Chapter Forty-Two
With Bess at my heel, I let myself into Mum and Dad’s house using my own key.
‘Yoohoo,’ I called.
No reply.
I shut the front door and walked through to the kitchen. Removing a large bowl from the china cupboard, I filled it with water for Bess.
‘Here you are, sweetheart,’ I said, setting it down on the floor. She took several noisy laps, then stood by the back door. ‘Do you want to go out?’
I unlocked the door and Bess stepped out into my parents’ small garden. The lawn was unkempt. The grass was long and raggedy with an explosion of dandelions. There were also some spectacular weeds in the flower borders. Freya had recently volunteered her husband to do some gardening. Evidently Vernon hadn’t been up for it. After Social Services had concluded their visit, I’d wheel out the mower from the garage and tidy things up.
Overhead, a floorboard creaked. I moved back to the hallway.
‘Dad?’ I shouted up the stairs.
‘Who’s that?’ came a befuddled reply.
‘It’s Maggie,’ I answered.
My father’s head appeared over the upper landing’s safety rail.
‘What are you doing here?’
For a moment I didn’t speak. Surely, he hadn’t forgotten?
‘I telephoned yesterday, remember? We talked about a lady called Irene. She’s coming to visit you today.’
‘Who?’ he said crossly.
I inhaled sharply, and mentally counted to ten.
‘Irene from Social Services is visiting to have a chat with you and Mum.’
There was a pause while he digested this.
‘Oh, yes. It had slipped my mind.’
His head bobbed back. Seconds later he appeared at the top of the staircase. A vision in boxer shorts and a string vest.
‘Dad, you’re not even dressed,’ I said, unable to hide my exasperation.
‘So?’ he said belligerently. ‘Can’t a man do what he likes in his own home?’
‘Yes, of course,’ I said, trying not to get irritated. ‘But it’s getting on for noon. At this time of day I’m usually thinking about having a sandwich, but clearly you haven’t even had breakfast.’
‘So?’ he repeated, his bottom lip now protruding. I was reminded of a pouting toddler testing parental boundaries – but in geriatric form.
‘Where’s Mum?’ I said, changing the subject.
‘Probably in the bathroom. Let me fetch my dressing gown. I’ll use the downstairs loo.’
‘Can’t you get some clothes on first?’
‘What for?’ he growled.
I opened my mouth to tell him about Irene again, then smartly shut it. This. This was what frustrated me. One cantankerous old man refusing to co-operate. No doubt my mother was holed up in the bathroom shredding loo paper faster than a Labrador puppy in a TV ad.
‘Tell you what, Dad,’ I said. ‘You sort yourself out, and I’ll make you and Mum some scrambled eggs.’
My father visibly perked up at the thought of eating without the effort of cooking. This. This again. The feeling of guilt that I wasn’t here every day, doing everything for them. Realistically I knew it wasn’t possible to do that. Not unless I gave up work and put my life on hold.
Some sons and daughters would do that. In some cultures, it was expected – and the adult children complied too. Indeed, the little voice in my head was often very opinionated on the matter.
What sort of a daughter are you not to move in with your parents?
What sort of a daughter are you not to let them move in with you?
What sort of a daughter are you not to sacrifice your life for them?
Usually I would silently scream my reply.
A SELFISH ONE, OKAY? HAPPY? YES, I’M A SELFISH DAUGHTER!
Pushing aside the inevitable feelings of guilt, resentment, and frustration, I returned to the kitchen to crack eggs into a pan.