Something I'm Not (20 page)

Ginny looks at me wryly. ‘And how
is
your mother?'

There's no fooling Ginny. She knows exactly why I've asked for a session outside of our usual routine. I like to think that time spent with her is an inoculation against a particularly virulent disease. Ginny says that my being here is an avoidance tactic.

‘Still not well enough to reveal why she was in London.'

This is my major preoccupation. Perhaps Mother is ill, and requires tests unavailable in provincial hospitals. This in turn implies something atypical, or even terminal. Or maybe she's involved in espionage. It can't be shopping – as a child evacuee, mother takes thrift to the point of obsession. The alternatives fly round and round my head. I've not been sleeping. Ignorance is not bliss – it is torture.

*

Mother lies on her back, asleep. A yellowing oxygen mask is still clamped to her mouth. Beneath it her skin is as ashen as clay-slip. I can't help thinking that this is all a charade; that once I've left, Mother will open her eyes, leap out of bed and laugh with the nurses at the practical joke. But this is ridiculous. Not only is she clearly unwell and therefore unlikely to be leaping out of anywhere, but she is not someone I associate with frivolity. If I came home from school with a new playground joke, Mother always made a point of beating me to the punch line; her ensuing smirk not of humour, but of triumph. If I do now remember Mother's laugh, it's because the sound was so chilling, the cackle of Snow White's witch passing off the poisoned apple.

‘You can stay if you like,' says the nurse. She reaches under the counter and offers me a recent copy of
Woman and Home
.

‘I'll come back later,' I say, feeling as though I've won a reprieve.

*

Bunting, limp from a recent short shower, flops over the front fence. Blurred, photocopied arrows direct people away from the front porch to the garden gate. As I turn the corner, the doleful sound of a single calypso drum slopes over the flint wall.

‘Darling. Thank God you could come. I prayed for prolonged rain, but it did no good. The fête must go on!' We kiss on each cheek.

‘That is your fate!'

‘Very droll. See what daytime fun you've been missing by having a job.'

‘I see you've got half the parish out manning the stalls.'

‘And half of General Synod has arrived to conduct surveillance.'

The air is filled with the sounds of forced hilarity. Well-heeled retired couples, mothers with buggies, and men in purple shirts: the spiritual elite. Dylan follows my gaze.

‘Oh, Christ! The Bish's about to win at Pin the Mohican on David Beckham for the third time. I'm convinced he's working to a system. Could you be a star and escort him to the cake stall. Mrs Beaumont's in a filthy mood because no one's buying her Chocolate Nemesis.'

‘And there was I thinking I'd never work again.'

‘God will reward you, my child,' he replies, pushing me in the appropriate direction. ‘Now, I'm off to don waterproofs for my stint in the stocks.'

‘The stocks?'

‘A fiver to throw wet sponges at me and the team ministry. It's one of our biggest money-spinners. And I spend the following fortnight in bed with bronchial pneumonia.'

‘That's what my mother has—'

But Dylan isn't listening to me. ‘I'd pay twice that to throw sponges at David,' he growls.

‘David's here?' I ask.

Dylan shoots me a look that says
Don't be daft
.

*

The last child has been hauled in tears from the bouncy castle, trestle tables are being folded, and I am helping boys from the local prep school fill black sacks with rubbish. Dylan is steering the Bishop to his official car, and loading into its boot the numerous carrier bags bulging with prizes.

A spider, abseiling from a branch of honeysuckle, catches my attention. It winds itself down, swaying in the breeze before landing on the tip of a blade of grass. I admire the effort of it all; the unsung heroics of the animal kingdom. God's creatures, no less. It makes me imagine I could endure anything. Or is that just a function of the walled garden, a retreat keeping the chaos of the world at bay?

Dylan approaches, his face framed by a halo of damp curls. He carries glasses of elderflower cordial. Having tested the grass for moisture, we sit cross-legged on the ground. He rips off his dog collar.

‘Delicious. Home-made?'

‘Courtesy of Mrs Etherington, over there with the paisley kaftan and the Lhasa Apso. She makes it every year. Imagines it absolves her from contributing to the weekly collection plate.' Dylan chews slowly on a slice of lemon. ‘And you'll be pleased to hear that the Bishop's finally deigned to fix a meeting. Wound down the window as his car pulled away, as if the matter had only just occurred to him.'

I feel a spasm of guilt in my stomach. In what might be called my current solipsism, I've lost track as to whether Dylan is or isn't leaving the church. ‘Did he say—?'

‘Nothing. Although he did frown at my latest marketing message on the noticeboard outside the church—'

‘Which says?'

‘“Jesus Responds to Kneel-Mail”. In letters eighteen inches high. Which I rather like. A friend in the States gave me the idea. And I thought, if it's sufficiently reactionary for a bunch of fully paid-up neo-Christian Martha Stewart Republicans, my slightly right of Attila the Hun parish will love it. But the Bishop has other ideas.' Dylan begins pulling at grass.

And when I next stop thinking about my mother, he is saying ‘—and I'm simply not prepared to become a national martyr.'

Christ, as Dyl would say. I hadn't before thought such elevation likely. And it occurs to me that Dylan has spiked his own cordial with something stronger.

‘It's the hypocrisy that gets me. I hoped the Church could be more inclusive. That it could widen its arms to embrace a changing world. But some people don't want to do that. And I know it's my job to be tolerant of them, and of the fact they disapprove of me, but frankly I'm out of my depth.' And he wrenches up a handful of grass.

‘I heard on the radio this morning that Bishops in America have agreed to exercise restraint over gay issues, whatever that means.'

Dylan rolls his eyes. ‘To avert a split they've agreed not to consecrate gay bishops or bless same-sex couples. But at what price? Discrimination is still alive and well.'

I finish the last of my cordial. ‘But what about people who have sex before marriage? Or who are divorced? Why do only gays get it in the neck?'

‘Because we're an ethnic minority historically susceptible to persecution. Good old-fashioned bigotry. Sometimes I think the church has been hijacked by the Taliban.'

‘I think they're scared of people like you,' I say. ‘I think change makes people nervous. They hide behind what they know, what they've been taught. Lots of rules, not much thought. But really, you know, they can't hurt you.'

Dylan stops tugging at the grass and rests his hands on my knees. ‘And neither,' he says quietly, ‘can your mother hurt
you
.'

*

I haven't been at the nursing station a minute when Mother wakes up and calls for water. Before I know what is happening, the nurse, a different one this time, is by my side holding out a plastic jug. It's heavier than I expect and some liquid slops on to my shoes and the floor.

The room is silent except for stray beeps from ominous machines. Their dials glow a sickly green, the room's only source of lighting. Blinds cover the window. I move to the bedside table and pour a glass of water. Then I ask Mother if she's able to sit herself up. It doesn't occur to me to announce myself; that Mother won't recognise me.

A sudden scream pierces the gloom. As Mother screeches that someone is trying to poison her, I feel paralysed, expecting to be told off, and guilty that all the matricidal tendencies of my youth have been exposed. She claims not to know me, but her shrieks are hurled in my direction. Her eyes never leave my face.

She starts to cough, and by the way she shakes her head I can tell she is furious to be so incapacitated. She is almost choking for someone to blame. And looking down at her face I have that feeling I always get in her presence, which is that I must get away.

The nurse hurries into the room and sees me standing away from the bed, a jug in one hand and a glass in the other.

‘What's going on here?' she says to the bed. ‘Is this how you treat your only visitor?' Before long, she has calmed my mother down. She nods at me to draw up a chair. And, once Mother's breathing has evened out, and the nurse is satisfied that the dials register nothing untoward, she says she'll be just along the corridor, and slips out.

I perch on the edge of the chair, the balls of my palms pressed into the seat. My forearms are locked and my wrists bent backwards. I see the congealed blood where the line is plugged into a vein in Mother's bony hand, and I'm reminded of Dad, and of William, and of how tenuous life can be. I see the wild flutterings of Mother's eyes beneath their flimsy lids.

Suddenly they open, without any flicker of adjustment or recognition. They are calm and blue – bluer than I've ever seen before. They fascinate me, and so I shuffle my chair closer to the bed. Mother is murmuring. I reach for her hand. It feels bony. I want to speak, but my throat is tight. Finally I manage to croak,
It's me
. There's no response. Under our joined hands I see that the crochet of the blanket is unravelling. ‘It's Amber.' Still nothing. ‘Your daughter.'

Just as I clear my throat to say something new, she appears to focus. Her eyes, now the colour of skies after rain, widen slowly. Mother's grip tightens, trapping the webbing of my thumb.

‘I don't think so, dear. You see, my daughter is dead.'

I go completely cold.

‘Please hold my hand,' she goes on, her voice now a whine. ‘I'm afraid to do this on my own.' And she keeps repeating that she's all alone and very afraid. More worryingly, she then calls out for her baby, and starts to cry. I watch the tears trickle sideways across her cheeks and into the pillow. She closes her eyes.

My chest hurts. And I think back to when Mother would say she wished I'd never been born, and now here she is thinking I really died. And yet I can't move. I am drawn to this strange sight of my mother crying. Not even when she burned the cakes every summer did she ever weep. I sit stroking her hand with my thumb.

Ten minutes pass. And then, just as the smell wafting in from the corridor announces the circuit of the lunch trolley, her eyelids spring open to reveal bitter, black pupils. And I see that familiar look which makes me imagine that the very act of my breathing is unpardonable. I drop the bony hand, as though fearful of contamination.

A porter enters the room, and rattles off the list of culinary options. I wince to hear Mother make lucid, pleasant small talk. The porter heaves her up to a sitting position, swings a bed-table into place, and leaves behind a compartmentalised tray of food. And still she hasn't addressed me.

She cuts methodically into the lamb, and eats it with the potatoes. The carrots she eats on their own; the slice with a speck of parsley on she places to one side. Finally she takes one last piece of potato and pushes it round the plate to soak up the remains of the gravy. She lifts her fork, and turns her head slightly to look at me, and, without using my name, says, ‘You can go now'.

Chapter Twenty-eight

S
EVERAL DAYS PASS
, and I'm back spinning the hospital's revolving door. Outside, an autumn wind tosses empty crisp packets into the air for the hell of it. Despite my daily visits, despite the purchase of underwear and various cotton nightshirts, and making trips to Waitrose to source interesting species of fruit, my gifts and I are always greeted with indifference. The one morning I didn't go, when I had a stomach upset, Mother accused me of negligence.

The Medical Assessment Unit staff are welcoming. They speak highly of the compliant patient in their midst, one content to be prodded and wired up and written about on an almost hourly basis. They don't suspect, as Matt does, that Mother enjoys finding herself the centre of attention.

Although critical of the portion sizes, and the repetitive menus, and of how mealtimes interrupt her TV viewing, Mother devours the cooking and often drops unsubtle hints for seconds. I overhear the nurses tease her that it's rare for patients to gain weight on the unit. Usually they are too weak to eat.
She normally exists on Cup-a Soup
, I want to tell them.
She can't believe her good fortune
. The day following the teasing, Mother is found to be off her food, eliciting further concern from the staff. There is talk of sourcing special meals from the Consultants' dining room.

The good humour I always hear coming from Mother's room dies the moment I arrive. It is irrelevant whether Mother is laughing at some daytime chat show or bantering with staff. The change on seeing me is instant, and mortifying. And I often ask myself why I keep picking at the scab of such humiliations. But every time I step from the Tube and drag myself to the hospital, I see in my mind the moment my mother wept. She'd seemed softer then, almost maternal. Someone with whom I could talk openly, and who would understand.

*

In the car park one morning, I bump into Nicole. She has come for a scan. I hug her for a long time. We haven't seen each other since last week, when Nicole made her understandable excuses and withdrew permanently from the cast of
Company
. Her absence from the political intrigue of rehearsals has left her nostalgic for them. And I miss her, and our chats over coffee. So I am thrilled when she asks me to join her at the scan.

As a column of sun pours in through the window, she and I are already holding hands when the fluttering seahorse shape of Nicole's foetus shimmies on to the screen. From her prone position, Nicole lets out a deep sigh of longing, as if she wishes she could give birth immediately. She reaches out and strokes the black-and-white image on the screen as if it lives inside the monitor. I saw Polaroids of Serena's children at a similar age, but nothing prepares me for the beauty of the quivering image and the amplified watery gurgles. It's a moment to rival television footage of men landing on the Moon.