The Day We Met (4 page)

“That whole book business was more of a download,” she says, lifting her head from the pages and smoothing her hand over the paper. “I guess I had to get it out of my system. Maybe the Alzheimer's is the reason why. Maybe I was already going through the process of emptying my head. Empty head, empty attic. It fits.”

She smiles up at Greg, the same polite parents'-evening smile. “It's a lovely book. Perfect. Thank you.”

Greg touches her on the shoulder and she does not move away. It's painful to see how relieved he is.

“That's mine book,” Esther says, appearing at the table, probably looking for her long-promised biscuit. Her nose fits just over its edge. “It's mine book for drawings, isn't it, Mummy?”

I wonder if Esther has any sense of how important she has become to us all, how we rely on her to make us laugh. I look at her and wonder how it happens, how a person so complete and unique emerges from another one. A person who is so small but so essential to all of us: she is our collective smile.

“Please may it be mines, Mummy?” Esther asks her sweetly. “Yes?”

We have all learned that since Esther turned three, it's generally best not to openly disagree with her, else the famous Armstrong temper will makes its presence felt and she'll throw something, or hit someone, or lie down on the floor and wail like the true drama queen she is. None of us minds very much—well, not Mum or I, anyway. We both have the Armstrong temper too, and when we see it in Esther, we know she is truly one
of us. Instead, Mum manages her, agrees with her or changes the subject, and makes it so that although the little madam doesn't get her way all the time, she doesn't know that she doesn't. Mum has been brilliant at managing Esther: mothering her, I suppose the right word is. I watch her all the time now. I try to note it all down. The things she does, her smile, her jokes, her phrases. All the things she used to do for me when I was three years old, I suppose, but back then I didn't notice, either. Now I need to notice—I need to know everything she does—so that when the time comes, I can look after Esther in exactly the same way Mum would have. That is the thing I can do, which makes everything else, the stupid, stupid mess I've made of my life, all the worse. Other people get to make mistakes at my age, but not me. I can't; I don't have time. I have to be here for Esther; I have to give her the same life that Mum would have given her.

“Oh yes, you can draw in it,” Mum says, picking up a pen and handing it to Esther straight away. I see Greg wince, but Mum reaches out and takes his hand. Her touch instantly melts away all the tension in his body. “This isn't just a book for
me
to write in, is it?” she says, smiling up at him, the teacher smile replaced—for now, at least—by one that means everything. It reminds me of my favorite wedding photo of the two of them: she's gazing up at him, and he's standing behind her laughing like a loon, looking so happy. “This is a book for you all to write in too. It's for my memories, but yours as well. It's a book for all of us. And Esther can start it off.”

Greg pulls out a chair and sits down next to Mum as Esther climbs onto her lap, the tip of her tongue poking out as, earnestly, she begins to carve lines into the paper with the Biro Mum hands her. I watch her as she draws two circles—one big, one small—then fills each with two dots for eyes, one for a nose, and then a big grinning smile. Finally, she draws sticks straight
out of the circles, representing arms and legs. Two of the arms touch, and Esther scribbles where they join, a small tangled spiral to show they are holding hands.

“That's me and you, Mummy,” she says, totally satisfied with her work.

Mum holds her a little tighter and kisses the top of her head. “The perfect way to start the book,” she says. Greg puts his arm around Mum, and I see her shoulders stiffen, just for a moment, before they relax. She looks at him. “Will you write the date underneath?”

Greg writes: “Mummy and Me by Esther,” and the date.

“There.” Mum smiles, and I watch her profile. She looks content for a moment, at ease. “The first ever entry in the memory book.”

This is a tiny piece of the duchess satin my wedding dress was made from. I cut it from the hem, where it will never be missed. I half hope that perhaps one of my girls might like to wear this dress on her own wedding day….

I had my dress made in scarlet because it seemed more appropriate than white or ivory, and anyway red is my favorite color. It's not like I was a spring chicken when I married Greg: it was two weeks before I turned forty, although we don't talk about that. And I certainly wasn't anywhere close to being virginal. I felt more beautiful on that day than I have ever done—more beautiful and more alive, with every single person present that I have ever loved, or will ever love.

It was an August wedding, held by the sea at Highcliffe Castle in Dorset. I wanted a big, blinging wedding; I wanted everything to be shiny and covered in glitter, just like my crystal-encrusted
shoes. I knew that the six-tier cake, the trays of tiny canapés, the endless glasses of champagne didn't matter as much as the man I was marrying, who was marrying me and my family against all the odds. But that's just me; it's always been me. I wanted the air to be full of the scent of lilies, and the laughter and chatter of my guests; I wanted the sea to sparkle bright blue in the sunlight, and every emerald-green blade of grass to stand proudly to attention under a smiley-faced sun, just like one of Esther's drawings.

Caitlin walked me down the aisle, which meant a lot to me because even on our wedding day she still couldn't quite believe that Greg genuinely did love me. When I first told her I was seeing our sexy young builder, she was appalled. She said, “It's some kind of scam, Mum. He's probably trying to rip you off for money. He's using you for sex, Mum, because he knows you are desperate.” And when, after only almost a year of being with Greg, I told her I was pregnant: “He'll leave you in the lurch, Mum.” That's my girl, always says it how it is, never pretends for the sake of it.

As we walked down the aisle, Caitlin and I held hands like a couple of little girls. She looked stunning, of course, although she was still sulking over the fact that I hadn't let her wear the little black cocktail dress she'd had her eye on. She was dressed in ivory organza—it floated around her ankles as she walked—and her hair, the dark tumultuous curls she got from her father, fell in soft tresses around her heart-shaped face.

The ceremony took place in a room with a full-length window of diamond-paned glass that looked out across the ocean, which was just as blue and as sparkly as I wanted it to be. I could see tiny white sails on the horizon, little boats far out at sea, bobbing away completely oblivious to this, the happiest moment in my life. But even so, I felt like those tiny boats, miles and
miles away, were part of my wedding too. And so was the sun, and the stars beyond it, which sounds a bit over the top and a little crazy. But that was how I felt: like the center of all existence.

Neither one of us fancied the pressure of writing our own vows, so we stuck to the traditional ceremony. I was just looking at Greg, feeling the love and goodwill of all the people in the room, hearing Esther, who was swathed in organza with orange blossom in her hair, shouting baby babble at the top of her voice, when I caught my friend Julia's eye and she mouthed “You lucky bitch” at me clearly enough for the registrar to raise an eyebrow. Caitlin read Philip Larkin's “An Arundel Tomb.” I remember those things and for me they were the vows. Those things, and the way Greg looked at me, made me realize I was getting married to the love of my life. I have been happy before, and my girls make me so happy all the time, but that day was the happiest I've ever been all in one go.

I got very drunk, of course. I insisted on making a speech after Greg's, which went on for at least ten more minutes than it should have done, but everybody laughed and cheered and put up with me showing off, as my mum would put it, because everyone there wanted the best for me. Afterwards, during the dancing, Esther spun round and round and round so that her skirt floated upwards like the petals of a flower opening outwards, and then fell asleep on my mum's chest as she sat in the quiet room next door to the party, pretending she wasn't actually a little tipsy and hadn't really flirted with Greg's Irish uncle, Mort. Julia had taken off her shoes and was dancing with everybody's husband, whether they liked it or not, terrifying one of the young waiters into slow dancing with her.

Greg and I danced all night long, spinning and shimmying, doing high kicks and jazz hands. We never stopped dancing. We never stopped laughing, not until he finally picked me up
and carried me up the stairs to bed, calling me “Ms. Armstrong,” teasing me because I'd asked him before the wedding if he'd mind very much if I kept my maiden name. It had been my name for so long, and it was Caitlin's and Esther's too, that it just didn't feel right to change it. Of course, he hadn't minded—he liked it, he'd told me. He liked being married to a Ms. and as he carried me into the bridal suite he whispered in Ms. Armstrong's ear how much he loved her, whatever she was called. Finally, when I did go to sleep, the last thing I remember thinking was that this was it. This was the time that my life finally began.

I thought about waiting in the car for her, but then I realized it was entirely possible that I would be here all day. Mum doesn't have much of a sense of time anymore: hours seem like seconds to her, and vice versa. I don't want to get out of the safety of her confiscated cherry-red Fiat Panda and run through the rain, which is weighted like lead pellets, into the school, but I know that I have to. I have to go and collect her from her last ever day as a teacher, a day that I know is breaking her heart. And somehow, on the way home, before we are back in the middle of Gran and Esther, I have to tell her what I have done, because time is running out.

The receptionist, Linda, whom I've met a few times but mainly know through Mum's vivid and comic tales of school life, sits behind bulletproof glass, making it look like the school is in downtown L.A. rather than Guildford.

“Hi, Linda!” I grin fiercely, which I find is the only way to get through these sorts of conversations—the sympathy conversations that always seem to have this quiet undertone of glee.

“Oh, hello, love.” The corners of Linda's mouth pull down in an automatic, so-sad little pout.

After her diagnosis, Mum hadn't wanted people to know right away: she had wanted to keep going for as long as possible, and everybody—even Mr. Rajapaske, her hospital consultant—thought that was feasible. “You're a bright woman, Ms. Armstrong,” he told her. “Studies show that high intelligence often means diagnosis is delayed because clever people find ways to compensate and strategize. You should disclose your condition to your employer, but, on the whole, if the drugs have the desired effect, then there's no reason your life should have to change drastically any time soon.”

We'd all been so reassured, so grateful, for what felt like a reprieve, giving us time to adjust and get our heads round what was happening; and then Mum drove her lovely little Fiat Panda—the first new car she'd ever owned—into a postbox. And to cap it all, this happened right outside the school gates. If it had been during the school run, the chances are she would almost certainly have run down a child. It wasn't that Mum had stopped concentrating—it wasn't that. She was concentrating very hard on remembering what the steering wheel was for when it happened.

“Hello, darling.” Linda repeats herself in a singsong whine. “Here to collect your poor mum?”

“Yes.” I smile ever so brightly, because I know Linda is being nice, and it's not her fault that the sound of her voice makes me want to break down the door of her bulletproof cubicle and pour that cup of cold tea over her head. “How did it go, do you know?”

“It's been lovely, dear. They did an assembly about Alzheimer's awareness. All the Year Sevens have made a friend at Hightrees Retirement Home, in mem—in honor of your mum.”

“That's nice,” I say, as she lets herself out of her cubicle with the jangle of an ostentatious bunch of keys, and buzzes us through into the inner sanctum of Albury Comp: Mum's school, as I and many other people have thought about it for the last few years, especially since she got her promotion to head of English. Mum made this school what it is. “And they had special tea and cake—you know how your mum likes cake. And I think she seemed really happy, you know, taking it all in. Smiling.”

I bite my tongue, stopping myself from telling her that she is a silly cow, and that Mum is still Mum and not some brain-dead vegetable all of a sudden. That the diagnosis doesn't make her any less human. I want to say this to her, but I don't, because I don't think Mum would want me to insult the school secretary on her very last day here. Actually, I take that back: I think Mum would love it. But I hold it in anyway. Mum thinking something is a good idea is sometimes a good reason not to do it.

“She's not actually so different from how she was six months ago,” I say carefully, as I follow Linda, keys swaying on her hip. “A year ago, even. She's still Mum. She's still the same person.” I want to add that she's still the same woman that told you to get over yourself when you tried to call the police to escort Danny Harvey's mum out of reception the day she got so sick of the bullying that she came to school to sort out the bullies herself. Mum had been in the staff room when she'd heard the shouting. She'd come out to see Mrs. Harvey, and taken her into the staff room, where she tactfully pointed out that the last thing a twelve-year-old boy needed was for his mum to pile in and beat up the bullies. Mum had got involved then, even though she hadn't even taught Danny at all. Mum had it sorted within a
week. Mrs. Harvey nominated her for the South Surrey Teacher of the Year award. Mum won it. She isn't some empty shell of a woman yet. Mum is still fighting, and this is her last stand.

Linda opens the door to the staff room, where I find Mum sitting with her best teaching friend, Julia Lewis. Before Mum met Greg, Julia was her pulling buddy—that's what she used to call her. Most of the time, I tried to pretend that I didn't know what they got up to, and when Mum got together with Greg, the one thing I was relieved about was that I didn't have to think about my mother having a mysterious sex life anymore. Not that she let me see her getting dressed up to the nines and going out dancing and drinking cocktails, flirting and whatever else I didn't know about. And Mum never brought men home when I was there, not once, not until Greg. He was the very first man she had wanted me to meet, and I really hadn't wanted to meet him. It's no wonder their romance all came as a bit of a shock to me. But I know there have been men, and I know a few of them must have happened when she and Julia were “letting their hair down” and “blowing off steam.” Once, she said to me that we never had to talk about our love lives unless we really wanted to, and we never have. Not even when I met Seb—not even when I fell so much in love with him that it hurt me to breathe whenever I wasn't with him. I never talked to her about him, or my feelings. Perhaps I should have, because if anyone could have understood, it would have been Mum. If I had, then telling her everything that has happened since Seb, because of Seb, would be so much easier. Now, I'm afraid that the moment when I can confide in her and she can, well, just be my mum, has already passed. I'm afraid that soon when I walk into a room where she is waiting, she won't recognize me, or she will forget what I'm for, like she did with the steering wheel.

But Mum smiles at me now as I walk into the staff room.
She is clutching a large bunch of supermarket flowers. “Look!” She wields them at me, cheerfully. “Smell-nice things! Aren't they pretty?”

I wonder if she's noticed that she's lost the word “flowers,” but I don't mention it. Gran always corrects her, and it seems to make Mum cross, so I never do. I do wonder if “flowers” is one of the words that have gone for good, though, or if it will come back. I've observed that sometimes the words come and go, and sometimes they're gone for good. But Mum doesn't notice, so I don't tell her.

“They are lovely.” I smile at Julia, who's grinning broadly, determined to keep things light.

“It's been ages since a man sent me flowers,” Mum says, burying her face in the petals. “Julia, we need to go out on the razz again, get some hot man action.”

“You've got the hot man action,” Julia says, not missing a beat. “You're already married to the fittest man in Surrey, darling!”

“I know,” Mum says into the flowers. Although I'm not entirely sure she does—at least for a second or two, anyway. Until very recently, Greg made her so happy that he lit her up like one of those Chinese paper lanterns Mum had the guests set free at their wedding. Back then, she would glow from the inside out, floating above the world. And yet now, Greg, their love, their happiness, their marriage, comes and goes in her mind, and one day I suppose it too will be gone for good.

“Shall we be off, then?” I say, nodding toward the door. There isn't really a reason to go right away, except that I can't bear to prolong this final moment of the job Mum loved so much. When she walks out of here, she'll be leaving behind something that defined her. And the longer she stays, the harder it will be.

I also know that today, or tomorrow, or the day after, Greg and Gran, or maybe even Mum, will notice that I still haven't gone back to uni, and then it will all come out. And everyone will have an opinion and something to say. And I don't want that. I don't want all the secrets and mistakes that I have so carefully managed to keep close for so long to suddenly just spill out everywhere, in one big bloody mess, because then it will be real and I am not ready for it to be real. It's really terrible but the truth is, when Mum got her diagnosis, just as I'd returned for the summer break, I was relieved—relieved to have a reason not to tell. And that's the thing, that's the thing that's doing my head in. I mean, I am almost twenty-one years old, but I am still so stupid, so immature and selfish, that I actually saw a plus side to my mother being told she had early-onset Alzheimer's. That is the kind of person I am, and I don't know, I just don't know how I can be better. Suddenly I've got to grow up quick and decide what is to be done, and I don't want to. I want to dive under the duvet and bury myself in a book just like I used to do not that long ago.

I am not ready for this, not for any of it.

Part of me wants to tell Mum now, about everything that's going on with me, before everyone else gets to jump in with an opinion. And yet I worry: should I tell her at all? I am not sure whether she will even understand or be able to remember what I say for more than a few hours. If I tell her now, does that mean that, in the weeks to come, I will have to tell her again and again and again about how I have so comprehensively ruined my life, and see the shock and disappointed look on her face again and again?

But she's my mum, and I need to tell her. Even if it's just for now.

“Mum, are you ready?” I prompt her again.

Mum doesn't move. She sits on the rough, brown, horrible school chair and suddenly her eyes fill with tears. I feel the strength drain away from my legs, and I sit down next to her, putting my arm around her.

“I love my job,” she says. “I love teaching, and I'm so good at it. I get the kids really interested, really caring about Shakespeare and Austen and…This is my vocation. I don't want to go, I don't want to.” She turns to Julia. “They can't make me, can they? Isn't there something we can do? They're being prejudiced against Alzheimer's.” Her voice begins to rise with indignation and something like panic. “Isn't there some sort of court we could go to, and make them see my human rights? Because they can't make me go, Julia!”

Julia smiles as though it's all absolutely fine, crouches down in front of her friend and puts her hands on Mum's shoulders, grounding her, grinning just like she always does. Like it's all a joke. I feel the tears begin to sting my eyes. They come so easily, these days.

“Mate…” She looks into Mum's eyes. “You are the best teacher, drinker, dancer, and friend that there has ever been. But darling, although the rule about teachers not driving cars into postboxes outside of schools might be a stupid one, it still stands. But don't cry, okay? Chin up, walk out of here like you don't give a damn. Be free.” Julia pauses to press a kiss on Mum's mouth. “Go now, out there, and be free for me, and be brilliant like you always have been. All of the time. Be brilliant you and stuff this bunch of ungrateful bastards. Because you know what, doll, now is
the
time to have the time of your life. You can do what you like, sweetie, and you'll get away with it.”

“I don't want to go,” Mum says, getting up and hugging the flowers to her chest so hard that some of the petals are crushed and fall to her feet.

“Think about the marking,” Julia says. “The admin, keeping it a secret that Jessica Stains is having an affair with Tony James, and that we all know they secretly liaise in the English Department stationery cupboard when no one is looking. And the politics, and that bastard government doing its best to ruin our perfectly good school with bullshit policies. Think about all that crap and go out there and be free, okay? And be as crazy and as adventurous as you can be, for me.”