Midsummer Madness (13 page)

The trains down to Bournemouth were hourly so I planned to catch the first in the morning, at some unearthly hour when even dedicated milkmen were struggling to dig themselves out of bed.

I threw some clothes into a bag, set my alarm for 4.00 a.m. and tried to get some sleep. I joined fellow zombies on the dreaded Northern Line and reached the ticket office at Waterloo in time to buy a ticket before getting on the train. I lived in fear of being fined by some Gestapo-like guard, writing my name and address down in his little book, or throwing me off the train at some deserted station.

There was nothing to see as the train rumbled over points out of Waterloo Station on a black and sullen morning. One could not see the decay and squalor of that area of London. The darkness mercifully hid the derelict sites and swathes of graffiti.

I’d put a scribbled note under Joe’s door. I hoped he’d see the folded paper and not simply tread on it.

I tried to curl up small in my window seat to generate some body heat and conserve it within my skin. I’d known this might happen one day but not now when
Twelfth Night
was juddering along,
waiting for Elinor to recover. There was no timing for these sorts of things. People died on Christmas Day. How inconsiderate was that? Something you could never forget, or minimize the shock, no matter how many glasses of punch or slices of brandy-laced puddings you’d consumed.

But my mother had not died. She was going into hospital for an operation. Something internal and female and unmentionable, she said.

‘Sophie, I was going to tell you, some time, but I didn’t know there’d be this cancellation. It just came up. Today. I have to take it. Sorry,’ she’d said on the phone, sounding so much like me, BAFTA award for apologetic.

‘Of course, you must take it,’ I’d said.

‘I’ve been waiting months. You know what these NHS lists are like. From here to the Wall of China. Then I got this call today. I’ve been trying to phone you but I guess you’ve been tied up at the theatre. At least I’ve got you now.’

‘I’ll come down straight away,’ I said. ‘They won’t miss me. I’m not important. Anyone can prompt.’

‘I’m sure you are important but you wouldn’t want Mark to be fostered out by Welfare with some strange family, would you? They do that, you know, these days. Once Welfare find out he’s going to be on his own. They interfere so. He’d hate it.’

‘I’ll catch the first train down tomorrow morning.’ I looked at my watch and corrected myself. ‘Today, I mean. Take care. See you soon.’

‘Lovely, darling. Thank you.’

It was not an easy place to get to. My mother’s cottage was on the outskirts of Swanage and perched on some forlorn cliffside. I didn’t know how she was getting to the hospital, hadn’t asked. No ambulance would make it to her place. They’d have to walk up a chalky path, knee-deep over gorse and sea thrift, or take the bumpy back lane, past the farm. Maybe she was well enough to make it to the hospital on her own feet, with me as escort, carrying her bag.

Bournemouth was waking up by the time I got there. I hurried down to the main square and got on an open-topped bus to
Swanage. Open-topped in this weather? They must think we are in training to dog-sleigh the Antarctic. It was far too cold to sit upstairs. I looked out of the window as we went across choppy grey water on the Sandbanks ferry, my first glimpse of the sea. Was I going to be in time to take my mother to hospital and to see Mark off to school?

My general incompetence couldn’t answer any of these questions. I was doing my best, for once, but it wasn’t anywhere near good enough. Somehow I was going to fail again. I caught a glimpse of Corfe Castle, the picturesque ruins that were all the Roundheads left after they rampaged in 1646.

I felt as if I had traversed through several time zones when at long last I reached my mother’s cottage. It was not one of those pretty, roses over the door rural thatched picture-postcard Dorset cottages, but a farm labourer’s bleak and narrow faced
semi-detached
, built at the turn of the century, so that the farm could keep their labour force on hand.

The house had a lost and isolated look. There was no character on its cement face, one square window downstairs, two up. It looked as if it ought to have steel cables running from each corner of the roof to keep it anchored to the ground on such a windy spot.

My mother had made an effort with the garden. She had always liked gardening but nature was determined to beat her. The wind, the salt, the chalky ground claimed her flowers and shrubs. The only plants that flourished were weeds.

I could never understand why she chose to live in such a forlorn place after my father died. He couldn’t help dying, skidding on an icy road, having an argument with a very large oak tree. She would never say. She never talked about it, as if she was punishing herself.

I opened the front door, which was unlocked, and went inside. Mark was sitting at the kitchen table, eating from a bowl of cornflakes. He looked up, somewhat surprised. I hadn’t seen him for a long time. The moment stretched into several minutes. He had grown so much, was far taller now. My heart lurched at the sight of him.

‘Hi,’ I said, with a hello wave, all cheerful. ‘It’s me.’

‘Hi,’ he said, greeting me with an independent nod. ‘Gran’s gone to hospital already. She had to go early. A taxi came as near as possible. I’ll get myself off to school. The bus calls for me at the end of the lane.’

‘Great. I’ll be here now.’

‘There’s no need,’ he said stiffly, very grown-up and off-hand, putting his bowl in the sink. ‘We can manage without you. I can look after myself. You can go back to London, to your theatre.’

He turned his back on me, narrow shoulders set in disapproval.

‘I don’t think you are allowed to look after yourself,’ I said, putting my bag down on the floor. ‘Sorry, but it’s the law. I think you’re going to have to put up with your mother.’

‘Oh, are you my mother?’

His words shocked me.

It wasn’t the answer I expected. I went cold and rigid. I’d been coming down as often as I could. But show runs were unpredictable and sometimes there had been a long gap. I drowned in guilt. No excuses. I could have come on a Sunday and gone back the same day, spent a few hours with him.

Mark tidied away the milk and cornflakes packet. He was tall as I had expected, slim and wiry. Dark tousled hair, gelled spiky in today’s fashion, dressed in school uniform, black trousers, navy fleece. A schoolbag was on the floor. I didn’t know what to say to my own son. I went blank, like it was an impossible question rattled off at speed on
Mastermind
. Chosen subject: son.

‘Gran’s in ward seven. Her op is at eleven o’clock, I think,’ he said. ‘You could go and see her if you like. There’s time.’

‘Is my old bike still here?’ I asked.

‘It’s in the shed. You could cycle into town.’

Mark was putting on his anorak. He was leaving to meet the bus that took him to school. I had to say something, try to bridge the empty conversation gap. Surely I knew how to talk to my own son?

‘I’ll be here when you come home,’ I said. ‘I’m staying now to look after both of you.’

He looked at me closely, lips pursed. ‘You’ve cut your hair,’ he said. ‘Cool.’

It was a shock when your own son doesn’t give you a hug or a kiss, but I suppose I didn’t deserve either. My mother had stepped in during those early days, supporting me, taking care of me. I’d looked after Mark in his baby years, living with my mother, working part-time at hotels and cafés. I worked all hours, needing the money. But as soon as preparatory school loomed, my mother encouraged me to go back to London, to continue my so-called theatrical career behind the footlights.

‘I can look after Mark,’ she’d said. ‘You go get your name in lights. Come down as often as you can.’

I’d sent as much of my earnings as I could. It was only recently, with the West Enders group, that I had enough money to rent a place of my own and still send them a decent cheque every month.

The cottage had two bedrooms upstairs, my mother’s and Mark’s. The bathroom was an extension built on out the back. I’d sleep in my mother’s room till she came home from hospital, then it would be the sofa in the front room. At least the front room would be warmer. Both bedrooms were bracing.

This was my time for getting to know my son again. I had left it too long. Where had the time gone? No wonder he thought I was a stranger. I was a stranger.

I washed up the few things in the sink and tidied round before getting my old bike from the shed. It was in good condition. Perhaps Mum used it.

As I left, I noticed that the cottage next door was empty. My mother had never mentioned that. She must have been lonely, living up here without neighbours. It didn’t help my mounting feeling of guilt.

I cycled down to Queens Road, to the hospital. The freedom of cycling was a remembered joy, skimming downhill. The sea air blew through my short hair, and for a moment I felt a surge of carefree expectation. What had Joe said: the only moment you can enjoy is now.

It was not difficult to find my mother in the hospital. She was done up in a blue paper nightie, hair in a net cap, waiting to go to
theatre. She looked older than I remembered, thinner, greyer, skin like paper. Her eyes were like mine, hazel, so direct, sunlit with golden specks.

How little I knew of this woman, yet she had always been there for me. My smile almost hurt my face. I peeled back the years, remembering when I was small and bewildered, then a teenage rebel, a budding actress. She had never once criticized my wayward ambition.

‘Hello, Mum,’ I said.

‘Sophie, sweetheart,’ she said, a bit slurred from her pre-med. ‘How lovely to see you. I’m so glad. I hoped you’d be here in time, to put my mind at rest.’

‘You should have told me before. I would have come, anytime. Mark pretended that he didn’t recognize me. Little devil. But I’m here now, to look after you both. And I’m going to take good care of you both.’

She grinned a bit lop-sidedly. ‘He’s at an awkward age, Sophie. It’ll take time. Don’t worry, you’ll make friends again. You were great friends when he was little. He’s a good boy.’

‘Shall I stay until you come out of recovery?’

‘No need, dear. I shall probably be pretty woozy. You go home and look after Mark. A phone call will do. I shall sleep well knowing that you are with him.’

I stayed with her till it was time for her to be wheeled down to theatre. She looked very small on the trolley and that frightened me. Then I kissed her and went outside, feeling lost and like a child again. My mother had shrunk. Funny, I didn’t even know what my son liked to eat now. I hoped all children liked pizzas.

It was uphill going home and I was out of condition. As I huffed and puffed, I wondered what was happening with
Twelfth Night
but I wasn’t going to phone. No umbilical cord. It was Joe’s problem now. I had served the ball firmly into his court. Maybe Fran would suddenly find some talent and put on a good show.

I loved the view of Swanage Bay, the distant Purbeck Hills and Dulston Head, and the high white cliffs of the Jurassic coast. Mark and I could go for walks if the weather held. I turned on the radio while I pretended to do some housework. It was tuned to Radio
Solent, spilling out local news and music. Mark’s bedroom was boy chaos, so I closed the door and didn’t touch it. But I spotted that he still had Leo the lion which I had given him a long time ago. It was looking a bit bedraggled, its tawny mane chewed.

My mother’s recipe book was open at chocolate muffins. It didn’t look too difficult to follow so I set about making a batch. This was new territory. Perhaps they were Mark’s favourite. The page looked well thumbed. I only burnt a few of them. The rest of the batch looked pretty good. I put a cloth over them.

I’d been phoning the hospital, becoming their number-one pestilent relation. Eventually they told me that Mrs Gresham had come out of theatre, and that the operation had been successful and she was back on the ward.

‘Please tell her that I phoned. I’m her daughter, Sophie. Give her my love and I’ll be in to see her tomorrow.’

‘Right, Miss Gresham. We’ll do that.’

Mark was standing in the doorway, looking a typical dishevelled schoolboy wreck, shirt hanging out, tie askew, socks rumpled. He didn’t seem to know whether to come in or go out. He flung his bag on the floor.

‘Gran’s all right, then?’ he asked.

‘She’s fine. She’s sleeping. The operation went well and I’m going in to see her tomorrow morning.’

‘Whatever. I’ll come with you,’ he said, off-hand. ‘You can write me a sick note for school.’ He sat down at the kitchen table and helped himself to a chocolate muffin. They were still hot.

The heat didn’t stop him from taking a bite. The hostility slipped a fraction from his eyes as he munched. He didn’t speak till he had finished eating.

‘These are my favourite buns,’ he said. ‘Awesome.’

I didn’t push things. I couldn’t become an overnight mother. Mark sat himself at the kitchen table, doing his homework. He seemed to be so self-disciplined. No obligatory anti-school behaviour. While I made supper, he went up to his room and played loud metal rock music. It was a protest of sorts.

But he did come down for pizza, salad, and strawberry ice cream. He said nothing at all. He watched television while I washed
up and cleared the kitchen. It was dark now and the cottage seemed more isolated than ever, but within the sound of the sea crashing on the rocks. I could hear the southerly wind, rattling the sash windows. They ought to be fixed. I didn’t know how my mother could stand the loneliness, but she was that kind of person. Wasn’t she? I didn’t know what kind of person she was.

I went into the sitting room. Mark was sprawled on the sofa, kicking the arm, drawing in a book. I looked over his shoulder. It was an ancient castle and moat, every detail of stone and buttress correct, the wooden drawbridge in midair.