An Enormous Yes

Wendy Perriam is one of the most interesting unsung novelists of her
generation
. Intelligent and accessible, she is fighting for the same bit of turf as Joanna Trollope, but she is probably the more accomplished and varied writer of the two. She writes beautifully about relationships and hilariously about sex. Her work can be recommended without reservation for its honesty, its acuteness and its wide-ranging humanity.
Sunday Telegraph

Nobody does deep feelings better.
Sunday Times

Each book is a magnificently orchestrated orgy in which her potent blend of sex, religion and humour takes the reader on a spiritual odyssey from the solid rocks of safety to the wilder shores of fantasy.
Time Out

Perriam writes brilliantly about fear and grief, but she is also hilariously funny.
The Times

Perriam has the knack of being explicit about sex without being crude or embarrassing. She teases us to the end with twists and turns in the plot, but just as accomplished is the novel’s moral debate.
The Literary Review

Perriam writes passionately and movingly about the sad and the bad, but is brilliant on the funny side, too. Bravo!
Daily Mail

Perriam must be a strong contender for Britain’s most underrated novelist.
Daily Telegraph

Perriam is sometimes very funny, sometimes very sexual, sometimes very painful, and always difficult to pin down.
Standard

Perriam is both clever and funny, as well as being a skilled artist with something to say about life. This is an author who has learned how to face the world and tame the horrors of life: we should be grateful for her optimism – it is infectious.
The Tablet

Perriam addresses serious issues, but she writes with such verve and such delight in the language that the touch is light even when the themes are weighty.
New Books Magazine

Perriam makes waves with her novels because each of them is an
unusually
honest projection of her personality and each of them is sustained by a fine command of her craft.
Glasgow Herald

Perriam is rare among contemporary writers in the breadth of her canvas and the boldness of her colours: a sort of literary blend of Benjamin Haydon and Stanley Spencer.
Books and Bookmen

Perriam is one of the funniest writers around.
Daily Telegraph

Wendy Perriam is a real find. For she has that magical combination of a brisk, lively style and a literate intelligence. Her characters are vibrantly realistic; her understanding of human hopes, selfishness and absurdity sympathetic, but sharp and funny; the dialogue twists absolutely right. Perriam is a very welcome discovery.
Sunday Express

Perriam’s shrewd, sharp prose style is complemented by a marvellous talent for satirical observation.
The Scotsman

Never predictable, never sentimental, she is a terrific champion of the powers of the imagination to transform individual lives.
The Tablet

It is impossible to categorize this prolific novelist, whose work is a bizarre mixture of intellectual gravitas and sex scenes more steamy than any you’d find in a bonkbuster. Perriam has a pacy Polaroid pen.
Daily Mail

Wendy Perriam puts the soul back into sex.
Irish Independent

Perriam is a skilled and sympathetic observer of contemporary life, so there is a lot of truth about contemporary morals, manners and fantasies.
Sunday Telegraph

Wendy Perriam is bursting with ideas about sex, death, grief, celibacy, the problems of old age, of guilt, of mother-daughter relationships … The problems of women of all ages are described in a flexible lucid style, with humour and exuberance.
Irish Times

It is Wendy Perriam’s gift to set out a chessboard of conventional
characters
with whom the reader can identiy, and move them, perfectly plausible, into the most extraordinary situations. You settle down for a nice, undemanding read, then you are hooked and finally you cannot put the book down.
Daily Telegraph

Her books will surely live on as great literature long after she and the rest of us have gone.
Surrey Comet

Wendy Perriam was born to write. She looks at the world with a different eye from the rest of us. Her work refreshes and exhilarates. She gets to the heart of the matter, and there, lurking beneath the seriously mundane, we discover the spiritual underpinnings of the universe. I am her greatest fan.
Fay Weldon

Reproduced with kind permission from
The Essential Brendan Kennelly: Selected Poems with Live CD
(Bloodaxe Books, 2011)

‘B
LOODY PRIESTS!’ SHE
muttered, slamming two cups and saucers on the tray. The best china, naturally. Priests were superior beings – or so she had always been taught. In fact, the way some Catholic females fussed and flurried round them, one might imagine they were gods themselves, rather than God’s servants. Certainly, they couldn’t be fobbed off with a chipped and uncouth mug.

Having spread a hand-crocheted doily onto a floral-patterned plate, she arranged chocolate fingers and custard creams on top. If this young, gangly Father Andrew expected home baking, then he had failed to understand her current situation.

While waiting for the kettle to boil, she glanced out at the sodden fields; grey beneath a greyer sky. A few dirty-white sheep, bedraggled in the rain, were the only signs of life. November. Useless month.

The priest’s cheery voice echoed from the sitting-room – the only voice, of course. For the last fifteen days, her mother hadn’t spoken a single word; not uttered so much as a grunt or sigh.

‘Well, Hanna, it’s a wonderful age!’ she heard him continue,
maddeningly
, as she carried in the tea things. Nothing very wonderful about being ninety-five – at least not in her mother’s case. For all Hanna knew, this
tow-haired
youth could have been Mickey Mouse or Peter Pan. Admittedly, he was a stranger – standing in for Father Charles, while the latter was in hospital – but it was achingly long since her mother had recognized even Father Charles.

‘Only five more years till your hundredth, Hanna! I expect you’re looking forward to that telegram from the Queen.’

Clearly, Father Charles had been unable to find a substitute who might have had the savvy to avoid fatuous remarks. Priests were in short supply. Still, at least Father Andrew’s clumsy gait and booming voice hadn’t
frightened
Hanna; indeed, had failed to arouse the slightest reaction.

‘Do sit down,’ Maria urged. So long as the lanky fellow stood, he was blocking out the only available light. ‘And please forgive the clutter. I’ve had to turn this into Mama’s bedroom, now she can no longer manage the stairs, and there’s barely room for the sofa, let alone a bed.’

The bed in question was jammed against one wall; the sofa positioned at a strange diagonal angle, to accommodate the tiny table, as well as the two armchairs. At least she had made an effort: dusted and deodorized the room; changed Hanna’s blouse after the mishap with the breakfast porridge; hidden the incontinence pads tactfully away.

‘How do you like your tea, Father?’ At last, he had settled back against the sofa cushions, his black-trousered legs sticking out at full skinny length, revealing incongruous pea-green socks.

‘Nice and strong, please, with two sugars.’ He rummaged in his briefcase and withdrew a small, slim book. ‘This is published by an organization called
Dementia Positive
! I hope you’ll find it useful.’

Unlikely, she thought, judging by the cover, which showed a happy, smiling couple, arms entwined. To be part of a couple at any age was something of a luxury, but for the over-nineties with Alzheimer’s, extremely, tragically rare. The Creator, she felt, had missed a trick in fashioning people as individual units, rather than as indissoluble pairs, the one cemented to the other, so that death, abandonment or
widowhood
became de facto impossible. Often, she had tried to picture her literal other half: part Byron; part William Wilberforce; part Leonardo da Vinci.

‘Thank you, Father,’ she murmured, leafing through the book. Positive it undoubtedly was.
Encourage the patient to take up new pursuits –
swimming
, painting
,
tai chi classes, amateur dramatics.

The chance of finding a tai chi class in a remote Northumbrian village was pretty close to zero, and there were enough amateur dramatics in her own struggle to keep sane, whilst helping Hanna survive. Swimming might be possible, though – in the swollen river, or flooded lane.

‘Shocking weather, isn’t it?’ the priest remarked, as if tuning in to her thoughts. He appeared to have given up trying to engage with her mother, who sat mute, remote and trapped in her own silent world. The pink cheeks and snowy hair made her look healthy, even pretty. Only the eyes betrayed her: haunted, frightened eyes, surveying some unspeakable void.

After a few superfluous remarks about the rain, the floods and the huge puddles on the road, Father Andrew returned to the object of his visit. ‘She’s not responding too well, I see.’

Maria bristled at that ‘she’. Her mother was
there
, and she hadn’t lost her
hearing, whatever other faculties had vanished. Even if the words made no sense, his downbeat tone would register.

Having poured some milky tea into a beaker, she rose from her chair and went to stand beside her. ‘Mama, it’s Maria,’ she said, never quite sure if Hanna required these constant reminders, or whether she recognized, at some deep level, the person who had shared her life for so long. ‘And here’s some nice sweet tea.’ She held the spout against her mother’s lips, inserting it as carefully as possible. ‘It’s not too hot, so try to take a sip or two.’

Hanna pushed away the beaker and, when offered a custard cream, stared at it in suspicion, even fear. If a mere biscuit was an unknown, dangerous object, how perilous her entire universe must be.

Father Andrew, for his part, was making serious inroads into the plate of chocolate fingers. ‘That book has a Resources section,’ he mumbled through a mouthful, ‘with a lot of useful websites.’

‘Yes, I’m sure I’ll find it a help, Father.’ Dutifully, she opened it again, only to light on another couple – ballroom dancing, this time. ‘Positive’ could verge on plain improbable.

‘More tea for you?’ she asked, having removed the untouched biscuit from her mother and returned to her own chair.

‘No, I’m afraid I’ll have to make a move soon. I promised to look in on Mrs Chalmers, and it’s quite a tricky drive with the roads the way they are.’

Stay
, she almost begged. Stay and hold the fort for me. She yearned for a brief escape; a walk outside in the downpour; the chance to hear another voice; the bleat of a sheep, the roar of the wind, the sly chuckle of the stream. ‘Well, thank you so much for coming,’ she said, instead, politely.

‘Don’t mention it. I wish I could do more to help, but with Father Charles off sick, I’m covering for several different parishes.’ He lumbered to his feet and, pausing by Hanna’s chair, gingerly patted her shoulder, before intoning a prayer. ‘May the Lord of all mercy help and comfort our sister, Hanna.’

The Lord of all mercy, Maria reflected, had been stingy with his mercy, when it came to Hanna’s life. ‘Amen,’ she muttered nonetheless; respecting Hanna’s own deep religious faith.

Once she had bade the priest goodbye, she stood a moment at the door, breathing in the cold, enticing air and envying the Bradleys’ collie, Bess, who was romping joyously past, intent on some doggy pursuit. If she, like Bess, were free of responsibilities, there was so much she yearned to do. Just a simple trip to Hexham and a wander round the shops was now an
impossible
luxury, and joining her friends in the pub for the odd Sunday morning drink seemed equally out of the question. She was tempted to embark on
some drawing and painting – activities once central to her life, yet
abandoned
decades ago – but feared it might distract her from her more crucial role as carer.

Returning to the sitting-room, she sat, as usual, beside her mother, clasping her frail and scrawny hand; a hand mottled with brown age-spots, traceried with swollen veins. The ponderous ticking of the clock seemed to be deliberately spinning out each torpid hour. If only she had sisters, brothers, uncles, aunts – someone else to help – but the only relatives she and Hanna could claim were a few unknown ones in Kostenberg and Villach.

‘It’s all falling apart,’ the old lady said, suddenly, abruptly, raising her head and staring directly ahead.

Maria jumped. After so long a silence, the words were startling – no less in the fact that they actually made sense. It
was
all falling apart, and at a terrifying rate. Uncurling Hanna’s fingers from her own, she went to fetch the Treasure Box. Her mother needed comfort – that was clear. Besides,
any
words were a good sign, so further speech must be encouraged. But barely had she unpacked the photos and untied the bundle of faded letters, when the phone shrilled, with its loud peremptory ring. Dr Lloyd, most probably, or perhaps the mobile library, with news about the books on order.

‘Hi, Mum, it’s me!’

‘Amy, how lovely! It seems ages since you’ve rung. It’s Amy,’ she mouthed at Hanna; always careful to include her mother, however slim the chance she would understand.

‘Sorry – life’s been hectic. But how are things up there?’

‘OK-ish. Grandma’s much the same.’

‘Poor Grandma. Poor
you
. But, listen, Mum, Hugo and I want you to come for Christmas. You simply have to see the new house! We’re thrilled with it and, anyway, you need a break.’

‘It’s out of the question, darling. You know I just can’t—’

‘Mum, you always say no, but, honestly, it is feasible. You could arrange respite care for Grandma – No, don’t interrupt. I’m only asking just this once and only for a week, that’s all. I’d adore to have you visit and, besides, if Grandma’s as confused as you say, she won’t even realize she’s somewhere else.’

‘Oh, she will, Amy. She’s very sensitive to atmospheres.’ Maria had already moved into the kitchen, not wanting her mother to hear. ‘Even that time when Deidre took over, Mama hated every minute, yet she was still in her own home, then. And, when I got back, she’d definitely deteriorated.’

‘But that was almost a year ago. From what you say, she’s hardly aware
of anything now. And, d’you realize, Mum, apart from that one weekend, we haven’t seen each other for nearly four years?’

‘But how could we, darling, with you and Hugo in Dubai?’

‘There
are
things called planes, Mum, and we did invite you to visit dozens of times. You’d have loved it in Dubai – the sunshine and the beaches and the souks and everything, and those amazingly tall skyscrapers and …’

Maria gave an inaudible sigh. Even four years ago, her mother had been severely confused – and an agitated, panicky confusion, almost worse than her present slumped passivity. She could no more have jetted off to Dubai than boarded a rocket to the moon. That one weekend in London last October had taxed
her
as much as Deidre: the continual guilt and worry; the fear that something would happen the minute she wasn’t on hand to help.

‘I love Grandma to bits – you know that, Mum – but I still think it’s time you put yourself first, for a change. Or, if you won’t do that, put
me
first. I’m dying for you to see the house. And we’ve invited some super people for Christmas Day lunch. I’d really like you to meet them.’

Amy’s ‘super’ people were bound to be stylish and sophisticated. Maria glanced at her shapeless slacks, her stained and baggy top. Coping with a messy eater, who also happened to be incontinent, didn’t exactly encourage dapper dressing. And even a trip to the local hair salon required careful advance planning and the kind cooperation of a neighbour. Besides, she would hardly be a scintillating guest, with her mind constantly on Hanna.

‘Mum, if it’s a question of expense, I’ll gladly pay for Grandma to have a week in the snazziest care home you can find.’

Care homes by their very nature were unlikely to be snazzy. Old folk made smells and mess, and all the money in the world couldn’t overcome that fact. ‘It’s sweet of you, darling, but—’

‘No buts, Mum! I want you to promise, this time, that you’ll really, truly investigate what’s available. I mean, if there’s nothing local, go further afield.’

‘She can’t travel, Amy. I told you.’

‘Well, maybe not in your midget of a car, but she could in a nice big limousine. I’ll hire one for her, there and back – make it her Christmas present, if she wants.’

Hanna wouldn’t want
any
car, however grand, to whisk her away from her only place of security and the one person in the world she trusted. Maybe the only thing she wanted, in the jumbled, scrambled chaos of her mind, was an end to her undignified state – a truly horrifying thought.

‘Mum, are you still there?’

‘Yes, ’course.’

‘Well, I haven’t heard you promise.’

‘OK. I promise,’ she said, weakly. Amy had always been persuasive, even as a child. ‘But, look, tell me more about the house.’

‘Sorry – can’t! Must fly. I’m due at a meeting – overdue, in fact. But you’ll see it for yourself in less than six weeks’ time. Oh, Mum, I just can’t wait! I miss you terribly.’

‘Miss you, too.’ She had grown used to missing Amy, whose visits had become less frequent since she’d moved to London and started building her career. Even long ago, when Hanna was still her efficient, coping, cheerful self, it had been difficult for Amy to make the long, time-consuming journey. And her marriage to a husband equally clever and high-powered had only compounded the problem.

Returning to Hanna, she explained patiently (for at least the fifth time this month) that Amy and Hugo had moved from their rented London flat and bought their own house near Victoria. Did her mother even remember who Amy and Hugo were, or have any idea where Victoria might be? Nonetheless, it was important to communicate – just in case, just in case.

Besides, the fact that Hanna had spoken a coherent sentence was a
definite
advance, however pessimistic its content. Her mother needed distraction from the horror of things ‘falling apart’, so she picked out a letter from the bundle in the Treasure Box and, sitting companionably close, read it aloud, slowly, phrase by phrase.

She scanned her mother’s face for any sign of recognition of a letter she knew off by heart – in fact, her favourite of the entire 207. But Hanna’s eyes were still turned inwards; focused on some unspeakable loss. Was she recalling her husband’s death, the horror of the telegram, the mass grave in France she had never seen?