very wearing.’
‘I can imagine,’ I said quietly. Frankly, I couldn’t begin to understand how he coped with it all day, every day, every week, month, and year. ‘The thing is, Dad’ – I licked my lips – ‘what if you had broken something?’
‘I’d have been plastered up and sent home good as new.’ His jaw was set. Eyes unblinking. Don’t challenge me, they said.
‘Not necessarily,’ I persisted.
‘Maggie,’ Dad growled.
He was warning me. Don’t push it. But I couldn’t back off. Not now. This situation, bad enough for the last twelve months, was rapidly becoming dire. I tried a different tack.
‘I don’t know what the big deal is,’ I said carelessly. ‘You once said you’d get help when you’d turned ninety, and that birthday has long been and gone. I mean, obviously you’re doing brilliantly,’ I added, once again resorting to shameless flattery. ‘Everyone says you’re amazing. Still driving.’ Best not to mention that it might not be for much longer. ‘Still independent. Fantastic.’ My father relaxed slightly, possibly thinking he was off the hook. ‘But it’s Mum I’m worried about,’ I pressed on. ‘Not you.’ That’s it, throw in some reverse psychology. Let him think he was marvelous as he roared around town. Narrowly avoiding collisions. Missing that young mother pushing her pram – oh God, Maggie, don’t torture yourself. Yes, let him think it was only my mother who needed care. Brilliant idea!
‘But the thing is’ – I continued – ‘if you suddenly weren’t here, who would look after Mum?’
His eyes slowly as he comprehended that possibility. That he might die before his wife.
Nobody liked to mention the death word. Certainly not Dad. It was a taboo. He, Trevor King, was going to live to one hundred years old. And he, Trevor King, would single-handedly take care of the demented Deirdre King. And when he’d outlived his wife – and only then – would he ask Creator to be returned to the stars. Or wherever one’s essence went. Dad cleared his throat.
‘I understand what you’re saying.’ Hurrah! ‘If anything happens to me, then your mother will live with you.’
Pardon?
‘Dad’ – I shook my head helplessly – ‘I can’t cope with Mum.’
‘Poppycock!’ His hand waved away my words.
‘Apart from the fact that I still work’ – why did nobody in my family take my job seriously? – ‘I don’t want to look after her.’
Dad’s eyes flashed.
‘What sort of a daughter says such a thing?’
‘An honest one,’ I asserted. ‘And because I’m honest, I might as well tell you something else. This morning, I spoke to Social Services.’
‘About what?’ said Dad in astonishment.
‘About my grave concerns over Mum. Have you noticed how much weight she’s lost? She’s fading away before your eyes.’
‘Who’s fading away?’ said my mother, making me jump.
She was hovering in the doorway. She looked like an apparition. Hair standing on end. Face so pale it matched the nightdress she was still wearing. She’d teamed the nightie with some socks and sandals.
‘Deirdre, darling,’ said Dad, patting the chair beside him. ‘Come and sit down. Maggie will make you a nice coffee.’
‘Yes,’ I said, pasting on a smile. ‘Would you like something to eat as well? After all, the time’s getting on. It’s almost lunch–’
The words died on my lips. What was that terrible smell?
‘Maggie?’ said Dad. His horrified expression matched mine. And then we both looked at my mother. Her hands. They were covered in excrement.
‘Er, Mum’ – I hastily propelled her towards the sink – ‘I think you need to wash your hands.’
I shoved her hands under running water. Squirted her palms with washing-up liquid. She needed a nailbrush too. Did this house even possess one?
‘What are you doing?’ she screeched. ‘Get off me.’
She snatched her hands away, then gave me a shove. For a woman who weighed less than a hundred pounds, she was surprisingly strong.
‘Stop it,’ I said, grabbing her wrists. It was like dealing with a child. ‘Look at your hands.’
‘What’s wrong with them?’ she demanded.
‘They’re covered in poo. You need to clean them. Now.’
‘How dare you?’ she hissed, rheumy eyes narrowing with fury. ‘How DARE you say such lies. How FUCKING DARE YOU.’
Oh God. Not the swearing and aggression. Please.
My mother then caught me by surprise. She slapped me. Hard. Across the face. The sound was not dissimilar to a swimmer bellyflopping into a pool.
‘I don’t know who you are’ – my mother’s cheeks were pink with fury – ‘but I want you OUT OF MY FUCKING HOUSE.’
My cheek stung. The smell of shit and soapy water shot up my nostrils. For a moment I was too shocked to react. I glanced at my father. He was slumped in his seat. Head bowed. I couldn’t see his face, but his body language said it all. He was used to this behaviour. This outburst was one of many. I wondered how many. I didn’t know. Certainly, enough to desensitise my father. His response was zero. Just another day of dementia. Another variation of its behaviour. Another version of the brain firing incoherently.
I took a step away from my mother. Picked up my handbag. Burrowed within for the wet wipes I always carried. Cleaned my face and hands.
‘I’ll see myself out, Dad.’
He didn’t look up.
‘Where are you going, dear?’ said my mother.
Her cheeks were still pink from the outburst, but already the memory of what she’d done had disappeared.
‘I have things to do,’ I said, forcing myself to smile at her.
‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ she said. She sat down on the chair I’d recently vacated, shitty hands all over the kitchen table. ‘Oooh, cake.’ Her eyes lit up as she reached for the box. ‘Shall we all have a slice?’