Out on a Limb (8 page)

‘But she said it was.’

‘But it’s not
up
to her! It’s up to my mother! And I’m quite sure the last – the
very
last – thing she’d want is to find some stranger here riffling though her things!’

H e winces a little – well, I guess I am being stroppy – and then he shakes his head. ‘No, no. Look, if you’d just let me
finish…
You don’t understand. I
meant
your mother. I
did
telephone. And –’

‘
What?’

‘I said I
did
speak to your mother!’

I’m open -mouthed now. ‘When?’

‘Earlier this week. And she said it would be fine.’ He spreads his hands. Which are filthy. ‘Didn’t she mention that to you?’

No. Curse her. She most definitely
didn’t
mention. Thanks, Mum. Thanks a
lot
. ‘Oh,’ I say, feeling stupid now, and therefore even crosser. ‘In that case –’

‘Come
on
,’ he says, smiling again. ‘I wouldn’t do that. What on earth do you take me for?’

What indeed? I mainly take him (as I must) as what I already know him to be. The estranged son of the man my mother was most recently married to, who (though he could never hold a candle to my father) I thought was okay at best, a bit tedious at worst, but who has turned out to be something of a rat. And though I really must try not to judge his son by association (after all, before we found out what we found out, I thought he seemed perfectly pleasant) he’s still come swanning into our lives and pulled the plug on my mother’s life, and, by implication and extension and bloody biology, also
mine
.

Though I dare say he hasn’t thought about
that
. He climbs two-thirds of the way up the ladder again, and pulls another box from its depths. Then he pulls the little light cord, slides back the loft hatch, descends the ladder once again (this time I do grudgingly hold it – I’m not
that
mean), puts the box with the other one and then takes the ladder down.

‘So,’ he says cheerfully (for he has everything to be cheerful about, doesn’t he? He has leached all the good cheer from my life, for sure), ‘Have you come to pick some bits up for your mother or something?’ He leans the ladder carefully against the landing wall. ‘I can give you a hand if you like.’

His change of tack and tone don’t impress me in the least. I am not in the mood to be mollified. ‘Yes,
and
‘or something’’ I say testily. ‘And feed the fish, and water the plants, and clean the fridge out, and hoover the carpets…’

He glances at his watch. ‘Fine,’ he says. ‘I’ll help you.’

‘No, really –’

‘I’d be happy to. Least I can do. But first I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?’

‘I’m sorry, but I’ve got to get on,’ I say crisply. ‘Besides, there’s no milk. I just got rid of the last of it.’

‘I’m sure we’ll find something.’

Get the ‘we’, I think. Hark at him! Twerbling away at me as if he owned the place. I think some more. Er. Which, in fact, he does. Half of it, anyway… I think still further. The consequence of which is that my mother is
homeless
. Lovely. Thanks very much.

I shake my head. ‘I don’t want a drink, if it’s all the same to you. As I said, I’ve got to get on. I don’t want to be stuck in here all day.’

‘Oh,’ he says, looking a bit abashed. ‘Right. Well, er…if you’re sure, then. I suppose I might as well get off.’

I turn to descend the stairs again. ‘Whatever,’ I throw over my shoulder. ‘It is your house, after all.’

Which barb is quite unnecessary, I realise. Though I realise too late to stop it from having escaped from my lips. God, what’s got
into
me today? He follows me back down the stairs. ‘Look,’ he says, and his tone has become somewhat pointed. ‘I really am sorry this is all causing you so much hassle. But there isn’t a great deal I can do about it, is there? If it was just up to me your mother could stay here as long as she needs to. But it
isn’t
just up to me, and I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do.’

Because Corinne ‘needs’ her out. And he’s obviously not about to try and dissuade her. But he doesn’t elaborate further. ‘Well, whatever,’ I say again, blinking at the dust motes that a shaft of summer sunshine is idly fondling in the hallway. Tomorrow is mine and it will be raining, for sure. I have half a mind to ask him if it will. No, in fact, to
blame
him if it does. Everyone else probably does. ‘You really don’t have to explain yourself to me, you know,’ I answer. Then I turn my back on him and stride off back into the kitchen.

Again, h e follows. ‘So,’ he asks conversationally, while I pull my rubber gloves back on. ‘What
is
going to happen with your mum, then?’

Like he even cares. ‘Well, isn’t that just the sixty-four thousand dollar question?’ I respond, with a definite edge to my voice. I catch my reflection in one of my mother’s many, many mirrors. And I wish I hadn’t. My hair, hastily scraped into the worst kind of ratty, uncombed, chaotic sort of ponytail, is sprouting in mad clumps in every direction, and my eyes, squinting in the harsh glare of the midsummer sun, are weighed down by sooty-smeared coalbags. I look a fright. There’s no other word for it. Memo to self: being tired and bad-tempered is
so
not a good look. Put head in ice bucket soonest, and
chill
. Get some sleep, at the very least. You look the absolute pits. ‘We don’t know yet,’ I tell him, as he’s clearly not in any sort of rush. He’s busy washing his hands now. ‘She’s staying at my sister’s at the moment.’

‘She doesn’t want to come back here? You know. For the time being at least? While she sorts something else out?’

‘Not remotely,’ I assure him, wondering exactly what ‘something else’ he assumes she is going to sort out. ‘I mean, would
you
? With estate agents tramping strangers all around the place while you pack your whole life up in boxes?’ I shove the milk carton into the bin bag with the rest of the sludge. ‘No,’ I say tightly. ‘She doesn’t. She can’t manage on her own while she’s using crutches, obviously, and the rate your sister is pushing things along here, I don’t doubt that by the time she can you’ll have sold the place from under her anyway.’

All of which, frankly, is quite beside the point. This is my mother and she’s not like most people. Where Pru and I see a crisis and a bad situation, all she seems to see is her latest adventure. Were she hauled off the Titanic into a row boat in the ocean, she’d be barely in her seat before she started up a conversation that began ‘Well, now. Isn’t
this
exciting? Wonder where we’ll be shipwrecked?’ and then start up a chorus of
Wandering Star
. Except she wouldn’t, of course, because it hadn’t been written then. But still. That’s the gist of it. That’s what she’s
like
. For all her maternal failings (and I don’t doubt the two things are connected), I’ve always admired her pluck, her optimism, her pioneer mentality. I’m just not so keen on the ever-looming possibility that she now wants to pioneer a new settlement at mine.

‘Oh, dear,’ he says, because he doesn’t know her, of course. ‘Is she terribly upset?’

I think ‘ No. Not a bit of it. No, that’s just Pru and I.’ But I’m not going to tell
him
that. That’s none of his business. So I say ‘Y
es
. Of
course
she is! She’s seventy-four and disabled, for God’s sake! If you were in her shoes, wouldn’t
you
be?’

I know I’m ranting, but I can’t seem to help it. I have lost Sebastian, Charlie, my day off, my weekend, and in exchange I have inherited my mother. Only intermittently, I know, but that’s plenty bad enough. I do
try
to think positive thoughts about the future, but there just doesn’t seem to be anything to look forward to any more. And his solicitous platitudes really don’t help. Him saying how sorry he is doesn’t change anything, does it? He looks at me carefully while he dries his hands on a tea towel. ‘Yes,’ he says, nodding. ‘I imagine I would.’

Then he’s back at the sink again (does he do it on autopilot?) filling the bowl, gathering up the plastic dishes and the tea plate and the casserole dish I’ve just emptied, and peering under the sink, presumably for a scourer. I pick up the bin bag and relocate it to the back door, by which time he’s delved into a drawer for a clean dishcloth and is busy wetting it under the tap. Does he have some sort of fetish, or what? And, frankly, why doesn’t he stop all this trying to jolly me along? Why doesn’t he just go away and leave me to get on with my sulking?

‘Look,’ I say, picking up my cleaner and mop. ‘You don’t have to do this, you know.’

He smiles over at me as he wrings out the cloth. ‘I know I don’t,’ he says mildly, and carries on doing it anyway. It’s probably that, more than anything, that makes me see red. The way he looks – and has made himself – so very much at home here, while my mother sets her merry sights on doing just the same at mine. Childish, unreasonable, petulant and mean-spirited. Yup. Today, sadly, that would seem to be me.

Because I then say, ‘I mean, I’d rather you
didn’t
.’ Which, once I’ve uttered it, shocks me almost as much as I imagine it does him. He looks over and starts to smile (television person’s default expression), but then, seeing
my
expression, which I’m sure is fairly shrewish, his brow furrows instead. And it suddenly – belatedly – enters my head that perhaps I’m not the only one in this kitchen who’s feeling a bit testy and vulnerable and emotional today. Sure, I know why
I
am. I could write a bloody essay on the subject. But what thoughts, what regrets, what conflicting emotions are running through
his
mind right here right now? Twenty years is a great deal of time to have lost. I almost feel chastened. But I suspect I’m too late. Because his frown has morphed into a glower.

‘There’s no need,’ he says stiffly, ‘to bite my head off, okay? I’m only trying to be friendly.’

And though I don’t mean to I feel even testier. ‘Believe me, there’s no need for you to do
that
,’ I reply.

There’s a very long silence while our eyes square up to each other . Measuring the odds while we stare each other out. Except he’s just got a dishcloth to my trigger pack of
Mr Muscle
. ‘Fine,’ he says, eventually, slapping down the cloth. ‘Message received and understood. I’ll be off.’

Ooh-er. Abbie, too much.
Too
much. ‘Look,’ I start to say. ‘I’m sorry, but –’

He lifts a hand to stop me speaking. ‘You know what?’ he says coolly. ‘Please don’t waste your breath. Because I actually don’t think you are.’

‘But I –’

‘No, no. That’s absolutely
fine
. Suit yourself.’

And then he leaves the kitchen.

And then he l eaves.

In a huff.

Humph, I think, watching as he bangs out through the front door with his boxes. Okay, so that was a bit over the top, but, well, humph anyway. He’s right. I’m sorry but not
that
sorry. It’s really been that kind of day.

And then I realise that our encounter has been so short, sharp and entirely to the point that I haven’t even had a chance to ask him how he came to make the physio appointment with me. So be it, I decide. Presumably now he’ll cancel. And if he doesn’t, I
will
. He can take his bloody ligament and shove it up his nose.

Chapter 8

I
RING ON
P
RU
’
S
doorbell a full seven times before managing to attract any attention. Once inside, and then outside – and now in the back garden – it’s clear why. My niece and nephews (plus assorted other small children – there’s always an assortment of other small children at Pru’s, much like there’s always an assortment of other big ones at mine) are galumphing around the garden, while my mother, reclining gracefully with her skirt pulled up in one of a pair of garden recliners, is sipping tea and flicking through a copy of Sainsbury’s Magazine. Childish, I know, but it makes me feel even more ratty. How come I didn’t get to spend any part of today – my day off – reclining in a garden in the sunshine?

Spike, to whom all of life is suddenly becoming just one big glorious garden idyll, launches himself enthusiastically into the fray.

‘Thanks a lot, Mum,’ I say, flopping onto Pru’s recliner while she goes back inside to make me a cup of tea.

‘For what, darling?’ she replies, not looking up.

‘You might have warned me Hugo’s son was going to be there as well.’

‘Oh,’ she says, turning now. ‘Was he?’

‘Yes, he was. He was ferreting about in the attic. I thought there’d been a break-in. No, worse, I thought someone was breaking in right then. Fancy not mentioning it, Mum. He frightened the life out of me. ’ Okay, I know he didn’t. But why should she be the only drama queen around here?

‘I’m sorry, dear. I thought he was popping round earlier in the week. And to be honest it completely slipped my mind.’

‘Well, I wish it hadn’t, Mother. Because I really, really wasn’t in the mood. God, and I was foul to him, too.’

I feel myself slump in the recliner. I know Gabriel Ash’s opinion of me is of absolutely no consequence either way, but even so, that thought has been depressing me the whole of the way here. It’s so not to be like that. To be so scratchy and crotchety and peevish. So now I feel bad about myself as well as miserable. Memo to self: get some
like
me
sleep
.

‘Foul to him? Why ever were you foul to him, Abigail? He seems like such a nice man to me.’

Yes, rub it in, why don’t you? ‘Mum,’ I hear myself snap. ‘He may be the nicest man in Niceville, for all I know, but that doesn’t mean he’s not also one of my least favourite people right now.’

‘But it’s not –’

‘
His
fault. So you keep telling me! So does he! But what on earth were you thinking anyway? Giving him carte blanche to go into your home? You know, Mum, you don’t actually know the first thing about him. None of us do, do we? Yes, he’s clearly Hugo’s son, I’ll grant you. But we’re talking about someone who’s just turned up out of the blue, here. Don’t you think that’s just a little odd? Where’s he come from? Where’s he
been
all these years? What’s his angle? And what’s with all the snooping in the loft? And why did Hugo never mention him? Hmm? Don’t you find
that
odd as well? I mean, how do we know he hasn’t spent the last twenty years in prison for some terrible crime?’

‘Oh, don’t be so melodramatic, darling. Anyway, he hasn’t. He was an officer in the navy. That’s where he trained in meteorology. Then he spent some time working in Germany and Italy, I understand. And he’s certainly not been in prison. Don’t be so ridiculous. You honestly think they’d put a convict on the television news?’

My mouth’s hanging open. ‘How d’you know all of
that
?’

‘From chatting to him, of course.’

‘When?’

‘Oh, here and there.’ She glances pointedly at me. ‘I thought
someone
ought to build some bridges.’ Yeah, right. For ‘bridges’ read ‘useful celebrity contacts’. Some things never change. She puts her magazine down and looks reflective. ‘Such a pity, isn’t it?’

‘What’s a pity?’

‘Oh, don’t play dense, dear. I mean about him and his father, of course. I do wish I’d known.’

‘Oh, you chatted about that too, did you?’

There’s clearly something in my tone that irritates her. She looks at me sharply. ‘You know, getting yourself into such a state about things is really not going to
help
anything, Abigail. We have to work with and accept things as they
are
, not hanker after what we would wish them to be. It’s the only way to –’

‘Did you just read that in that magazine of yours?’

‘Tsk,’ she says. ‘Honestly, the way you go on, anyone would think it wasn’t me but
you
that had lost their home!’

I absolutely cannot answer that.

Pru comes back out then, with a mug of tea for me, but almost immediately asks me if I’d mind coming back in, so I can help her dish up the kids’ tea.

I follow her back in gladly – I’m not in the mood for any more Garland homilies today – and once we’re in the kitchen she wastes no time in coming to the point.

‘Listen,’ she says, as she hands me a tea towel. ‘Do you want another weekend to yourself?’

My mood lightens considerably. I know a lot of my scratchiness all day has been the thought of Mum coming home with me again this evening. And feeling guilty about thinking unseemly thoughts like that has, of course, made me more irritable still. ‘I’d love one,’ I say, feeling better. ‘What’s the catch?’

‘Ah,’ she says, pulling two pizzas from the oven. ‘Hit the nail on the head, there, Sis.’ She puts them down on the hob and pulls off her oven gloves. ‘There is a catch. And it’s a big one.’

‘Which is?’

She pulls a drawer open and ferrets around in it. ‘Which is…well, things are – how shall I put it? – getting somewhat strained around here.’

‘Oh, dear,’ I say. ‘No surprises there, then.’

‘Doug is getting dangerously close to meltdown, to be honest. You know how things are between them.’

‘Don’t worry. I do.’

As they ever were, is my guess. In that Mum and Doug were never about to pal up and audition for the Generation Game. (Though I wouldn’t be in the least surprised if the thought hadn’t occurred to her at some point. Exposure is never terribly far from her mind.)

She pulls out a little metal wheel on a stick. A gadget, I realise, for cutting up pizzas. ‘Well, think ‘bad’ and then treble it,’ she says.

‘Oh, dear.
That
bad, eh?’

‘More than that bad. The atmosphere couldn’t get much worse if they built a sewage plant next door.’ She starts whizzing the pizza cutter across the first of the pizzas. A gob of onion flies off and hits the floor. I pick it up and throw it in the bin. Pru’s generally fairly unflappable, but the strain’s clearly showing. ‘She’s just so…so…bloody
there
all the time, you know? With her opinions, her pronouncements, her bloody Lactulose bottles. She’s up before us every morning, doing her bloody yoga with the television blaring. I mean since when did you do yoga to breakfast TV? And she never goes to bed! Never!’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘I
know
. And, you know, yesterday, she just waltzed into our bedroom at one in the morning! While we were…well …’ She grimaces.

I feel sorry for Pru. She’s the most easy-going person imaginable. But it clearly
isn’t
easy when the going’s down a path that’s in the middle of a mother/husband war zone. ‘Look, you clearly need a break, so I
will
take her back with me tonight. And don’t worry, I know what you’re going to say, and it’s fine. I’ll keep her for as long as you need me to, okay? Hey, at least we can drown her out with drumming. Even Mum can’t compete with Metallica.’

She doesn’t smile. ‘But that’s just it, Abbie –’ She puts down the pizza cutter and goes across to shut the back door. ‘That’s the whole point. That’s the catch. Doug’s said she can’t come back here. Not next week. Not next month. Just ‘
not
’.’

‘Ah,’ I say, as comprehension fully dawns. ‘I see.’

‘God, I mean, you know if it was just up to me –’

Comprehension as in a one- way ticket to my place. ‘No, no. Don’t worry,’ I hear myself saying, in my best big-sister, unstressy voice. ‘I
understand
. I do know how things are.’

‘I mean it’s not like she can’t come and stay for the weekend from time to time. It’s just that, well, things really aren’t so hot around here right now. Doug’s stressed out with work like you wouldn’t believe, and what with the kids, and…well, the main problem is that we always said we wouldn’t, that’s all. We’d
agreed
. I mean, even when Doug’s dad had his stroke and everything…even
then
. You know, I did offer. I mean, you
do
, don’t you? You make all these rules but when it comes to it, when something like this actually
happens
, everything changes, doesn’t it? You re-think, don’t you? But Doug was pretty firm about it. He wasn’t going to put us –
me
– through it with his father, so I can hardly dump all this on him now, can I? I mean you do understand, don’t you? He’s just not prepared to…’

I start gathering plates and cutlery. ‘Pru, it’s okay. I
do
understand. I’ll have her.’

‘Either that, or we think about finding somewhere for her to rent. I don’t know. What do you think?’

I shake my head, much as I’d like not to have to. ‘She can’t rent. Not yet, at least. Not till she’s walking unaided. It’s okay. I’ll
have
her, Pru. Stop looking so anguished.’

‘Oh, you’re such an angel. I knew you’d be okay about it. I don’t know why I’ve been getting myself in such a state about asking. I don’t even know why I feel so guilty about it in the first place. It’s not like she’s ever really…well… you know…’

I put my arm around her , and try to feel angelic. Up to now I hadn’t realised how close to tears she’s been. ‘You just
do
. Doesn’t matter what sort of mother she’s been, does it? There’s no balance sheet, is there? You just do.’

‘But are you absolutely sure? I mean really? I just thought that with Seb being away right now, it wouldn’t be
so
awful, would it? I mean, you’ll be at work most of the time anyway, won’t you? So at least you can escape from her a bit. And it’s not like it’s going to be for ever, is it? And she’s much better off there than here, isn’t she? It’s not sensible for her to be stuck out here, away from all her friends. At least with you she could still have some sort of a social life. Get out from under your feet a bit. And we could start looking at options, couldn’t we? Doug spoke to the solicitor this morning, and he apparently sounded quite confident about Mum getting something out of them for the conservatory – I mean, it’s added to the asking price quite considerably, after all. So there’s nothing to stop us at least starting to look at places, is there?’

‘You’ve talked about this to Mum?’ I say. She nods. ‘So how does she sound?’

‘Well, she’s not champing at the bit about it, obviously. But we talked about maybe going to see one of these retirement developments – not sheltered, or anything – God, she’d have a fit! – but something
like
that, at any rate.’

‘But even if she does get a few thousand out of them, that’s a drop in the ocean in terms of buying somewhere.’

She looks suddenly brighter. ‘ Actually, it’s not as bleak as we thought. Doug’s been looking into it. Apparently, some of these places have shared equity set-ups. You pay a proportion of the current market value and they retain the rest. And then when she dies they take an equivalent proportion at market rates then. It’s quite a clever system. And he’s quite keen – well, he hasn’t said no, at any rate. I mean it would be an investment of sorts, wouldn’t it?’

I don’t have much use for the word investment in my life, but suddenly I can see that this might just be a solution.

Pru reaches into the fridge and pulls out a bowl of salad. ‘And you know, if we crack on, we could have her sorted and settled in a matter of – well, not more than a couple of months or so. Don’t you think? And then, God willing, we can get back to
our
lives. And in the meantime, well, as I said, we’d obviously have her here from time to time to help you out and so on… We wouldn’t expect you to take
all
the responsibility. It’s just that she really, really can’t stay here for much longer, Abbie.’

A couple of months. I try on the idea of a couple of months and find myself re-writing time. It will be the absolute longest couple of months in history, I don’t doubt, but then again, what can I say? Pru’s right. It
isn’t
just her she has to consider. Whereas right now I only have Jake to consider. And Jake won’t give a fig. Jake will think it’s fun. Jake thinks his nana is a hoot.

I put my arm around her shoulder again and give her a hug. ‘Pru, I told you. It’s
fine
.’

‘You absolutely sure? I feel awful about it. I mean she’s every bit as much my responsibility as she is yours – more so, in many ways –’

‘How d’you work that out?’

‘Well, she’s been there so much more for me, hasn’t she? Still doesn’t amount to much, admittedly, but, well, you know… What with the children and everything…’

Which is, I guess, true. Though I’m not about to say so. It wasn’t actually planned that way. Just the happy conjunction of Pru having had her children when Mum was between husbands and cruises and having one of her sporadic I’m-an-uber-granny periods. If I’d fared less well (husband three – her
Viva Espana
decade) then so be it. It had never occurred to me that she would or even
should
be around much. We – latterly I – were just fine as we were. But that’s not how it works anyway. You do what you do because that’s what you
do
.
Que
Se
– oh, bugger. (Memo to self: must watch that.)

But Pru clearly feels it. ‘Don’t talk daft,’ I say.

‘Oh, I know, I know. I just feel dreadful having to land her on you like this, just when you’ve got a bit of time to yourself. Just when there’s a chance you might…well…’ She stops speaking and looks at me hard, but she doesn’t say the next bit she’s thinking. She’s long since stopped enquiring about my love life. She doesn’t know about Charlie, naturally. And, tempted though I’ve been at times, because I know she wouldn’t judge me half so much as I do myself, I’d never ever tell her. But then again, I don’t know. I sometimes think perhaps she does. In any event, she knows
something
has changed.