A is for Angelica (20 page)

Secrets

I’m sitting in the passenger seat of Angelica’s car. We’re going to see my parents. I have no option. I agreed to it. I’ve been thinking that it might
not be that bad. Angelica can wait in the car. She doesn’t need to go in. I’ll just sit with my parents for a while, watch television and drink tea. I’ll be half an hour and then
I’ll go back out and tell Angelica that Georgina isn’t there. She’s gone out for a walk. She didn’t say how long she was going to be. Thank you for the trouble, but
we’ve had a wasted journey. We’ll take the scenic route back. Chat about the changing weather. Make small talk. It won’t be a problem.

We’re parked outside Angelica’s house and opposite mine. She’s forgotten her make-up so has gone back in to get it. I can’t stop thinking about Georgina. I want to go
back in and redo her room. Plump her pillows. Check her blood pressure again. I look up at her bedroom window, the curtains closed as far as they can go. A thin gap where they don’t quite
meet. I half expect Georgina to be standing there, looking down at me. Her beautiful eyes. Her lifeless limbs. I look away again. Angelica is coming back. She opens the door and gets in the car.
‘Sorry about that,’ she says. ‘I’d forget my head if it wasn’t screwed on.’ She puts the key in the ignition and starts the engine at the second attempt. I
fasten my seatbelt as we pull away, swerve past the tree in the road and drive out of Cressington Vale.

‘Do you know where you’re going?’ I ask.

‘No idea. You’ll have to direct me.’

‘It’s behind the void.’

‘What’s the void?’

‘A pit. The quarry.’

‘I didn’t know there was a quarry.’

‘Are you joking?’

‘No. Should I be?’

‘Have you not seen the lorries?’

‘What lorries?’

‘They’re always coming and going.’

‘No, what are they doing?’

‘Coal.’

‘What, like a mine?’

‘Opencast.’

‘Oh right. I’d no idea.’

‘I can’t believe you’ve not smelt it.’

‘Smells fine to me.’

Angelica turns into the slip road and then the dual carriageway. She has both hands on the steering wheel. She’s wearing mittens. Her left hand is pink with yellow polka dots. Her right
hand is yellow with pink polka dots. They look like oven gloves. They must be dangerous to drive in.

‘I just need to stop at the garage.’

‘Okay.’

‘Is that all right?’

‘Fine.’

‘I need some you-know-whats and some petrol.’

‘I’ll just stay in the car.’

We pull into the garage and park by the pump nearest the shop. I watch Angelica fill the car with petrol. About half way through the process, she bangs on the window and rolls her woollen fist
in the air. I reach over and wind it down an inch.

‘Do you want anything?’ she says.

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘What about some flowers?’

‘No, it’s all right.’

‘Come on, you haven’t seen her for ages.’

‘Do they sell flowers?’

‘They sell everything.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I’ll choose some for you.’

‘Okay.’

‘You can pay me back later.’

I wind the window back up. Angelica returns to the pump and squeezes the trigger. I watch the numbers spin round on the screen. They stop at £9.86. Squeeze again. £9.93. And again.
£9.97. Once more. £10.01.

‘Bollocks,’ she shouts. She bends down and rolls her fist at me again, opens the door before I get chance to lean across.

‘Have you got any change?’

‘Not on me.’

‘Good job I keep a supply then.’

She kneels on the driver’s seat, reaches over and opens the glove box. She puts her hand on my knee to help keep her balance. Her coat comes undone at the front. I try not to look at what
she’s wearing underneath. I focus on the glove box. She takes out a small metal tin. It looks like the one my mother used to keep her pins and needles in. She takes off the lid. It’s
full of loose change and bracelets. Three gold watches. The time is right on all of them. She picks up a penny.

‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

‘Okay.’

‘Put the radio on if you want.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Good job, actually. You need the engine running.’

‘Why do you need a penny?’

‘For the petrol.’

‘I thought you were buying flowers and cigarettes.’

‘I am.’

‘Then you don’t need the penny.’

She smiles at me then gets out the car. I watch her walk across the forecourt. She stops halfway, reads the ‘coal scum’ graffiti and turns around laughing. She points at the words on
the wall, nods towards them and mouths something. I give her the thumbs up. I smile at her. I laugh a little. Now I’ve got both thumbs up. I’m endorsing vandalism. Angelica throws her
shoulders back, turns away and continues towards the shop. She returns with a bunch of yellow chrysanthemums for me to give to Georgina. I’ll give them to my mother instead. It’ll make
her day.

We’re two streets away from the house. At least I think we are. I can’t remember which turning we need to take. We’ve been lost twice already. The first time
Angelica laughed. The second time she looked in her rear view mirror, pulled over and said, ‘Are we even in the right place?’ If we get lost again, she’ll probably lose her
temper. I know she has a temper.

‘It’s the next left.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, it’s this one.’

‘Haven’t we been down here already?’

‘No, not yet.’

‘All these streets look the same.’

‘Left again.’

‘We’ve definitely been here before.’

‘It’s there, the one with the green door and the glass panel.’ She slows down and pulls up outside the house. It looks smaller than I remember. The front lawn is over a foot
high, which means nobody mowed it last summer. Angelica takes her seatbelt off and looks at me. I’m holding the flowers and panicking. This was a bad idea. I should have backed out. I should
have come up with a good excuse. Or a bad one even. I should have told Angelica the truth. I wanted to tell her the truth. She’d have understood. We’re friends now.

‘Are you all right?’ she says.

‘I’m fine.’

‘You look nervous.’

‘Do I?’

‘You’re sweating.’

‘I didn’t realise.’

‘Are you worried about how she’ll react?’

‘React to what?’

‘The news.’

‘What news?’

‘About Don. I know they were close.’

‘Well, it’s a lot for her to take in.’

‘She’ll be glad to get home though, I expect.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Now that she’s had a bit of a break.’

This is not going to work. My parents are strangers. I haven’t spoken to them since Georgina’s first stroke. Apart from once when my mother dialled the wrong number. I didn’t
want their sympathy. My father passing judgment.

‘Off you go, then. What are you waiting for?’

I press the button on my seatbelt, loop it over the flowers and pull the handle on the door. Angelica reaches for her handle too. She thinks she’s coming with me. She’s not coming
with me. And I’m not telling her anything. I’ll tell her if I absolutely have to. ‘Why don’t you wait in the car?’ She stops, puts her hand back on the steering wheel.
‘I’d rather go in on my own.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘If you don’t mind?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘I won’t be long.’

‘It’s fine. You go ahead.’

‘I’ll be half an hour, maximum.’

‘I’ll just wait here. I’ve got the radio.’

I cradle the chrysanthemums like I’m holding a baby, step out of the car and into the cold. I walk to my parents’ front door. I can see through the frosted glass. There’s a
pile of post on the floor. It must have been there for days. I take a deep breath, twist the handle and open the door. It snaps straight back at me. They’ve got the chain on. I can hear my
father’s voice. He’s telling my mother he heard something. He’s telling her to go and find out what it was. I can see the shape of her shoulders through the glass. She’s
walking towards me. She’s opening the door without asking who it is. I could be anyone.

‘Hello Mum.’ She looks me up and down. She doesn’t recognise me. We stand for a few seconds with the door wide open. She’s letting the cold in.

‘Arthur,’ she shouts. ‘Arthur, come here.’

My father appears at the end of the hall. He looks at me. Then he looks past me. I turn around. Angelica is waving. Her mouth bright red with lipstick that wasn’t there before. My father
lifts his hand and holds it in the air for a moment.

‘Oh, it’s Gordon,’ my mother says. I put my hands on her shoulders and step into the house. I kiss her on the cheek and kick the door shut with my heel. I give her a hug and
nod at my father. ‘What a nice surprise.’

‘How are you both?’ I say, handing my mother the flowers.

‘What’s wrong?’ says my father.

‘Nothing.’

‘Oh what wonderful carnations, Gordon.’

‘Nothing?’

‘No, nothing. They’re chrysanthemums, Mum.’

‘Well they’re lovely, whatever they are.’

‘You’d better come in then.’

We walk to the kitchen. I look up at the clock above the fridge. Three minutes past twelve. The table is set for dinner. A loaf of white bread, a family-sized tub of margarine and a jar of my
father’s pickled onions.

‘Do you want a sandwich?’ he says.

‘No, thank you. I can’t stay long.’

‘Suit yourself.’

I watch my parents eat and listen to my mother’s false teeth. They click in her mouth as she chews her food. They sound like her hip did, before the operation. There’s a vase on the
windowsill. It has water in it and bits of soil floating on the surface. I walk to the sink, rinse it out and fill it up again. I take the flowers from my mother’s lap and put them in the
vase. They watch me without speaking.

‘Are you well, then?’ I say.

‘Same as always.’

‘Is that good or bad?’

‘Neither.’

‘What about you, Mum?’

‘She’s got the runs.’

‘Right, I see.’

‘Not that there’s anything new in that.’

‘No?’

‘She’s up and down like a yo-yo.’

My mother says nothing. She sits and eats her sandwich. My father puts his elbows on the table. It jolts towards him. My mother’s plate slides away from her. I bend down and look
underneath the table. Only three of its legs touch the floor. There’s half an inch gap where the other one hangs in the air.

‘Do you still see Georgina?’ my mother says. My father looks at her. Then he looks at me. I smile because I think it must be a joke. He looks back at my mother and shakes his head.
She stops eating, uses both hands to hold her sandwich. She stares into space and furrows her eyebrows. She’s thinking. ‘Silly me,’ she says.

I’ve been here fifteen minutes. My mother has gone to the living room with a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits. She said she was looking forward to a sit down, even
though she’s been sitting since I arrived. I’m helping my father clean the dinner plates and cutlery. I wash. He dries. I’m wearing bright yellow Marigolds, like the ones Angelica
had in her pockets the day she moved in. I turn the tap and squirt washing-up liquid into the water. It reminds me of Kipling. And Georgina at home.

‘Is Mum all right?’

‘What do you think?’

‘She seems a bit distant.’

‘Well, she’s old.’

‘I know, but... ’

‘What did you expect?’

‘Nothing. I’ve just not seen her for a while.’

‘You’ve not seen either of us.’

‘I know. Thanks for the birthday card.’

I wash the pots quicker than he dries them. I put the last fork on the draining board, unplug the sink and reach for the spare tea towel on the worktop. My father uses his towel to slap me
across the wrist. I’m suddenly a child again. ‘I’m doing them,’ he says. ‘It’s not a race.’ I walk to the other side of the kitchen and stand by the door.
‘Are you all right, Mum?’ I shout, but she doesn’t answer me. She probably can’t hear me over the television, which is far too loud. I pull a chair up at the table.
It’s my mother’s chair. It has three cushions on the seat so she doesn’t have to bend when she sits down. And to help her stand up again. I watch my father dry the last of the
plates. He rubs them with a frown, holds them up to the window and inspects them closely. He checks I’ve cleaned them right.

‘So, who’s that then?’ he says.

‘Who’s what?’

‘The woman in the car outside.’

‘She lives across the road.’

‘What’s she called?’

‘Angelica.’

‘What does she do?’

I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. I know when she draws her curtains each morning and when her appointments with the doctor are. I know what clothes she wears and how many miles
her car has travelled. I know dates, times and small talk. But I don’t know what she does. Not properly. And I don’t know what she did. Before she came to Cressington Vale. I know so
much about her, yet nothing at all. One thing I’m sure of is that I can hear her voice. She’s in my parents’ living room. She’s talking to my mother.

Note: Dementia = symptoms including confusion, problems with recent memory and emotional problems such as laughing or crying inappropriately. Note end.

‘Gordon, this is Angela. She says she came with you.’

‘Mum, I thought you put the chain on the door.’

‘No, I never put the chain on.’

‘It was on when I arrived.’

‘Your father puts the chain on.’

‘You need to keep it on. Anyone could get in.’

‘Charming,’ says Angelica.

‘Not you. Not like that.’

‘I couldn’t wait any longer. I’m dying for a piss.’

‘Don’t say piss.’

‘Gordon, would Angela like a sandwich?’ says my mother.

‘No, Mum. We need to go, I’m afraid. Time to go.’

‘You’ve only just got here,’ says Angelica. ‘Where’s Georgina?’

‘She’s in bed.’

‘At this time?’

‘Is she feeling better, Gordon?’ says my mother. ‘After her little turn?’

‘She’s just having a nap.’

‘Because of the stroke?’ says Angelica.

‘Is she feeling better Gordon?’ says my mother. ‘After her little mishap?’