Chapter Forty-Four
‘Mum!’ I exclaimed.
I was aghast that my mother couldn’t recognise if she was in a state of undress, and shocked at her skinniness. No way could Mum be eating three meals a day. Or, was it that she no longer recognised when she was hungry, so didn’t eat?
When I’d first contacted Social Services with the dramatic claim that I believed my mother was dying, maybe I hadn’t been far off the mark.
‘Hello,’ said my mother vaguely. ‘Er, are you Freya or Maggie?’
‘I’m Maggie,’ I said, swooping over to her. ‘Um’ – I whispered – ‘are you aware that you’re naked?’
‘Am I?’ said Mum. She glanced at herself in confusion.
‘Deirdre,’ my father spluttered, having frantically swallowed a mouthful of food. ‘What the devil do you think you’re playing at, woman?’
‘I’ll see to her,’ I said, guiding Mum out of the kitchen.
‘Let go of my arm, Maggie,’ she said testily. My mother shook me off. ‘I’m not a child.’
‘Okay,’ I soothed, steering her towards the staircase. ‘But we have a visitor, and you need to get dressed.’
‘And now you’re speaking to me like I’m a child,’ Mum retorted. ‘I don’t know what all the fuss is about. God gave us skin to wear. Why do we need to put clothes on? And anyway, I’m hot. I don’t want to wear a sweater and trousers.’
‘Of course you don’t,’ I agreed, leading her into the bedroom. ‘That’s why I’m going to find you a nice summer dress and some sandals.’
‘Go away, Maggie.’ My mother gave me a little shove. ‘I’ll find myself a dress. I don’t need you standing over me.’
‘Mum, let me help you. Please. It won’t take a second and–’
‘GO AWAY!’ my mother shrieked.
I put my hands in the air. Backed off.
‘Right,’ I nodded. ‘You sort yourself out. I’ll see you shortly.’
I knew better than to argue with my mother when she was in one of these moods. And anyway, it was better for Irene to see firsthand what was going on in this house.
I scampered back downstairs but paused three steps from the bottom. Irene was calmly talking to my father. Words floated my way. I held my breath. Listened. Tried to piece the conversation together.
‘… must see, Trevor, that Deirdre is… mentally… dementia… struggling a little… assistance… no one taking over… an hour… morning… dressed… bathtime… cooking…’
Oooh. These words were music to my ears. I willed my father to take on board what Irene was advising.
When I walked into the kitchen, Dad was sitting at the table with his head bowed. Irene looked up and gave me a sympathetic smile.
‘Is Deirdre not with you?’
‘No, er…’ – I gestured vaguely – ‘she said she could see to herself. I’ve suggested she put on a summer dress.’
‘Your father and I have been having a chat,’ said Irene. ‘I’d like him to consider a carer visiting every day. Just for an hour, to begin with. Deirdre can then get used to another person being around. Maybe even make a friend of her.’ Irene gave Dad an encouraging smile. ‘Another woman can provide companionship for your wife, Trevor. Then you can go out. Stretch those legs. Take a breather. Recalibrate.’
My father looked up and rolled his eyes.
‘You’re seriously suggesting that my wife would befriend another woman?’ he jeered. ‘My life wouldn’t be worth living. Deirdre would have a field day accusing me of shenanigans. I’m surprised she didn’t accuse you of being my mistress.’ He gave a mirthless laugh, then looked Irene in the eye. ‘I know you mean well, but we don’t want any carer. Not for one hour. Not for one minute. Just leave us be.’
‘Dad,’ I warned. ‘I’m not taking no for an answer. Years ago, you and Mum made a Power of Attorney. You did so in case one or both of you lost capacity. That time has come. I’ve had enough. I can’t cope–’
‘And you don’t need to cope,’ my father interrupted. ‘It’s not your job to look after your mother. It’s mine.’
‘Yes, but the thing is, Dad’ – I licked my lips nervously – ‘recently your memory hasn’t been great either.’
‘How DARE you!’ he roared, his face flushing with anger.
‘Now then, Trevor,’ said Irene. ‘Let’s discuss this–’
‘And you can sod off,’ said Dad, turning on her. ‘Go on. Get out of here.’
My mother reappeared in the kitchen doorway. She was now decent but wearing a nightdress.
‘Who can sod off?’ Mum demanded.
‘Her,’ said Dad, pointing at Irene.
I had no doubt that my father was anticipating my mother to round on Irene, call her a hussy, and to back up his request for her to go away.
Instead Mum looked at Irene blankly.
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m from Social Services, Deirdre. I’ve been having a lovely chat with Trevor and Maggie. Did you know that you’re entitled to all sorts of help but haven’t been taking advantage?’
‘Really?’ said Mum, her eyes lighting up.
‘Yes,’ Irene confirmed. ‘You and Trevor have both worked hard all your life.’
‘Quite right,’ Mum agreed. ‘I was a nurse, you know.’
‘And I’ll bet you were a very good one too,’ said Irene.
Mum’s chest swelled.
‘I was,’ she agreed.
‘For years you have paid your taxes and National Insurance contributions. Now it’s time to have something in return.’
‘How wonderful,’ Mum cooed. ‘What are you going to give us?’
‘Well, for starters, how about a safety rail on your staircase?’
‘Sounds good,’ said Mum excitedly.
‘And also a battery-operated chair to help you in and out of the bath.’
Mum clapped her hands together in childlike delight.
‘What else?’ she asked.
‘Someone to come in every day and help you,’ said Irene.
Mum clapped her hands again, while Dad looked on. His face was thunderous.
‘And how much is that going to cost?’ he demanded.
‘Not much,’ Irene assured. ‘After all, we’re only talking about an hour a day.’
‘To start with,’ I quickly added. ‘Isn’t that nice, Mum?’ I cajoled. ‘A kind lady is going to visit every day and help you.’
‘Help me with what?’ said Mum, looking puzzled.
‘Housework,’ suggested Irene. ‘After all, no woman loves doing that, do they!’
Mum frowned.
‘I don’t need any help. I do everything around here.’
My father snorted but didn’t contradict her.
‘What do you do, Deirdre?’ asked Irene gently. ‘Are you able to tell me?’
‘Of course I can,’ said Mum indignantly. ‘I just said. I do everything. The cooking. Laundry. Ironing. Housework. The food shopping. A woman’s work is never done and I, for one, never stop. Do I, Trevor?’
Dad didn’t answer. But, even if he’d wanted to, my mother would have spoken over him. Right now, there was a light blazing in her eyes. She was remembering the past. The days when she really had done everything. Juggled a job while raising her children. Balanced working days with school holidays. Put a meal on the table within minutes of getting off duty. Helped us with homework as she’d washed up. All while waiting on her husband hand, foot, and finger. Oh yes, she’d been the rock. The foundation of the family. A warrior. And in her head, she still was! A warrior in a nightdress.
‘That’s marvellous, Deirdre,’ said Irene. ‘And what sort of meals do you cook?’
‘Everything you can think of,’ said Mum airily.
‘And how do you cook?’
‘What do you mean?’ Mum frowned.
‘On the stove? In the oven? Or do you prefer using a microwave?’
Mum frowned again.
‘Er, the last one.’
‘The microwave?’
‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘I use that.’
My mother then pointed to the small television screen on the kitchen wall. Dad opened his mouth to say something, but Irene held up one hand.
‘Let Deirdre speak for herself, Trevor.’
‘Thank you,’ said Mum importantly. ‘He’s always interrupting me. I tell him over and over. Shut up, Trevor, for fuck’s sake.’
There was a stunned pause. My frail mother’s robust words hovered in the air. Irene was the first to break the silence.
‘That’s a lovely microwave, Deirdre,’ she said diplomatically. ‘Do you use anything else for cooking?’
Mum went over to the grill. She pulled down its door and peered within.
‘Remind me what I’m looking for,’ she said.
‘That’s perfect, Deirdre,’ said Irene. She added a few more words to her copious notes, then turned to my father. ‘What sort of foods do the two of you eat, Trevor?’
‘Well,’ Dad blustered. ‘We eat plenty – that I can tell you.’
‘What foods?’ Irene persisted.
‘We’re very partial to salmon and sweetcorn. In fact, we love it so much, we eat it all the time.’ Dad nodded his head vigorously.
‘Do you not get bored eating the same thing every day?’ she asked.
‘Nope.’ Dad gave Irene a stubborn look. One that said stop trying to catch me out because it won’t work.
‘Oh for heaven’s sake, Dad,’ I huffed. ‘Mum needs brain foods. Avocados. Walnuts. Coconut. You should both be having fresh vegetables. Eating the rainbow. And what about a bit of fillet steak now and again? Heavens, it’s not as if you can’t afford it. You have a decent pension.’
Irene was evidently used to dealing with people like my father.
‘I think you’re an amazing man, Trevor,’ she said. ‘Indeed, I wish my husband was as hands-on as you. However, I think you’re tired. You’re now in your nineties. That’s awesome. But there’s nothing wrong in having some assistance.’
‘I don’t want it,’ said Dad stubbornly. ‘Everything is fine as it is.’
‘I’m going to ask you a question, Trevor. Think carefully before you answer. You’ve reached an amazing age. But none of us can go on forever. If anything happened to you, who would look after your wife?’
I flinched, waiting for Mum to kick off. However, she was currently distracted by something under the table. There was a horrible silence. The clock on the wall tick-ticked as the second hand passed its painted numerals. Dad glared at Irene. He’d been cornered. Like a rat in a trap. And he didn’t like it.
‘Trevor,’ said Irene gently. ‘None of us like to feel as if we’re losing control. However, I strongly suggest you put a back-up plan in place.
Dad rolled his eyes.
‘If anything should happen to me, I have two daughters. They can step in.’
‘Your daughters are not yet retired,’ Irene pointed out. ‘Both are working. Neither of them can give your wife the fulltime care she needs.’
Irene shut her notebook and put the pen away. She delved into her bag and removed a clutch of leaflets. When she next spoke, it was to me.
‘These are for you and your sister. There is a lot of advice within these pages. There’s also a list of telephone numbers. These offer support for people in this situation. Unfortunately, we can’t force anyone to have care assistance. We can only advise.’
I took the leaflets.
‘But what about my mother?’ I bleated. ‘She’s skin and bone. This situation is tantamount to supervised neglect.’
‘As I said, Maggie. We can’t force your father to do anything against his will.’
I stared at her helplessly.
‘I thought Social Services had the power to… well…’
My voice trailed off. What had I been expecting? That Irene would lecture my father? Turn to him and say, “Now you listen here! If things don’t change, we will seize your wife and put her up for adoption.” That was never going to happen. Of course not.
I put my head in my hands.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ I whispered.
‘Read the information I’ve given you,’ said Irene. She stood up. I followed her out to the hallway. ‘If anything changes – if something happens to your father – there’s a list of care homes that would look after your mother. It’s an expensive path,’ she warned. ‘When you were upstairs, your father told me he’s a homeowner. Unfortunately, you’d probably have to sell this house to pay for long-term care.’
‘Right,’ I nodded.
C’est la vie. People worked hard all their lives. Some, if they could, bought a house. Made it their home. Thought it would be something to pass on. To their children. Grandchildren. Maybe even great-grandchildren. Instead, when they were old and decrepit, they had to sell up to fund their last days on Earth.
As Irene released the catch on the door, a wave of depression threatened to engulf me.
‘The thing is’ – I blurted – ‘I don’t believe my father is the full ticket either. There are two old people in this house muddling along. Both are frail. Both are registered disabled. One has lost their marbles. The other is in the process of doing so. This situation is an accident waiting to happen.’
‘You said your father made a Power of Attorney.’
‘Yes,’ I nodded. ‘Years ago.’
‘Then I suggest you get it registered – before he loses capacity.’
‘Right,’ I nodded. ‘That’s a good idea.’ I chewed my lip thoughtfully. ‘In fact, recently my father spoke of renewing his Will. I could make an appointment with his solicitor. Kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.’
‘Do that,’ Irene urged. ‘Don’t prevaricate.’
‘Yes,’ I nodded. ‘I’ll talk to Dad about it right now.’
‘Good. Meanwhile, it was lovely to meet you, Maggie.’ Irene shook my hand. ‘There’s only one thing left for me to say.’
‘Oh?’ I raised my eyebrows.
She gave me a frank look before stepping through the open doorway.
‘Good luck.’