Losing Me (7 page)

“That woman really embarrassed me. Why did you have to show her your foot?”

Rose makes a doctor’s appointment for Barbara. “You poor thing,” he says. “That looks really painful.” He turns to Rose. “Mum, why on earth didn’t you bring her in earlier?” The verruca needed to be frozen with liquid nitrogen. The treatment was painful and Barbara will need to return for treatment once a week for several weeks.

To her credit, Rose looks shamefaced and apologizes to the doctor. On the way home she even buys Barbara an ice cream.

•   •   •

Growing up, Barbara was always aware that the only person Rose really cared about was Stan. She did everything she could think of to lift his mood. She cooked him fancy dinners, baked him cakes, chose books she thought he would like from the library. She even arranged for a counselor to visit him at home. The lady counselor told him write down his wartime memories and when he was done, he should burn them. He told her to her face that she was an idiot and refused to see her again. Barbara knew this because she heard him shouting. In later years she realized that her mother had fallen in love with a handsome, vigorous young soldier. Then he was gone. Rose had spent her entire marriage trying to get him back.

Stan only ever picked at Rose’s food. If he was in the mood, he might flick through one of the library books she had so carefully chosen. Then he would go back to watching TV. He loved sitcoms and game shows. Barbara worked out that they made him feel safe.

Although Stan was incapable of taking an interest in Barbara’s life, he did show her affection—something that Rose never resented. In fact, she encouraged it. “Go and give Daddy a cuddle. It’ll cheer him up.” Father and daughter would snuggle on the sofa in front of
My Favorite Martian
. Seeing Barbara laugh made him laugh—and that appeared to give Rose hope. When it was Barbara’s bedtime, Stan would look at his daughter with his watery, melancholy eyes. “How much do you love me?” When she was little she would tell him: “A million, billion, zillion pounds.” When she got older, it was: “Come on, Dad, knock it off. You’re being boring—you know I love you loads.”

Barbara was a grown woman before it dawned on her that Stan never once said how much he loved
her
and that their cuddles were all about his little girl making
him
feel better. He never thought about what he, as a parent, might give her.

Mrs. Emmet didn’t write Barbara off. She knew about Stan’s psychological problems—most likely through playground gossip. Rose would never have said anything to the school for fear of the authorities poking their noses into her business.

Whether Mrs. Emmet was spurred into action by Rose’s hairdresser remark, Barbara never found out, but the following term she took Barbara under her wing. There was extra tutoring during lunch breaks. She gave Barbara pep talks, insisted that she wasn’t stupid. Barbara’s problem, she said, was her inability to concentrate because she was anxious and miserable. Mrs. Emmet set her a challenge—to leave her worries at home. She even made her stand in the playground, name each of her concerns in turn and wave them good-bye. Cognitive behavioral therapy—before it was even a thing. She mentioned to Rose that Mrs. Emmet was giving her extra tutoring. Rose said that was very kind of her, but not to worry if her grades didn’t improve. After all, she was a girl. She didn’t need a proper career, because one day she would meet a nice boy and get married.

Barbara had the sense not to mention Mrs. Emmet’s self-styled behavioral therapy. She knew that Rose would be furious if she found out that her daughter was discussing their family situation.

With practice, Barbara learned to put her worries away for a few hours and concentrate. When her mind wandered, Mrs. Emmet noticed and brought her back into the moment. As her grades improved, she began to believe that Mrs. Emmet was right and she wasn’t stupid.

Mrs. Emmet died in the early nineties. Barbara found out by chance as she skimmed the death notices in the
Times
—something she almost never did. She had always meant to write to her and thank her for all her kindness and care and to tell her that if it hadn’t been for her, she would never have become a teacher. But she’d never got round to it.

With every exam Barbara passed, her confidence grew. Rose couldn’t understand why her daughter was so determined to carry on studying beyond high school. Barbara told her that all her girlfriends were applying to university. What was more, their parents were behind them. But Rose couldn’t see the point. And what was all this studying going to cost?

But Rose gave in and Barbara went to university, got a respectable degree in English and went on to study for her teaching certificate. There were still times though—even after she’d married and had Jess—when she still felt pretty wormlike. When Jess was a few months old, that changed.

The baby developed a high fever. Then a rash appeared. Barbara bundled her into the car and rushed to the ER. A junior doctor examined Jess and assured Barbara that the symptoms weren’t serious. He told her to go home and keep up the Tylenol. But what about the rash? It was nothing, he said. An allergic reaction maybe. “Look, you’re a first-time mum. You’re bound to be a bit neurotic. . . .” That was it. Something clicked inside her. Barbara wasn’t about to be dismissed as a stupid, irrational mother by some wet-behind-the ears schoolboy with a stethoscope. She stood her ground and refused to leave until she’d seen somebody senior. Eventually, a nice lady doctor came along and agreed to do some blood tests. They were all negative. Jess did not have meningitis. But fighting for her child, being her advocate, spurred Barbara on. She had found her voice, and she was damned well going to use it. Before she knew it, she was asserting herself more in school staff meetings and standing up to the occasional senior member of staff who tried to bully her. Three decades later, she was holding up traffic to confront litter louts and tooting her horn to Frank. But after a bad day at work—if she felt she hadn’t gotten her point across in a meeting with social services and therefore failed to advocate for one of her pupils—Barbara could still reach inside herself and find the little girl in Mrs. Emmet’s class who had come fortieth.

Jean had views on Barbara’s horn tooting. She believed it was born of frustration.

“I can’t help thinking about how over the years you turned down all those offers of promotion. You always said it was because you were a teacher, not a manager. But has it occurred to you that deep down you thought you weren’t good enough?”

“I’ve never really believed I was good enough,” Barbara said. “You know that.”

“I understand, but feeling like that has done you no favors. It’s left you frustrated. Look at you. You tackle people in the street, you take on social services, but you’ve never been the one in charge. What you need is a chance to throw your weight about a bit, impose yourself.”

Jean’s theory hit a nerve. It was true. Her lack of confidence had been a factor when she’d decided not to go for a promotion, and these days her lack of professional clout had left her feeling frustrated. But she was fifty-eight. At her age, what possible hope did she have of scoring a job where she could throw her weight around and impose herself? In the end, she decided there was no point dwelling on her mistakes—particularly as she couldn’t put them right. Nevertheless, from time to time, that conversation with Jean still troubled her.

•   •   •

The traffic was heavy heading out of town. It took more than an hour to get to Rose’s flat. Once Cleo and Atticus had finished their snacks and juice, the questions kicked off. Cleo wanted to know if before they got caught, fish fingers could swim. Atticus wondered if in the olden days everything was in black-and-white.

“So, Grandma,” Atticus said. “What’s your favorite food?”

“I don’t know. Curry probably.”

“Mine’s ramen.”

Of course it was.

•   •   •

“The children need to take their shoes off,” Rose said by way of greeting. “I don’t want mud all over the carpet.”

“And hello to you, too,” Barbara said, giving her mother a peck on the cheek. It was only as she stepped back that she saw the exhaustion on her face. Tiny and birdlike as she was, Rose never got tired. It was one of the side effects of her thyroid medication. “Mum, you OK? Is something the matter?”

“Rotten day.”

“Makes two of us.” But her mother didn’t hear. Atticus and Cleo were already clamoring for her attention.

“Nana, Nana, can we watch
Mary Poppins
?”

“Don’t I get a kiss hello?”

They obliged, but without much enthusiasm. In recent years Rose had managed to acquire a bristly upper lip. The children hated the way it scratched when they kissed her. They had made their objection clear to both Barbara and their mother. Jess kept nagging Barbara to buy Nana Rose some depilatory cream, but Barbara didn’t want to offend her.

“So, Nana,” Atticus said, rubbing his cheek, “now can we watch the film?”

Rose didn’t own a DVD player. All she had was an ancient VHS video player and a selection of old Disney films. Their favorite was
Mary Poppins.

“No. Not today. I’m fed up with all the noise.”

“Awwww.”

“What noise?” Barbara said. Her mother’s small apartment block was in a suburban cul-de-sac. Dogs were banned, loud parties discouraged. So apart from the occasional sound of building work—which was permitted only on weekdays and strictly between the hours of nine and four—the place was silent.

“This damned music. It hasn’t stopped all day. It’s been going since nine o’clock this morning and still no letup. It shouldn’t be allowed.”

“What music? I can’t hear anything.”

Barbara shooed the children into the living room and carried on listening.

“‘Chattanooga Choo Choo.’ Can’t you hear it? There it goes. . . .
Pardon me, boy. Is that the Chattanooga
Choo Choo
 . . . ?”

Barbara strained to hear. “Mum, honestly. There’s nothing.”

“Don’t be so ridiculous. Are you deaf? It’s blaring out.”

Barbara’s faculties might be declining in late middle age, but so far she hadn’t been beset by deafness. There was nothing blaring out. “Look, why don’t we let the kids watch
Mary Poppins
? You and I can sit quietly in the kitchen, and I’ll make us a cup of tea.”

Rose nodded. “OK, you two,” she said, poking her head around the living room door. “You can put your film on.”

“Yaaay.”

“But please keep the volume down. Nana’s got a bad headache.”

Rose lowered herself onto a kitchen chair and began rubbing her forehead. Barbara offered to fetch some ibuprofen from the bathroom cabinet.

“No. A cup of hot tea will work just as well.”

“But I don’t understand what’s going on,” Barbara said, filling the kettle. “Is it possible you’re imagining the music?”

Not her smartest move, suggesting to an eighty-three-year-old that she was losing her marbles.

“Of course I’m not imagining it. I’m not senile, you know. Somebody’s got a record player on. I’ve been up – and downstairs knocking on doors, but nobody’s prepared to own up. It isn’t right.”

“And you can hear it right now?”

“Yes.”

After she’d made tea, Barbara went around the flat, trying to locate the noise. She even opened the windows. There was no big band. The music had to be in her mother’s head. Of course, there was no way Rose would agree to see a doctor—not if he was going to start questioning her state of mind. Barbara decided she would have to go behind her mother’s back and call him herself.

A few minutes later the kids came running into the kitchen asking for something to drink. Rose said there was apple juice in the fridge.

“Barbara, please don’t let them take it into the living room. They’ll get it on the sofa.”

Rose had always been house proud. Barbara believed it was an extension of her vanity. She could still remember her mother cleaning the spout of the dishwasher liquid bottle with a toothbrush.

“Your hair looks nice, Mum,” Barbara said after Atticus and Cleo had disappeared into the living room. “You just had it done?”

“Yesterday.” She patted her blond cotton-candy helmet. “And I bought this little cardi. What do you think?”

She got up and gave Barbara a twirl. The scarlet cashmere cardigan was dotted with black seed pearls. She was wearing it over tailored black trousers. Even now—mustache aside—her mother hadn’t lost her flair.

“Twenty pounds on sale. It was the only one left.”

“Good for you.”

When Rose’s parents died in the early sixties, she’d inherited a lot of money—enough to keep the family afloat and bankroll her clothes spending. Rose had never needed to work. These days there wasn’t much left, but with her state pension, she got by.

“Your dad always loved me in red,” Rose said. “I once had this crimson evening dress. He said that when I wore it, I lit up the room.”

“You still miss him, don’t you?”

“Not a day goes by when I don’t think of him. This year it will be thirty-seven years since he passed away.”

Rose always referred to Stan as having “passed away.” It was as if he hadn’t died, but instead had dissolved like a sugar lump in tea.

Stan had been sitting in his chair watching
Name That Tune
when he started complaining of chest pains and shortness of breath. Rose had called an ambulance. Weeks later the coroner said that had he made it to hospital, they could probably have saved him. But because of his agoraphobia, Stan had refused to get into the ambulance. Instead the ambulance drivers—it was long before the days of paramedics—laid him on the sofa and called the GP. He arrived an hour later. By that time Stan was gone.

“I should have tried harder to get him into that ambulance,” Rose said.

“You did all you could. Everybody said so at the time. In the end it was his choice.”

“And he chose to leave me.”

“Come on, Mum. You have to stop torturing yourself. He adored you. He was petrified of leaving the house, that’s all.”

Rose sipped her tea. “I know, but it’s still hard. He should have lived. He could still have been around today if he’d only . . .”