The Art of Forgetting (7 page)

“She’s dead, you know,” says Lydia and hands her a plastic bowl.

Laura is awake and sweating. Her heart is thumping. She has to calm herself by breathing deeply as she learned to do in a yoga class, back in the days when she had time for such things. Parts of the dream are still quite clear in her mind and she runs through what she can remember of it, trying to work out its significance. For a fleeting moment she resolves to tell her mother about it. Mum had read a lot of Freud and Jung at university and loved to try to interpret their dreams.

Then Laura remembers with a lurch that she can’t do that kind of thing any more. There will be no more of that; no more sitting at Mum’s kitchen table on a Saturday afternoon with a mug of coffee and a biscuit, whilst the kids play with Jip in the garden and Patrick pretends to do something useful in the lounge.
“Hey, Mum, I had the weirdest dream last night!”
Her mother teasing it out, turning it into the fulfilment of some subconscious wish that Laura never knew she had. Not that she believed most of it anyway, but it had been fun. Fun. Now it seems that is something that will be in short supply for her mother.

Laura cries and then, because her sobs are hard to control and might awaken Patrick, she puts on her dressing gown and goes downstairs to make a cup of chocolate and cry alone.

The next day, Laura decides that her mother’s house must be the first priority. She knows that yesterday’s events may be driving this decision, but there are enough good reasons to get on with the task to push that thought to one side. For a start, although they have made great inroads in tackling the chaos of the carrier bags, there are still decades of possessions to be sorted through and decisions to be made about their future. Mum is never going to live there again. There is no avoiding that fact and the house will have to be sold or rented before her savings diminish too much.

Secondly, there is Lydia. She lies in wait behind net curtains and accosts anyone who appears at the door, wanting to know what is happening. Laura knows it is none of Lydia’s business and she could tell her this, but she also knows that Lydia will keep up the pressure until she has new, respectable neighbours. It has got to the stage that Laura finds it easier to skulk around the back and try to enter without detection. This is rarely successful, but today she parks at the end of the lane and creeps up the back path anyway. Her eyes are fixed on Lydia’s conservatory, watching for the tell-tale shadow behind the glass and trying not to think about what the dream-Lydia had said last night. Somebody was dead. She wonders who it could be.

This time she is lucky and she enters the kitchen with a sigh of relief. This is one room that is more or less finished, as it had to be a priority when the smell became a serious problem. At first, they had thought it must be the fridge. Although they had emptied it very early on, somebody had unplugged it and left the door closed, leading to a growth of black mould and a disgusting odour. However, the smell lingered even after Patrick took the fridge to the tip and it seemed worse with every visit. They checked the cupboards and threw all the food away, but it was not until they tackled the dresser that the cause was identified.

The dresser was a pretty standard piece, with glass-fronted display shelves at the top and two drawers and cupboards below. Mum had always used it to keep what she called her posh china. Some of this was quite old, having been passed down from her parents, so it was used only rarely. Certainly this was not a place to store food, but when Kelly opened the doors it was clear that it was from here that the terrible smell emanated. There was a stack of china dinner plates in the right-hand cupboard, and the top plate was covered with a slimy, putrid mess. It was impossible to tell what it had been, once upon a time when Mum lived there, but it made Kelly heave as she rushed it to the sink and turned on both taps.

That was why everyone had turned their attention to the kitchen. Even Robin helped out when he made one of his rare appearances, until they were sure there were no more surprises lurking. Now it is clean and sanitised, with only the most basic appliances and equipment remaining, although the china and cutlery has still to be distributed. Laura looks around and remembers the days when her mother was still coping, just about, but the signs of deterioration were becoming ever more apparent. She remembers coming into this room and finding Mum here, at this lovely old pine table, with tea plates and napkins lovingly arranged around a large bowl of dog biscuits decorated with cherry tomatoes. She remembers not knowing what to do. She remembers trying not to laugh; she remembers trying not to cry.

Today, she has decided to collect some of Mum’s personal effects to make her room at Cavendish House seem more like home. The impossibility of this idea hits her again as she takes a cardboard box into the lounge and looks around. How can that bland, rectangular space ever seem remotely like home? How can she distil all the years of memories that this room contains into a selection of artefacts? Nevertheless, that is what the staff have asked her to do, so she wanders around and collects some framed photographs, an ornament or two, the carriage clock. She also finds a pretty little vase she remembers buying for her mother the first time she went on a residential trip with her school. Will she look at it and remember that moment? Will she remember her huge smile of relief at having her daughter back safely, or will it revert to a cheap receptacle for flowers with no added significance at all?

Laura gives herself a little shake and puts the box on an armchair. She is not finding this easy today. Some days it is fine and she can breeze around the house sorting and packing, cleaning and tidying. On others it is as if the air is thin, or gravity is stronger than usual, pulling her down and sapping her energy. She knows she is not going to get much done, so she uses the toilet and washes her hands, splashing a little cold water on her face before retrieving the box and leaving, again by the back door. Miraculously, she avoids Lydia’s attention for the second time and makes it to the car unscathed. She feels better already, lighter and more cheerful, so she decides to take the box to Mum straight away. Better than having it at home where the kids will want to examine every item and ask her who is in every photograph.

It is still well before lunch when she arrives at Cavendish House. It is cloudier today, and a little breeze is enough to make sitting outside less attractive, so the garden is almost empty. Still, Laura is pleased to see her mother, dressed in a thick cardigan she does not recognise, standing near to the electronic gate as if waiting for her. This cannot be the case, as she had said nothing about coming today and Mum would not have remembered it if she had, but she seems bright and alert as she calls Laura by name.

“Laura! Quick!”

“Hi, Mum. Give me a minute. I just need to put this box down so I can put in the code.”

“OK, but hurry. Somebody might see.” Her mother is right up at the gate now, holding onto two of the smooth, green metal bars that keep the residents safely in the garden. Her face is anxious and she looks over her shoulder repeatedly.

Laura begins to worry. It is clear that Mum intends to try to get out and she is not sure whether she could stop her. The thought of trying to restrain her mother makes her go cold, so she picks up the box and tells her to wait.

“The gate isn’t working,” she lies.

Having gained access through the front entrance, Laura decides not to involve the staff at this point. The chances are that Mum will have forgotten whatever had been on her mind by the time Laura finds her. Also, for some reason, she does not want to be seen as a needy relation and yesterday’s tears will not have been forgotten by Ruby, at the very least. She pastes on a smile and marches down to her mother’s room where she puts the box on the bed. She does not stay to remark on the jumble of pens, sheets of paper and envelopes that covers the little table by the door, but heads back down the corridor, through the day room and out via the conservatory. Her mother is still by the gate.

“Mum! I’m here!” she calls, waving from the door that leads down to the terrace. Her mother looks up but does not move, so Laura walks towards her.

“Let’s go and sit on the terrace,” she says when she is close enough to talk without shouting. “It’s quite sheltered there and I can ask someone to bring us some tea if you like.” She reaches out to take her mother’s arm, but she shakes her off.

“Don’t be stupid. They’ll hear us, that close to the house. They’re everywhere, you know. Listening out, watching me. If we’re going to get out of here in one piece we need to act naturally but keep away from Them.”

Laura can hear the capital letter at the start of that word. Them. There had been signs of paranoia before, when Mum was still at home, but this is a new development since she has been in residential care and Laura does not like it one bit. Should she go along with it and hope it passes, or challenge it and risk an outburst? Characteristically, she tries to take a middle path and suggests a walk around the garden, pointing out the flowers and trying to distract her mother by asking their names. However, although Mum responds with the name of every plant Laura indicates, she is not distracted enough to forget her need to escape and grasps her arm so tightly that it hurts.

“Listen,” she says, her face right up to Laura’s ear, so she can smell her breath and tell she has not brushed her teeth today. “They want to keep me here, but you can get me out. Have you got your car here? Yes? That’s good. You can tell them, can’t you? Tell them I’m just going out with you for a drive, and then I won’t come back. We can hide. We can go somewhere, somewhere ...”

Laura has to stop her. This is too horrible, too painful. She can’t just stand there whilst her mother persuades herself they are going to stroll out of the front door, arm in arm like a couple of mates, and then disappear somewhere never to be seen again. It would be cruel to go along with this then to go home in an hour or so, leaving her mother betrayed and confused.

“Mum, stop. Listen. This is where you live now. All your clothes are here, aren’t they? You remember, we brought your chest of drawers, and your armchair and the writing table. It’s a nice room, and I’ve brought some more things today. That’s what was in the box. Some photos and ...”

“I certainly do not live here!” she says. “What are you talking about, Laura? I don’t understand. How can you say that? This isn’t my garden, and I don’t know any of the people here.” She stops, her forehead wrinkled with the effort of understanding, then her hand flies to her mouth and her eyes widen. “Oh my God! You’re in on it too, aren’t you? Laura, how could you?”

With that, she pushes Laura hard, right in the chest and turns to run back to the gate. “Help, help!” she shouts as she rattles the gate in futile desperation. “Somebody help me please!”

Laura goes inside to find someone. It is as if she is in a dream. She is calm but none of this is real. She explains what happened and assures the staff she is not hurt. No, just a little bump when she tumbled backwards onto the grass. It may be a little sore tomorrow, but that is not what is really hurting. She waits on the terrace, still outwardly calm, whilst two of the nurses bring her mother back inside.

“Give us a little while to calm her down,” says one. “Sit out here and someone will bring you a cup of something. She’ll be fine in a bit.”

So Laura sits, as bidden, although she would much prefer to leave. To sit in the car and let the tears flow in private. Is it going to be like this every day from now on? Only last week Mum had been fine. Granted, she was forgetful and confused but she was mostly calm and quite cheerful. How could this have happened in such a short time? She pulls her phone from her bag and starts to text Kelly, but that is a mistake, as forming the words brings it all to the surface and now the tears stream down her cheeks despite all her best efforts to stop them. What a wimp she must seem.

“Mind if I join you?”

Laura starts, and almost drops her phone. It is actually the last thing she wants, but she scrabbles around for a tissue and finds herself captive to her own natural politeness.

“Please do, but I’m afraid I won’t be much company,” she says.

“One of those days?” he asks. It is the man she saw yesterday, with the old woman who was trying to break free. The one who had spoken so nicely to Mum. She nods.

“Hmm. I’m having one of them too,” he says, sitting at the other end of the bench. He continues as Laura looks up in response. “Yes, they’ve had to sedate her today. My mother, you know. She has good days – yesterday was one, relatively speaking – but sometimes she’s just uncontrollable. Not nice.”

Suddenly, Laura’s problems seem small in comparison. How awful, to come to visit and end up with no contact at all.

“I’m sorry to hear that. My mother’s got it into her head that she’s being kept as some sort of prisoner, but I suppose she is, in a way. They’re trying to calm her down now, but at least they haven’t had to use medication – yet.”

“I’m Emil, by the way,” says the man, offering his hand. He is probably younger than Laura had thought at first, but still a good bit older than her. He has grey, curly hair and deep laughter-lines around his eyes.

“Laura,” she says, taking his hand. It is cool and dry but it feels strange to be holding hands with a stranger so she is the first to pull away.

“Nice to meet you, Laura. Pity it couldn’t have been in happier circumstances. If both our mothers had been in better form today we could have had a round of cards, or a game of Monopoly!”

Laura smiles at the image. It would be like something out of Alice in Wonderland, with both their mothers trying to escape and probably tipping the board over in the process.

“That would be nice, or maybe we could make up a four for a game of tennis,” she says, warming to the theme. They both laugh and it is a good thing. It releases the tension and does no harm. The sun comes out from behind a cloud and then there is Mum, with Ruby hovering behind.

“I’ll bring a little table over,” says Ruby. “Tea is on its way.”

Emil rises to go. Laura nearly invites him to stay for tea but decides against it, in case her mother thinks he is some kind of spy, so she smiles and thanks him for the chat as she sits down.

“Who was that?” Mum asks as he walks away.

“His name is Emil and his mum lives here,” replies Laura. “You’d probably recognise her. He seems like a nice man. He came to visit her but she was poorly.”

Mum has lost interest in this conversation and is looking around as other residents come into the sun, but Ruby leans forward.

“He is a nice man,” she says. “Patience of a saint. I’ve seen a lot of people come and go over the years, but I’ve rarely seen anyone as devoted as he is.”