Every Day Is Mother's Day (11 page)

“We all get these fits of inadequacy,” Florence said.

“Is that what they are?”

“You feel you’re not doing what you should be doing.” She spooned some sugar into her tea. “You feel, surely there’s more to life than this. But there isn’t, and it passes off. It passes off.”

“That’s disappointment. That’s different.”

“Not really. Milk? Because you feel, if you measured up, if you measured up at all to any kind of standard, then you would have something more in your life. You’d have made something more.”

“Yes. You usually know what I’m thinking, Florence. You usually have a good idea of what’s on my mind.”

“Do I?” She bit into a sandwich and put it back on her
plate. “It seems strange though to hear you talk about Mother like that. I never thought of her as—well, as a great comfort. Nor as a source of security. Perhaps because you were the son it was different for you. You know, when she became ill I felt so guilty. I didn’t like her much, I felt I ought to have done more.”

“No one could have done more,” Colin said firmly. “You had her at home for as long as anyone possibly could.”

“She wasn’t really a lot of trouble.”

“She was terrifying, Florence.”

“Yes.”

“You couldn’t be expected to sacrifice your life to that.”

“No?” she said ruefully. She glanced away. “I can’t think what else I was expected to do.”

“You have no cause to feel guilty, none at all.”

“It was funny—” she paused with the tea-strainer in her hand. “I could manage her better when she was ill. It wasn’t really—I suppose it wasn’t like dealing with a person at all. It was before that she used to annoy me, her legs being so thin, and that lipstick she used to put on, all her silly little coquettish ways. She seemed to stick, somehow, she wouldn’t get old decently…and then look what happened. Will you have some of these meat paste?”

“We talk about her as if she were dead.”

“I sometimes wish she were. I often wish it. I think and think…that morning when I went over to Cousin Eileen’s, and I came back, she’d been out, there was her bag in the hall, four months after Father’s death—whatever happened, Colin? She was normal in the morning.”

“They said her brain was damaged. You know that.”

“But why?” she persisted. “Why should it be damaged? She didn’t go anywhere. She didn’t bang her head.”

“I don’t think they meant…I think they meant, some sort of seizure…I don’t know. I never got to the bottom of it. You know what doctors are.”

“Anyway, I feel she
is
dead really. Can I fill your cup up? I hate going to see her. We’ll have to go, I suppose, Christmas. It’s a pointless business, isn’t it? She doesn’t know who we are. She doesn’t know whether it’s Christmas or not.”

They paused, considering in separate minds the same picture: their first visit, when they had noticed that the dark rinse she used on her hair was growing out, and a thin seam of tallow showed at the roots. And the bored medical voice: “I want you to put right out of your mind any fantasies you may have concerning straitjackets and padded cells. Happily we have available to us nowadays some excellent tranquillising drugs which are just as effective, but far more pleasant.”

“Pleasant?” Colin had said. “Pleasant? You mean pleasant for you? Look, what you mean is, you can keep her quiet but you can’t cure her?”

The doctor had smiled patiently. “We would hope to see some improvement.”

“But what’s she got? What disease is it?”

The doctor became even more bored. “As far as we can ascertain, your mother has what we call delusions of nihilism. She believes that she no longer exists.”

It was too much to take in. Now her hair had grown out a soiled yellow-white. It was combed carefully by a nurse over the tiny skull, and secured by a great black hairgrip. Florence was shocked by it every time. She would whisper to Colin in indignation, as they left the ward, “She would never have been seen with her hair like that.”

“You can’t know,” Colin said finally. “You can’t imagine it. Let’s face it, even with normal people…I say you know what’s going on in my mind, but that’s not really true, you can’t. They say only connect but how can you? They say no man is an island but—”

“Be more cheerful, Colin,” his sister said. “Have some date and walnut cake.”

“I can’t. I’m in trouble.”

Less than islands, he thought, jagged bits of rock without names, and an ocean of lies and deceit and egotism.

“What sort of trouble?”

“Oh, nothing…a personal thing.” He stood condemned out of his own mouth. How could he ask Florence to concern herself? He’d told her to let alone the problems of her neighbours. To live her own life. How was he any different?

“Colin,” she said deliberately. “I looked after Mother. I was prepared to go on doing it. I chose to be depended upon, not to depend.”

“And circumstances came and kicked even that from under you.”

“I only mean that I will do what I can for you. Is it Sylvia?”

“What else could it be? It’s Sylvia.”

“Are you very unhappy?”

“I have been thinking about leaving her.”

“Well…” Florence said. She put her cup down. “The children, Colin.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Well, you would have to think it out very carefully.”

“I don’t think I should have bothered you about this. The thing is that I thought I had my mind in order, but I see that I haven’t. I’m not ready to talk about it yet.”

“It would be a terrible mistake to act in haste.”

“Of course.” Colin stood up. “I’ll be off, Florence.”

“Can’t you tell me what’s bothering you?”

“I’d like to. Sometime. Not just yet.” She watched his face as he heaved his jacket on. “By the way, I saw your neighbour, Mrs. Axon. She was in the garden. She waved to me.”

“In the garden? She’ll catch her death. I never see the daughter these days. What was she doing?”

“Doing? Well, maybe—I don’t know, but she looked all right. Look, Florence, I’ll see you over the weekend, if that’s okay.”

She followed him to the door. “Colin, if you left her, I suppose you’d come back to me?”

He turned his head away, unable to answer. “Sometime Saturday then,” he said. As he drove around the corner he saw that Mrs. Axon was still in her garden. Silly old bat, he thought. His stomach felt like lead. Next week was the last week of term, and he had no plans at all.

Evelyn rapped sharply on the door, two or three times. Of course, it was useless. She rubbed her back where the blow had caught her, and began to walk around the house.

The door of the lean-to was bolted. She could break the glass and put her hand through; at least it would give her some shelter. She could get into the kitchen if the door was not locked. She tried to remember. Then, peering in, she noticed that Muriel had been moving some of the boxes and had piled them up behind the lean-to door. She doubted if she could budge them.

She went to the window of the back sitting-room. It was too high to look into but perhaps she could find something to stand on and signal to Muriel what had happened. What was this? The curtains were drawn. She banged furiously on the glass. There was no response. Muriel was in there, she knew, because she herself had turned the key on her. And here she had the key in the pocket of her cardigan. Break the glass, put the key through to Muriel; no, attract Muriel’s attention, and get her to open the window, and then…but she could never climb through. Not unless Muriel exerted herself to help her, and she had never been known to do that. Then, attract Muriel’s attention, get her to open the window, pass her the key, tell her to release herself and go down the hall and open the front door. Simple.

Could they have done Muriel some damage? If they could
hit her in the back and push her out of the house, there was no saying what they might have planned. Surely they had not come for the child already. She thought bitterly, they have only to wait.

Turning away, she shambled to the front of the house again. No doubt Muriel had simply drawn the curtains and fallen asleep. She was prone to do that. Florence Sidney’s brother was driving past. He waved to her. She raised a hand, the smile painful on her face.

Colin had not seen Isabel for a week. When he telephoned her home, her father answered.

“Are you one of Bella’s friends?” he asked.

He said that she was in bed with ’flu. Colin saw his chance to break the deadlock.

“May I call?” he asked. “To cheer her up?”

“Oh, no,” Mr. Field said. “I believe it could be infectious, you know. No, I don’t think that would be advisable, not at all.”

A few days later Colin spoke to her. He had to leave the house to make these calls. She sounded strained and weak; her throat was still sore, she explained.

“But I can meet you if you can pick me up. My car—no, you didn’t know, did you? I had a bit of an accident, that day it was foggy. Somebody ran into the back of me. I haven’t collected it from the garage yet.”

“You were all right, weren’t you?”

“Yes, fine, it was only a brush, but that’s the day I started this cold.”

“Listen, Isabel, I can’t meet you. I could maybe get over during the day but I can’t take you out.”

“Oh—why is that?” Her voice cracked.

“Because it’s the holidays. Can’t you see? Didn’t you think about it? I haven’t got any excuses.”

“You could have warned me.”

“I thought you would realise. I’m so sorry. I do want to see you very much. The only thing I could do would be to come during the day.”

“No, Colin, you’re not to come here.”

“Well, that’s that then. Can I phone you? That’s all right, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but look, when will I see you?”

“When term starts.”

“But I can’t go through to January without seeing you.”

“You’ll have to. You must.”

“When will it be?”

“January twelfth, but it will take me a few days—”

She began to cry. “Listen, Colin, haven’t you got any friends you could pretend to go and see? Anybody you usually see at Christmas?”

“I can’t think of anyone. I have no friends of my own, you see, I have only places where Sylvia goes with me.”

“But there must be something you do on your own.”

“Only evening classes. But they’re over now.”

“Yes. Well…Colin, please.”

“Look, I’ll try, I’ll really try, but I can’t think how I’m going to manage it.”

“Well, try, see if you can—I really want to see you. We’re going to have to discuss things, we’ll have to decide.”

For the first time he heard the note of pressure in her voice. It was a tone he had heard before. Where? He thought with surprise, in my own mouth.

“Yes, we must. Though I don’t know…I honestly don’t know what we’re going to do. Look, Isabel, I’ll have to go, the children are waiting for me.”

“You’ve got them with you?”

“Yes, they’re outside the phone box. I brought them out to buy them some sweets. I’ll have to go.”

She laughed shakily. “What we are reduced to,” she said. “Goodbye.”

He heard the line buzz. She’s upset, he thought. It’s her illness. ’Flu leaves you like that. He stepped out of the kiosk and took a gulp of air. He felt desperately harassed.

“Who were you phoning, Dad?” Alistair asked. His mouth was sticky with sweets.

“Just a man.”

“What was his name, Dad?”

“Frank.”

“That’s not a name.”

“Yes, it is, Alistair,” Suzanne said remotely. She took her brother’s hand. He immediately suspected her of an ulterior motive.

“Well what was his other name, Dad?”

“Frank O’Dwyer.”

“Who’s he, Dad?”

“Just a man, Alistair, somebody at work.”

“You don’t go to work. You go to school.” A pause. “Why didn’t you phone him when you were at home, Dad?”

“Because the phone wasn’t working at home.”

“It was,” Suzanne said. Colin took her hand and halted her at the kerb. She removed her hand from his.

“I can walk by myself, thank you very much,” she said.

“Do your road drill,” Colin said wearily.

“What?”

“Look right, look left, look right again, if the road is clear begin to cross. Don’t you know that? Haven’t they told you at school? Alistair, look, don’t run, come here. Haven’t you been told not to run across the road?”

“What would it matter, if there’s nothing coming?” Suzanne said. “And if there was, you’d be better running, then it wouldn’t have time to hit you.”

“Suzanne, don’t argue.”

“The phone
was
working. Mummy phoned up Aunty Peggy.”

There was a time, he thought, when I had comparative
peace of mind. I was dull, yes, but I didn’t spend all my days in frantic plotting and my nights lying awake worrying about when the plots would come home to roost; there was a time when I didn’t have to use my children as an excuse and get tied up in knots like this.

“I’ve finished my sweeties,” Alistair said. “Can I have some more?”

“You’ll be sick,” Suzanne warned him.

“I hope you saved some for Karen.”

“What?”

“Have you eaten Karen’s? Oh, blast.”

“She’ll cry,” Suzanne said.

“Come on then, we’ll go back and get her some. Come on.”

“You greedy pig,” Suzanne said to her brother.

“I’ll kick you,” he said.

“See if you can.”

“Will you stop this?” Colin hauled his son away. “Come on now. Hurry up.”

He swept them along the pavement, clutching one by either hand, quelling their struggles. One day, he thought, when it has all come out about Isabel, and it is over, and they are grown up, they will look back and remember that day I took them out to buy sweets, remember my uncharacteristic good nature; and how I went into a callbox, and how I lied to them; and they will begin to piece it all together and make sense out of it. Oh yes, they will say, he was phoning
her
, he must have been. He was using us to get out of the house—he was never so nice at other times—and didn’t he tell clumsy lies? How disgusting it all is.

When they got home, Suzanne said, “Is the phone working, Mum?”

“Yes, why?”