Authors: Wendy Perriam
She tried another tack. ‘Remember Papa’s gallantry medal?’ she prompted, having fetched it from the Treasure Box and placed it in her mother’s hands. As recently as last December, Hanna had recognized that six-pointed star, but now it might as well have been a piece of junk for all the reaction it induced.
Nonetheless, she refused to lose heart. In the past, her mother had seemed to rally when she heard various well-known songs and hymns,
especially
the Lourdes hymn, ‘Immaculate Mary’. Despite its dirge-like tune, it had sometimes raised a smile of recognition. Perhaps its endlessly repeated ‘Aves’ were soothing, like a mantra.
‘
Ave, Ave, Ave, Maria
,’ Maria sang, with all the conviction she could muster.
No response.
Undaunted, she continued. ‘
In Heaven, the blessed thy glory proclaim
…’
Unlikely, she thought, that her father would be proclaiming Mary’s glory, although, as a child, she had always felt distinctly muddled when reciting the Our Father.
Our Father Who art in Heaven
was obviously her dad. His photograph had confused her even more. The Almighty, as she knew from His pictures, wore a flowing white robe and had long hair and a beard, so why was her father wearing army uniform, with a crew-cut and no facial hair at all?
‘
Ave, Ave, Ave, Maria
…’
At least twenty
Aves
, by now, yet not only had her mother failed to respond, she had actually nodded off. Which didn’t reflect too favourably on her own talent as a vocalist, or as a carer, come to that. She seemed to be failing in all departments – unless it was simply the new drug that had lulled Hanna into an almost vegetative state. Perhaps Amy was right and she wouldn’t actually notice if she was sent away for a week.
Still unhappy at the thought, she removed the medal from her mother’s lap, tucked the rug more securely round her legs and tiptoed out of the room, leaving the door ajar, of course. Then, wearily, she trudged upstairs, glad of the chance to snatch a rest herself. As her mother’s nights became increasingly disturbed, she’d had to train herself to doze with one ear open, so she could instantly go down to help, at the slightest sound of movement or distress.
Only as she stretched out on the bed did she realize how hungry she was. Her mother ate little now, and preferred slushy foods like soup or Complan, and it seemed pointless, if not self-indulgent, to cook solely for herself.
Closing her eyes, she remembered Hanna’s weekly baking sessions: apple dumplings, fairy cakes, sultana scones, jam tarts; delicious smells of cinnamon and hot pastry wafting through the cottage. Taking a scone from the cooling rack, she crammed it into her mouth, still warm, followed by another and another. She continued eating piggishly, voraciously – although a thousand scones or cakes or buns couldn’t satisfy her greed. Good Catholic girls weren’t greedy, not for food or love or sex – all the things she craved. Good Catholic girls denied themselves and shouldn’t even think of sex.
Long ago, in the absence of a man, she had taken to sleeping with her heroes – John Donne, Caravaggio, Dante Gabriel Rossetti – romantic, sensual geniuses who would never abandon her, or tire of her. Unbuttoning her blouse, she let her fingers stray across her breast: John Donne’s fingers, knowing exactly how and where to touch. His beard was on her belly now;
exquisite roughness and softness mixed; his full sensuous lips travelling lower; his roving hands doing everything he promised in his poem: going before, behind, between, above, below …
She lay back, recovering, aware of her heart thumping through her chest. No one ever warned you that you could still feel lust at the age of sixty-five; still long for a thousand men. Men, scones … Why did she always crave excess?
Hanna, in marked contrast, had invariably given the impression that she regarded sex as sinful, dangerous and definitely distasteful. Sometimes, Maria wondered how she herself had come to be conceived, unless it was another Virgin Birth. Yet even her friends in the village – earthy types like Carole, June and Jacqueline, each with a big brood of kids – seemed to lose all sexual appetite once they passed the menopause. ‘Eddie leaves me alone now, thank God!’ Carole had remarked, just the other week.
She summoned Eddie to bed: a burly, weather-beaten man, with a head of strong white hair and powerful, muscly hands. She made him use those hands; enjoyed the sense of his solid bulk astride her; inhaled his masculine smell of gun-oil and tobacco. Eddie was a thruster, and not a man to tire. He might be seventy-odd but, frustrated by Carole’s tepidity, he was ardently determined to make up for lost time.
A wild cry escaped her lips, followed by a sense of deep embarrassment, not to mention shame. She was far too old for these ersatz thrills and, anyway, it was adultery by stealth, and adultery was not only a sin but signally disloyal to Carole.
However, even now, she wasn’t satisfied; yearning for some more substantial pleasure. Was something seriously wrong with her – stuck in perpetual adolescence, despite her pension and her bus pass? Or was she simply reinhabiting her rebellious, twenty-something self?
That memory set off another fantasy: her imperious and talented first lover kissing away her scruples and her nerves; simply overruling her, through the force of his own passion. His urgent, seeking mouth was clamped against her own; shockwaves shuddering through her body as—
She sprang off the bed at the sound of something being overturned in the sitting-room below; charged downstairs, full pelt.
Rebellious youth was over; it was time to return to her present, burdened self.
‘A
ND THIS IS
our lounge,’ the worryingly young nurse announced, opening the door to a large, institutional room, its walls painted a depressing sludge-green. ‘Just look at that fantastic view!’
Maria glanced out at the bleakly empty flowerbeds and naked, shivering trees. Admittedly, the prospect would be much improved once spring brought leaves and blooms but, judging by the inmates here, it would take more than a view to rally them. Twenty aged females and two still more ancient men were sitting in a circle of identical green-padded chairs, facing a large television that was tuned to a children’s programme featuring quacking ducks and mooing cows, all giving tongue at full volume.
‘We have to turn it up loud,’ the nurse explained, apologetically, ‘with so many of our residents being hard of hearing.’
Maria did a quick appraisal. The furnishings couldn’t be faulted: the carpet decent quality, the curtains properly lined, the residents themselves all respectably dressed. It was just the general atmosphere that seemed so sadly wrong. For one thing, no one was talking – no interaction, no friendly exchanges – but then conversation would have been well nigh impossible, with so much competition from the screen.
‘Do they watch television all day?’ she dared to ask. Hanna had lost the distinction between flesh-and-blood people and their on-screen
counterparts
, so she kept their own set firmly switched to ‘off’.
‘Oh,
no
!’ The nurse sounded genuinely shocked. We employ a dedicated activities co-ordinator – Danielle – she’s lovely! She arranges things like carpet bowls and handicrafts. And, although we don’t have a specialized dementia programme, there are reminiscence sessions, which, from what you say, might be very helpful for your mother.’
Maria nodded abstractedly, taking in the Christmas decorations: tinsel, streamers, tall tree festooned with fairy lights; the glitter and adornment an ironic contrast to the marked lack of celebration in any other aspect of the
place. Except for the brochure, of course, where, once again, smiling couples took precedence; one ecstatic pair even toasting each other in
champagne
. And the photo of the dining-room showed beaming gourmets tucking in with gusto; no one wearing a bib, or requiring to be fed, mouthful by laborious mouthful, or, worse, spitting clotted morsels of
half-masticated
food onto the table and themselves.
‘Could I see the dining-room?’ she asked.
‘Of course. We pride ourselves on our home-cooked food and, if your mother’s vegetarian, or on some special diet, that’s no problem for our catering staff.’
Slops three times a day might strain their staff’s resources, Maria refrained from saying, as she followed her cheery guide back into the corridor and the now-familiar smell of urine, overlaid with sickly floral
air-freshener
. Nonetheless, this was decidedly better than the first home she’d inspected.
The dining-room was empty, save for two girls laying the tables, banging down the knives and forks with unnecessary force. One of the knives went flying, but the taller girl retrieved it from the floor, spat on it, to clean it, then wiped it dry with her sleeve. Maria’s frown went unnoticed. Would her mother’s already compromised immune system be able to withstand the germs? She just hoped this teenaged duo didn’t double as care assistants, or, indeed, help out in the kitchen, since their long, loose hair would dangle in the food.
‘And we provide a really top-notch Christmas dinner,’ the nurse continued, with a smile. ‘Turkey and all the trimmings, and wine for those who want it.’
All wasted on Hanna, Maria reflected, sadly.
‘Well, shall we go upstairs now? Then I can show you one of our bedrooms. They’re all en-suite and quite spacious, so there’ll be room for your mother’s things, if she decides she’d like to stay on after Christmas and make this her permanent home.’
Emerging from the lift, Maria and the nurse proceeded down the corridor to the last room on the left. ‘Spacious’ seemed hardly the word, but then ‘home’ itself was somewhat inappropriate for such an unhomely place. On the other hand, Hanna was used to cramped conditions and, certainly, an en-suite bathroom would be an advantage, as would the sturdy rails around the bed.
‘And all our rooms are connected to a central Nurse-Call system. Your mother only needs to press this bell and a nurse will come immediately.’
Maria didn’t bother pointing out that Hanna wouldn’t have the faintest
notion as to how to press a bell. If only, she thought, for the millionth time, she had overruled her mother’s life-long reluctance to admit illness or defeat, and insisted she see a doctor earlier, rather than waiting till the stage when she had started putting pepper in her tea, or scissors in the fridge, or hiding her nightgown behind the bathroom basin, for no explicable reason.
As they left the bedroom, they stood back to let two wheelchairs pass, each pushed by a care assistant, who looked neat and well turned out, and was well above playschool age. A definite improvement. The occupants of the wheelchairs, however, gave little cause for hope. One, shaking
uncontrollably
, was uttering pitiful cries, whilst the other was so crippled by osteoporosis, her pathetically balding head was almost level with her knees. In some ways, Hanna was lucky. At least she hadn’t succumbed to
bone-thinning
, or Parkinson’s Disease, not to mention the various cancers that had felled so many of her contemporaries.
‘Well, I think that’s all,’ the nurse said, as they descended in the lift. ‘But do come back to the office and have another chat with our manager.’
Maria checked her watch. ‘Actually, I really ought to be off now, I’m afraid. One of my friends is kindly looking after my mother and I don’t want to impose on her too long.’
‘No problem. Just give us a ring. You already have all the necessary forms and a copy of our terms and conditions. Although I do advise you to book as soon as possible. We’re already getting quite full up for Christmas.’
‘Yes, of course. I’ll phone tomorrow.’
Maria noted with approval the profusion of green plants, ranged along the window ledges, and the large sign informing residents: TODAY IS TUESDAY, DECEMBER 7, 2010. It would mean nothing to Hanna in her present state, of course, but might be very helpful to those less hopelessly confused.
‘And be assured, Miss Brown,’ the nurse concluded, warmly shaking her hand, ‘that if you entrust your mother to us, we’ll do everything we can to make her stay enjoyable.’
Enjoyment had never featured prominently in Hanna’s ninety-five years – not that she ever complained. Suffering, in her view, was to be positively embraced as a chance of gaining grace and releasing her long-dead relatives from Purgatory. Besides, her mother firmly believed that God sent only so much trauma as each individual soul could bear. She herself disputed such opinions, but she had learned, long ago, to conceal her scepticism.
Dusk was falling as she drove away, along the sweeping drive, yet it was barely four o’clock. Only a fortnight now until the shortest day of the year, yet every day seemed longer, longer, longer.
The countryside stretched bleak and vast beneath a lowering sky, its uncompromising ruggedness making her feel almost daunted, despite its familiarity. Apart from her few years in London, she had never ventured far from this isolated region of her birth.
The roads were near deserted; her mind, too, strangely empty, as she drove, perilously fast, in an effort to reach home in record time.
‘She was no trouble at all,’ Carole reported, once the two of them had excused themselves from Hanna and were safely out of earshot in the kitchen. ‘Except feeding her’s no picnic, is it?’ Her neighbour gave a bellow of a laugh. ‘She seems to regurgitate more than she swallows!’
‘I’m sorry,’ Maria murmured. ‘I should have warned you.’
‘Don’t worry. My grandsons are worse! But tell me, what did you think of Forest Court?’
‘Well, the hygiene left a lot to be desired, but in some respects, it was better than I dared hope.’
‘So have you booked Hanna in for Christmas?’
‘Not yet. It’s quite a lengthy process and I didn’t want to hold you up.’
‘Well, do it first thing tomorrow. I’m fond of your mother, but elderly folk can be tyrants and there comes a point when you have to say enough’s enough. And, anyway, Maria, you owe it to Amy to put her first, for once. The very old have
had
their lives, so the young ones should take precedence. But,’ she added, moving to the door, ‘I’d better be on my way. You know what Eddie’s like if his tea’s not on the table on the dot of six o’clock!’
‘I just can’t thank you enough, Carole.’
‘The only thanks I want is knowing you’re going to get away for Christmas. And honestly, Maria, your mother hasn’t a clue what’s going on. If you moved her to Timbuktu, she wouldn’t know the difference.’
‘Yes, Amy said much the same. Although, actually, it’s so hard to tell. I sometimes feel she’s aware of things, even if she shows no sign.’
As Carole’s ancient Land Rover bumped along the rutted lane, Maria closed the door and remained standing where she was, struggling with her dilemma. Was there any way that Hanna’s needs and Amy’s could be somehow reconciled? Perhaps it
would
help her mother to move
permanently
to Forest Court, since there was just a chance that the expertise of a care home might resurrect the old, familiar Hanna; the independent,
energetic
woman who had sewed and knitted, cooked and gardened, always been in charge and on the ball, and was more concerned with helping others than accepting help herself. That version of her mother had died a good ten years ago, but an activities co-ordinator might know how to rouse a patient from a seemingly comatose state. A trained professional would undoubtedly
have more resources than a few songs and hymns, and letters from a
long-dead
spouse. Besides, the
Dementia Positive
book had made the point that apathy and lassitude could be due not to medication but to lack of
stimulation
, and there was certainly a dearth of stimulation with just her and Hanna stuck in one small room at home.
In any case, if her mother lived to be a hundred, as Father Andrew
anticipated
, how would she herself survive five more gruelling years? She already felt close to cracking up, especially when her mother cried – a hopeless, silent weeping that seemed almost worse than the fretful agitation of three years ago. Yet, it seemed unutterably selfish to be thinking of her own needs when there was no guarantee that Hanna would improve at Forest Court. Indeed, the move itself might be so disorientating, it could actually make her worse. And what about the risk of abuse: untrained, low-paid carers victimizing patients when no one was around to check?
Suddenly, all vacillation vanished from her mind. Returning to the sitting-room, she knelt in front of her mother so she could look right into her eyes. ‘You’re
not
a tyrant, Mama,’ she said. ‘You couldn’t be. It’s just not in your nature. And,’ she added, speaking loudly and distinctly – to herself as well as to Hanna; to Amy, Carole, Jacqueline and June, and to all her other friends and neighbours, ‘I promise faithfully I shan’t leave you – ever – not this Christmas or any Christmas, let alone for longer. You can stay here, safe at home with me – yes, however long you live.’
Her decision was right – she knew that. Hanna had looked after her when she was at her lowest and her worst – ill, despairing, reckless and rebellious – and then looked after Amy, too; a devoted mother and grandma, not sparing a thought for her own needs, or life, or job.
The least she owed her in return was to be equally devoted.