September
My mother talked to me about rising sea levels long before news reporters began to write about them in earnest. Often the conversation would come up as she was tending to the garden, which in summer she would do from under the wide brim of a straw hat that cast half her face in crisp shadow.
I would squint with concentration, and then, struggling to keep up, watch the way the shadow slipped up and over her nose, across the moving gap between her lips, down towards her rounded chin.
She would say that nature gives and takes, and that it deserves respect like any other living being.
As she said it, she would be pruning, trimming, deadheading.
Based on the same low-lying stretch of Norfolk where I grew up are several people I know who refuse to believe that their coastline is slowly being returned to the waves.
They read articles about homes and roads and fields at risk of rising sea levels and soft eroding shores, shrug and think how lucky they are, every morning, when they open their curtains to a calm blue expanse.
My mother had never been one of those people.
She loved our family home because it reminded her of her marriage, my father, me.
But she knew all along that it was under threat.
From nature and from human beings. It was her memories she cherished, not material things.
And she accepted that, in time, they too could wear away.
The sky was a hazy blue, hovering somewhere between night and day, when I caught the overground from London Fields to Liverpool Street.
From my seat, I glanced around at the early-morning commuters and noticed that there were more uniforms at this hour than when I usually took the Tube a little while later, around nine-thirty.
There were a handful of construction men in hi-vis.
A couple of suits, top buttons not yet done up beneath hastily wound ties.
Opposite, a young woman in hospital scrubs, a wash of blue.
Her eyes closed and her body still, except for her fingers, worrying at a scab on the back of one hand.
Beneath her eyes, puffy bags ; the crease of a pillow imprinted on one pale cheek.
The night before, after I’d hung up and relayed to Noah what Peggy had told me, he’d offered to stay.
He said this changed things, that my mother’s health was more important than any teaching post ; he could call the university and explain that there had been a family emergency.
I flinched : my mother’s health was more important than any teaching post, but I wasn’t?
He walked towards me, and I tried not to stiffen as he held me.
He was still holding me when I told him that I would be fine and, besides, it wasn’t like him to leave his students in the lurch.
Slowly, one finger at a time, I loosened my grip and told him to go ; really, I said, there was no need for him to worry.
When he didn’t argue, something crunched inside my chest, like treading on broken glass.
The carriages charged into the station. Checking I had both my bags, I got off and made my way towards the national rail service.
After buying my ticket I still had a few minutes to spare, so I picked up a milky coffee and a croissant, hoping some food would settle my flighty stomach.
I didn’t know what to expect when I arrived at the other end, but that hadn’t stopped me from staying awake for most of the night, trying to guess.
I felt the kind of tired that usually comes with being hungover ; that, or being a new parent.
On the quiet outbound train, I let the weight of my head tip back against the seat.
I thought about the past year, the times I’d seen and spoken to my mother, and the things she’d forgotten.
The Noah comment. Anna’s miscarriage, now I came to think about it.
My birthday even. There were more things, little things – mishaps that, if only for a moment, had made me stop and think.
Her repeating herself. Dressing differently.
Burning her ginger biscuits. I sipped my coffee and again went over the things she’d said and done, and the times I should have reacted and sought help.
The signals had been there. How had I not seen them?
My thoughts turned to the beached whale, another warning sign, hidden in plain sight.
When my heart started to skip, and not in a good way, I turned to the window and watched the cityscape switch to countryside.
Glass and metal were replaced with trees and fields.
I realised I hadn’t yet touched my croissant and told myself that must be it – I was always hyper-sensitive to caffeine on an empty stomach.
I rolled down the paper bag and started nibbling, flakes of pastry falling like dead leaves onto my lap.
Then I closed my eyes and waited for my heart to steady itself.
Peggy offered to pick me up from the station, but I told her I would take a taxi.
She understood in an instant what I meant to say, or rather ask, and assured me that she would stay with my mother until I arrived.
She also offered to make an appointment with the doctor, but I said I would do that myself ; if possible, I wanted to talk it through with my mother first rather than spring it on her unannounced.
I considered emailing my uncle Duncan, then decided against it ; there was no use in worrying him until we knew exactly what we were dealing with.
I said a similar thing to Noah when he suggested I call Anna and let her know what was going on – that, right now, there was no need.
‘You from around here, love?’
I’d hoped that staring down at my phone would save me from having to make conversation with the driver, but he was having none of it.
I looked up to find his oval eyes flitting between the wheel and the overhead mirror, his irises dark and round like raisins behind thick-rimmed glasses. He had an equally thick Norfolk accent.
‘I’m visiting my mother,’ I told him, returning my own eyes to my screen, and hoping that would be it for our interaction.
‘Ah and where do you live then? The big smoke?’
‘I do.’
Thankfully it was only a short drive and he spent most of it talking, his head, which was bald and as shiny as a freshly polished apple, bobbing up and down enthusiastically.
All that was required of me was the occasional nod of agreement.
When we arrived, though, and he carried my bags from the boot of the car to the front door, and refused to accept a tip, I felt my face redden with embarrassment.
‘Thank you,’ I said, trying to make up for the coldness, ‘that’s really kind.’
He gave me a sad smile, lips locked, and told me, ‘You look after yourself now.’
Before opening the door, I fished a pocket mirror out of my handbag and held it up to my face.
There, sprouting from my lower lids like weeds, were two or three faint streaks of mascara.
I thought back to my journey and wondered when I’d cried, then I licked my finger pad and wiped away the greyish black from my cheeks.
She was watching TV when, eventually, I pushed open the door and called out a ‘hello’. I heard the mumble of voices coming from the living room, where I found her sitting upright in her favourite armchair, eyes fixed on the screen.
‘Hello, Mum,’ I said, smiling uncertainly.
‘Darling!’ She sprang to her feet and came to give me a kiss. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Oh, you know, I just thought I would come and visit, see how you are.’ I paused, scanning her for some sign of erosion, a physical manifestation in the form of an inside-out top or mismatched shoes. Finding none, I extended my smile and asked, ‘How are you?’
‘Very well, thank you.’
We stood there for a moment, her hand resting on my arm, then she returned to her armchair and carried on watching. ‘Here, come and sit down. Have you seen this one?’
I glanced at the gameshow and told her I hadn’t. ‘How about I make us some tea. Do you fancy a cup, Mum?’
‘Yes, lovely.’
In the kitchen, Peggy was already boiling the kettle.
As she’d reminded me on the phone, she was three years older than my mother, her hair a whiter shade of grey, her step less springy.
She was taller too, with a slight hunch that I’d always suspected she picked up in her youth, when other girls hadn’t yet experienced growth spurts and she wanted to take up less space.
As the kettle clicked and steam spurted from its spout, she looked up and caught sight of me lingering by the door.
‘I thought I heard you come in,’ she said, smiling, pouring the boiling water from kettle to pot. ‘How are you?’
Such a simple question, and yet, I struggled to formulate an answer with either thoughts or words.
She returned the kettle to its stand and enveloped me in her arms. ‘Here, take a seat,’ she said, gesturing towards the kitchen table. ‘You’ve said hello then?’
‘I have. She seems OK?’ I hadn’t intended for it to come out as a question. ‘Apart from the daytime TV. Is that new?’
‘Fairly, but she’s had a good morning.’ She raised a hand as if she was about to say more, then she lowered it again.
‘Is there something else, Peggy?’
She lifted the lid of the teapot and peered in at its contents, then muttered something about giving it another minute.
She looked up at me and told me that last night, my mother had suggested a game of Bridge.
‘She wanted to deal, which she did very well.’ Peggy smiled and shook her head with disbelief. ‘You know how quick she is with cards?’
I nodded ; I did. ‘What happened?’
‘Well, after she’d dealt us each a hand, she couldn’t remember how to play.’
I was glad I was sitting. ‘How did she react?’