Hard Word (14 page)

‘Grandma Vera's in real trouble,' Katie says.

Katie's just got back with Mum from the shops. I heard the car a while ago, and looked out my window and there was Mum and it looked like the boy from the garage down at the Mall, and Katie and Grandma Vera getting out of the back seat. It was all a bit weird because what was the boy from the garage doing there? Maybe the car had a problem, but why wasn't Mum dropping him back if he'd just come to listen to the engine or something? I saw her give him some money, and then I pulled the curtain in case Mum looked up and I'd have to go down and help carry in the shopping and answer about
How was your day, Laura?
and all that discourse. The last thing I saw was the boy from the garage walking off down the street back towards the Mall and Mum calling, ‘Thanks again, you saved my life' after him. He was blushing – I could see that from the window – and he couldn't get away fast enough.

Now Katie's sneaked up to my room and whispered to me about Grandma Vera.

‘What happened?' I say. And don't say
Well,
and then stop.'

‘Well …'

‘There. I told you not to say it.'

‘Well, do you want to hear the story or not?'

‘What happened?'

‘Well … you know the High Street where you come out of the Mall …'

‘Yes.'

‘And you know Grandma Vera …'

‘Are you kidding?'

‘Well, Mum's driving …'

‘I didn't think Grandma Vera was driving.'

‘She nearly was.'

‘Just get on with it, will you, Katie?'

‘Well, if you didn't talk and interrupt so much.'

‘I won't talk again till you're finished.'

‘Well, we come out of the Mall, and Mum's driving and everything – you said you wouldn't say anything …'

‘I didn't.'

‘But you were going to. Anyway we go along the High Street, and there's lots of cars and I'm in the back and Grandma Vera's in the front and she's singing and looking out the window, and I'm singing too but I only know the first line, and suddenly Grandma Vera leans across to Mum and grabs the wheel and pushes it and we're on the wrong side of the road, and there's a truck coming. I can see its wheels over the top of the seat, they're huge, they're as big as our whole car – and Mum yells at me later because I didn't have my seat-belt on because it was only down to the shops, but I've got to have it on always, always, she yells later, she doesn't care if it's even in the driveway –'

‘Katie,
what happened
?'

‘Well … Mum screams,
Don't
or something.
What in Christ's name
– she swore and hit Grandma –'

‘Hit
her?'

‘… and pulled the wheel back and we ended up stopped pointing the wrong way, and the man in the truck swerved and nearly hit all these people on the crossing, and he gets out and runs across like he's going to kill us and looks in the window and Mum's taking no notice, she's just shouting at Grandma, and screaming, ‘‘Don't you ever, don't you ever –'' She just keeps repeating herself, like Grandma Vera does, ‘‘Don't you ever –'' And then she bursts into tears. And she looks around at me and she's red and shaking and she says, much softer, ‘‘Don't you realize you could have killed Katie?'' And Grandma Vera just reaches out and touches Mum's arm like Mum'd hurt her finger sewing or gardening or something, and she says ‘‘Upset,'' she says. Just one word like that. And ‘‘Sad, poor sad.'' '

‘And Mum was really upset?'

‘She threw a total wobbly. ‘‘Don't touch me,'' she screams. ‘‘Don't touch me, you crazy.'' And the truck driver who's got his head in the window –'

‘What did he say?'

‘He swore too. He said ‘‘Jesus Christ'' and went back to his truck, and he was shaking his head, and he drove off leaving us there and he was still shaking his head, I could see him way up in his cabin. And there were people everywhere, and two men came and pushed the car off the road and Danny –'

‘That's the boy from the garage?'

‘He came over from the garage and said could he help. And Mum was shaking so much she couldn't drive, so he drove us home.'

‘God.'

And we're not to tell Philip. Cos Philip will get so angry and he'll put Grandma Vera in a home. And you're not sposed to know either. But Mum's still shaking, and she's drinking whisky in the kitchen. And if Grandma Vera ever goes in the car again, the rule is she's got to sit in the back, strapped in. Or else she can't go at all. And I can sit in the front.'

‘Poor Mum.'

‘That's what Grandma Vera was saying.'

‘Is she all right? Grandma Vera?'

‘She doesn't care, she's still singing.'

‘But when Mum yelled at her like that? When she called her
You crazy
.'

‘That was funny, cos you know what she said?'

‘Yes,' I say. And we chant it together, Katie beating her hand on my bed cover:

‘
That's a good idea!
'

Miriam

I like this woman. This Jane. I hadn't thought I would. And when I first heard her name,
Jane,
I'd expected a lemon, a secular nun. She's nothing like that, and I warm to her as soon as I see her. I like her plumpness, which she makes no effort to disguise. I like her face which is open and receptive and looks you in the eye without inspecting or demanding. Simply registering you. Her own eyes are blue, not blazing or startlingly bright, but clear and subtle and set off by the lightest pencilling of her brows. This is the only make-up she wears. She walks and motions me to the chair opposite her, and then waits, her eyes on mine.

‘So?' she says when half a minute has passed.

And this throws me because just at that second I'm still thinking about her, about the way she walks, and looks, and when – in the midst of this – she says
So?,
I panic and blurt and say something defensive and banal, which is the one thing I don't want to be.

‘I don't know why I've come here,' I say. ‘I don't expect you can do anything for me.'

And I sit and wait for her to say: So, you're having doubts about why you've come, and you're wondering whether I can do anything for you? – or something like that, something that counsellors are supposed to say. That John Cleese would say if Fawlty Towers were a clinic or a rest home.

Instead she says, ‘I expect you came because Dr Lazenby suggested it.'

‘Yes,' I say, and we find ourselves smiling at each other. Guards down.

Jane's room is like herself. Her colours are subdued, ash blues and greys with scatters of yellow here and there in the curtains and the wildflowers over the mantelpiece and on her shelves. This is an old room in an old house. I listen but I can't hear anyone else moving about within it, beyond these four walls and the thick wooden door. Does she live here by herself, I wonder.

‘
Miriam
,' I say at some point. ‘It's so old-fashioned. So prim and prissy.'

‘Do you think?' she says. ‘I used to feel that way about
Jane
when I was a child.'

‘Miriams
so … English.'

‘It's not really you know,' she says. ‘Not originally. It's Hebrew.'

‘Is it?'

‘It's traditionally associated with rebelliousness.'

‘I wonder if Mother knew that.'

‘Mother?
Is that what you call her?'

‘Why – does it seem …. ?'

‘A little,' she says. ‘So, tell me something about her. About Mother.'

And I do. And it feels like a minute or two, and, amazingly, it's not about Mother as she is today at all, but stuff from way back, childish, resentful stuff, resentment of Brian, my brother, of all people, who did what he liked when he liked, who roamed the streets while I stayed in, learning piano, who biked to school where I took the bus, who surfed – and, later, stayed out – when I never could, and then the teenage years that were all revolt and struggle and bickering and bitterness, with Brian sneaking off, grinning back over his shoulder, and Dad standing helpless and bewildered between Mother and me, till the final revolt when I threw it all away, the good schools, the university, the ballet, the music, threw it all back in her face – and my own eventually, of course, though I didn't know that then – on a useless, black, quiffed Elvis-look-alike body builder – ‘He's a body
sculptor,
Mother!' – called Stavros. And actually saying all this and hearing myself say ‘poor Stavros', I realize it's been not two minutes but at least half an hour, half a day, who knows, and I've landed it all on this woman I've just met. Who's sat and received it all. Has she even blinked in all this time?

‘I'm sorry –'

‘There's no need,' she says. ‘You obviously had things to say.'

‘But I'm not like this,' I tell her. ‘This isn't me, this bitching at everything. This feeling of being useless to people, to Philip especially …'

‘Useless?'

‘Feeling nothing. No charge, no spark. No desire for anything, anyone … And don't tell me I'm tired or I'm tense, or I'll scream.'

‘It's a thick door.'

I laugh at that.

‘Miriam,' she says after a pause. ‘What is it that makes you think you're not normal? That you can manage this whole thing without help?'

‘Oh, I have help. Or I did. It took me ages to find a sitter, to get anyone who was halfway suitable. You must know how difficult it is. Anyway, I did, finally. And then Mother worked away at it – as she does – even now, even in the state she's in. She persisted and persisted until she found the Achilles heel. How, I don't know, but she did. A grandson, who was killed in some horrific accident… '

‘This is the sitter's grandson?'

‘And now she knows she can use it as a lever. Again and again. And this time Mrs Johnson's gone for good. She could take the insults –'

‘Is there no one else?'

‘It would drive me round the twist if I were there with her all the time.'

‘Is that what she wants?'

‘What, to send me round the twist? No-oo. Oh, you mean why does she want to get rid of Mrs Johnson?'

‘Does she want you to be with her all the time?'

‘I think I
would
go mad. Not just being with her. But if I had to give up my teaching –'

‘Is there no one else?'

‘There's Tamara, who comes and cleans. She's filled in once or twice when Mrs Johnson has been ill. She'd do it for a week, but it's not fair to ask her longer. She has young children of her own.'

‘But you've said it yourself. This is a major priority.'

‘I know that. What do you expect me to do? Wave a fucking wand? I'm sorry. I'm not angry with you.'

‘I don't assume you're angry with me – we've just met, remember. You're just stressed to the limit and you've come to see yourself in a bad light.'

‘Do you think?'

‘This desire thing. Philip – is that his name? Philip?'

‘Oh, its nothing to do with Philip. It's not Philip's fault. I don't want to give you …'

‘You haven't. But you're worried? About you and Philip?'

‘Wouldn't you be?'

‘We're talking about you. How does Philip feel? What does he say?'

‘About what? About Mother?'

‘If you like.'

‘Philip's been just wonderful. He's remodelled the whole house for her, built on the flat. He's never pushed, suggested she go in a home – though I suspect he thinks that.'

‘And you?'

‘Never. Never.'

‘Go on about Philip.'

‘What is there to say? He gets angry occasionally, who wouldn't? Frustrated. I mean, we've got no social life any more. I can't remember the last film or play we went to. An occasional useless party …'

‘You don't like parties?'

‘I used to love them. I was a party girl. I've just got …'

‘Old and boring?'

‘They just seem so … trivial all of a sudden. Pointless. If I had any time spare, I'd much prefer to spend it with the girls, with Laura and Katie.'

‘But Philip, he gets frustrated with the lack of a social life?' ‘Yes. And with Mother herself, of course. And I understand that. He's as patient as you could ask anyone to be in the circumstances.'

‘But –?'

‘Philip's a man,' I say.

She looks at me, head on one side.

‘His dick gets in the way.'

‘His dick?'

‘It's something my daughter said. It's just stuck in my mind. We were talking about boys when she said it. You know it's crazy. I'm thirty-nine, I'm in my second marriage, I'm not dumb, I'm liberated (modestly anyway), I'm modern, Philip's kind, he's intelligent, he supports me, he encourages me professionally, he's loving, he's sexy, he's –'

‘A man?'

A clock – an old one – chimes somewhere deep in the house. Jane talks over it, or along with it, not seeming to notice.

‘Miriam,' she says, ‘what makes you think any of this is abnormal?'

‘You keep saying that.'

‘Think about it. You say you feel no libido –'

‘That's why I went to Lazenby in the first place. I mean, I love Philip. I think he's gorgeous. Physically. In my head I desire him –'

‘In your head,' she says.

‘I'm dead from the navel down.'

‘C'mon, Miriam,' she says. ‘That bit's not so difficult, is it? A mother like the one you've described – and then suddenly, after years of independence, of marriage, of freedom and re-marriage, you're back again under the same roof together –'

‘Oh, not Freud, for Christ's sake. What are you saying, that I can't fuck Philip because I'm sixteen again and I'm afraid Mother will find out I'm doing it?'

‘Not quite. Though it's neatly phrased. Have you been thinking about it?'

‘No –'

‘And it's more complicated than that now, isn't it? Because she's no longer Mother in fact, is she? She still looks like Mother, but she's incompetent. She's a mental child. But
whose
? It's hardly surprising there's all this tension, this anger.'

‘I'm sorry. Is it that obvious? I'm not angry at you.'

‘I understand that. I'm not feeling oppressed,' she says, and smiles. ‘I'm simply trying to help you locate the source of this anger. And its target. That's if you want me to.'

‘Christ, what's the time?'

‘Miriam, there's one last thing.'

‘I don't know that I'm ready for last things.'

‘What would you like to say to your mother? If she could hear you. What would you want to say?'

‘God, I don't know.'

‘Not now. But it might be worth thinking about.'

‘You mean, do I love her? I don't think I do. Sometimes I feel desperately sorry for her. But love –?'

‘Mother-daughter … it's pretty basic, isn't it?'

‘And Philip?'

‘Well, Philip may have to look after himself for a while. You're carrying enough as it is.'

‘I must go.'

‘Find someone, Miriam.'

‘Find someone?'

‘For your mother. To sit with your mother, nurse her while you're out. If your teaching really keeps you sane.'

‘It does. If it weren't for those women …'

‘Then find someone. There must be someone.'