Nearest Thing to Crazy (14 page)

It was all her fault, she said. She’d screwed up. She got really pissed one night. Didn’t realize that the fact that she threw up an hour after taking her contraceptive pill might make it not work. While she was explaining all this, I was working out in my mind what we would do. I could take care of the baby and she could finish her studies, if that’s what she wanted. In the space of a few moments I had completely rearranged my life in order to accommodate this new person. I was mentally sorting out the spare room, maybe putting Laura in there, putting the baby in Laura’s room. God, I’d almost chosen the nursery paper. I kept reassuring her that if she wanted to keep it we’d work it out. But she was adamant. I suppose she also felt that it wasn’t fair on Archie, either.

The next few days are a bit of a blur for me, and hopefully for Laura too. There was a pill to take orally, and then another to put inside her a day later. And then the cramps and bleeding started. I’d spent the first night in Birmingham, sleeping on her bedroom floor. I called Dan to say that Laura had a bad tummy, was feeling vulnerable, wanting her mummy. And then after the pessary was dealt with, I brought her home to look after her. It was dreadful seeing her go through it. My poor little girl, and poor little baby. I could never let Laura know how upset I was, deep down, about the abortion. It was her life, her decision, her baby. And she made me promise, made me
swear
, never to tell her father, and I know this is a dreadful thing to admit, and that in the grand scheme of things this was such a minor thing, but I was just so pleased that for once I could honestly feel that she was, however temporarily, more mine than his.

I had coffee with Sally. We talked chiefly about our mutual friend. Sally told me that she’s got this mother that gives her all sorts of problems. She’s in a care home, suffering from some kind of personality disorder and dementia. ‘That’s pretty horrible for her to have to deal with,’ I said. I didn’t add that I thought the best thing would be for her to be given a one-way ticket to Zurich. I hope you don’t think me callous, but I can’t do old and sick. Sally wasn’t sure which care home her mother was in, but thought it was somewhere on the outskirts of Malvern.

Sally said, ‘Poor darling, she sees her once a week, but I know she finds it very difficult. It is very sweet of you to take such an interest. We all love her. She’s an incredibly kind person, you know.’

And then I was so pleased to feel that I was fitting into the group, because Sally said, ‘Has Amelia mentioned the village quiz to you? You really ought to be on the committee, with your expertise.’

CHAPTER

6

My mother’s room stank of TCP and Yardley’s English Lavender soap. Small tables were placed haphazardly, covered in the flotsam from the wreckage of her previous life. A vase filled with garishly painted miniature porcelain tea roses, photographs of Laura, Dan and me placed in modern silver-plated frames; a box of CDs with an assortment of popular classics, Christmas carols, Catherine Jenkins and Aled Jones ‘specials’. At some time in the distant past a set of fitted wardrobes had been constructed, but the doors no longer closed, defeated by my mother’s excessive collection of garments. Flaccid limbs of blouses and jackets struggled through the gap, as though trying to escape their wooden coffin.

‘Cassandra! You’re not listening to me, are you?’

‘Sorry.’ I couldn’t help flinching when she used my name in that tone so unique to her. She made it sound like a cracked whip. I was rubbing moisturizing cream into the scaly skin of her calves. ‘The girls could do this for you,’ I sighed.

‘It’s not the same. Not the same as when you do it. You’re family. I’d rather it was you.’

‘But I’m not here all the time.’ I rocked back on to my heels and replaced the lid on the jar of emollient. It stuck to my hands, coating them in paraffin-scented, gelatinous goo.

‘You look tired,’ my mother said. She was always so brutally honest.

‘Yes, I suppose I am.’ There was no way I could really talk to her, to tell her why I felt so exhausted, so drained. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d had a real conversation.

‘You should wear more make up, get some colour in your cheeks, like I do. Daniel must think you look pale. Pale and interesting, they used to say. But there’s interesting and there’s ill. You’re not ill, are you?’

‘No, Mum, I’m not ill. Just tired.’

It was scary the way she could lock into my thoughts. ‘You’d do well to hang on to that husband of yours. You don’t want to be on your own, like me. It’s lonely being on your own, especially when your family doesn’t come to see you.’ It was funny how she’d changed her tune. When Dan and I announced we were getting married she was horrified, appalled because he wasn’t the right sort of chap at all. Not what she’d envisaged for me or, more importantly, for her as a son-in-law. Whatever I did in my life was a reflection on her, after all. Dan was a northerner, and he had silly socialist ideas. Perhaps as Dan had come to appreciate the comforts of capitalism, a true child of Thatcher – not that he’d ever admit it in a thousand years
– my mother had come to accept – no, not accept, but
tolerate
him.

‘I’m not well. My feet hurt. And I’ve got a pain in my head. My bowels are playing up again.’ She was quiet for a moment and her chin dropped down towards her chest, and she started to cry. If I chose to look closely I knew I wouldn’t find any tears. ‘I’m always in pain. I wish I was dead.’

‘That’s an awful thing to say, Mum. What would we do without you? Don’t cry. I know how brave you’re being.’

‘Why don’t you come and see me? You never come. You just let me rot in here.’

I could only stomach a visit once a week, and even that left me feeling wretched. ‘Well I’m here today . . .’ It was like pacifying a small child, and I was now the parent figure. I had to be the mother to her which she had never been to me. I did miss the fact that I couldn’t talk to her, or couldn’t talk to the person I imagined a real mother would be. The person that I hoped I was to Laura.

‘That Laura . . . she hasn’t been to see me . . . not for months. And why hasn’t she come? I am her grandmother . . .’ She narrowed her eyes to sharpen the edge of her words. ‘I bet she’s been to see her other grandmother – though why she’d want to spend time in her company I can’t imagine.’

I ignored the barb she’d thrown at Dan’s mother. It wasn’t surprising that Laura should choose to see her. She was loving and affectionate, normal. ‘Laura’s been busy. She’s studying, and she’s doing really well.’

‘Is she? I expect she must take after me, then. I did really well at school. Do you think she takes after me?’

Again I ignored her. I spent most of my life praying that I didn’t take after my mother, and one thing I was one hundred per cent certain of was the fact that Laura would
not
take after her.

‘Well I expect she’ll come and see me when she wants something. Everyone comes when they want something. She’ll come when she needs money. Your hair’s too long.’

‘Dan likes it long.’

‘It doesn’t suit you. You’re too old.’

‘You’re probably right.’ Childish, I know, but I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing that I’d already booked the appointment for tomorrow.

‘Let me give you some money to get it cut.’

‘No, really, it’s okay.’

‘But I want to give you some –’

‘No! I don’t need any money, Mum.’ She used her money as emotional currency, blackmail currency. If she paid, she owned.

‘I don’t see why I can’t look after my own daughter.’

‘You’re very kind and generous,’ I said.

‘It used to look so nice when it was shorter. You were more like me.’

‘Yes.’ A good reason to cancel that appointment.

‘You
are
like me, you know.’

‘Am I?’

‘Matron said she thought you were pretty.’

‘That was nice of Matron. I expect she was just being kind . . .’ Saying what my mother wanted to hear, no doubt. They had Mum sorted, all right.

‘No. She wouldn’t have said it to be kind. But you don’t look pretty today.’

‘Well, anyway . . .’ I always hated these conversations because I knew where they led. On cue she started to study my face intently, as if she was examining her own face in a mirror. This was another of our loving little routines. I shook my head and bent my neck forward, trying to make my hair hide my face, willing this game of ‘mirror, mirror’, to end. To my mother I knew I could only ever be a poor reflection.

‘You should take more care of yourself. How is Dan?’

‘He’s fine. Working hard, as usual.’

‘Hmm. Working hard. You know what men are like. If you made yourself more attractive he might work less hard –’

‘Mum –’

‘It’s no good “mum-ing” me. I know what I’m talking about. I always kept myself smart for your father. I had my hair done once a week, had nice clothes, always something hot on the table for him when he came home. I was a very good wife to him, you know.’

‘Yes, Mum.’

‘He loved me, really loved me . . . How many years is it now?’

‘Thirty-three.’

‘Thirty-three . . . and he was . . . How old was he?’

‘Forty-eight.’

‘Forty-eight. Yes. I was trying to remember the other day, someone was asking me. I still miss him.’

I don’t remember a specific moment when I first understood the truth about my mother; when I realized that she didn’t love me, that she wasn’t capable of love in the conventional sense. And in the same way I don’t remember a specific time when I realized that what I felt for her wasn’t love either, but fear. I could anticipate her mood swings like a barometer sensing the slightest shift in air pressure, and my own moods had to be adjusted like sails running before a constantly shifting wind. Sometimes there would be periods of calm, and I would enjoy the brief lull, soaking up the warmth of her attention. I made myself believe each time that this was how life would be. But the peace never lasted very long. She needed turbulence and tempest in order to feel alive. And my poor father had been just too weak to handle her. It was only after my father’s death that I fully appreciated how much she had depended on him, not just for love and companionship, but for her sanity. He was the rock upon which she had anchored herself, and once the seismic shift happened and the rock shattered, she was left drifting helplessly. There was nothing I could do. Nothing anyone could do.

A carer breezed in with a tea tray with two cups of tea, already poured. Her arrival acted like a switch, flipping Mum’s mood. ‘Thank you, darling,’ she smiled. ‘You’re so kind to me.’

‘Anything for you, lovey.’ The carer brushed her hand lightly over my mother’s shoulder as she passed and avoided making eye contact with me. There was only one slice of cake on the tray, and the tea was both strong and milky. It might have been my imagination, but I felt it was their way of letting me know, getting their point across, that they thought I was a bad daughter, a cruel daughter, not visiting my poor mother often enough.

After the carer had closed the door behind her, my mother leant forward and lowered her voice. ‘The girls here, they steal my money, you know.’

‘No they don’t. You mustn’t say things like that.’

She raised her voice. ‘Who are you to tell me I mustn’t say things like that? It’s true. Oh you don’t know . . . What do you care? I’m telling you, they take my money.’

‘When do they take your money?’

‘When they go shopping for me.’

‘You give them the money for shopping, so they’re not taking it.’

‘They keep the change.’

‘Because you tell them to.’

‘Why do you always try and twist everything? Why do you never believe me? They shouldn’t keep the change, should they?’

‘No, I suppose not. You should ask for it back.’

‘I daren’t. And I wouldn’t have to if you went shopping for me, would I?’

I knew the scent of defeat. It smelt of TCP and cheap lavender. Everything was all my fault.

‘I do, Mum. But you tell me I always get the wrong thing.’

‘I don’t.’

‘You do! Last time you threw everything in the bin, said it was rubbish.’

‘You’re lying. I would never have done that. And anyway, the tights you bought for me were too small. I gave them away. The grapes upset my stomach, that’s why I’m in pain now. I didn’t like to say . . .’

‘So maybe the girls get it right.’ I could hear the little girl petulance in my voice that she always managed to bring out in me.

‘They do.
They
listen to what I want.’

‘That’s good.’

‘But they take my money. Maggie, the one who brought the tea. She’s the worst.’

‘I thought you liked her. You said she was your friend.’

‘Huh, cupboard love. Why do you think she’s so nice to me? Smarmy little bitch.’ I flinched. That was her favourite insult, and one she often used on me.

‘Do you want me to have a word?’

‘And make my life a total misery? No I don’t! If you had any sense . . . Oh, never mind.’

Silence fell between us and the clock ticked interminably. We were locked into this tortuous relationship where I would continue with my charade of caring for her, trying to be dutiful by looking after her physical requirements while defending myself against her mental demands, and she would continue with her pendulum swing between love and hate. Because I never knew which one I was going to get, she put me into a permanent state of alert. Dan said I was conditioned, like a Pavlovian reflex, into always looking for the worm; that I spent so much of my life on heightened alert; that I was overly watchful and obsessively protective; that I was easily threatened and distrustful. But I didn’t think I was. Not always. Not all the time, anyway.