‘It really is very tedious how these men just seem to become terribly old almost overnight,’ she continued, airily dismissing half the human population. ‘I know it’s not their fault – they have weaker constitutions than us, but it’s a bit like your father.’ She looked sad for a moment.
‘Do you mean after his operation,’ I said, remembering the huge change Rich and I had both seen in our dad following his triple bypass.
She nodded. ‘Suddenly he just became soelderly,’ she said. ‘Such a frail old man. I mean there had always been the age gap but previously I’d never really noticed the fact he was ten years older than me. He’d always been so full of vigour, the life and soul of every party, and then there he was, my vibrantbon viveurof a husband suddenly needing to be back home in time for an afternoon nap, or back to make sure the bins were out, obsessed about tiny little issues, fretting about having the curtains drawn before nightfall.’
I nodded, remembering the change.
‘Even months after the operation, when he’d made a full recovery, he was still never quite back to normal.’
‘Do you think he was a bit depressed?’ I asked. It was something I hadn’t ever really considered before; my parents’ psychological state not being high on my list of concerns.
‘He may have been, but he’d never have admitted to it to me,’ she said, frowning. ‘I did occasionally suggest we speak to the doctor about how he was feeling but it inevitably ended up being a consultation about his heart failure. I think he was just of that generation who believed it was a sign of weakness to admit you were struggling with your mental health, like you might end up in the loony bin if you so much as mentioned feeling a bit low.’ She sighed. ‘It was a difficult time.’
I considered this for a moment. The period of time Mum described had lasted for almost eight years. Dad had his heart attack and bypass surgery in his mid-seventies but he went on to reach his eighty-second birthday shortly before he died last spring. That was a long time to be caring for someone, I realised. Particularly someone who was becoming increasingly cantankerous. I’d always known that Mum was completely devoted to Dad, and she’d never complained, not once. But seeing the situation now, in retrospect, I realised how muchshe’d had to give up during that period. And all when she’d still been in her sixties.
‘I guess there was a lot you missed out on,’ I said now. ‘I know you wanted to travel a bit more and with Dad working well into his seventies I guess you didn’t get to do that as much as you’d hoped. And then by the time he was ill you’d missed your chance.’
‘I do wish he’d retired a bit earlier,’ she admitted. ‘We could have done so many fun things together. But you know your father. He enjoyed work. He liked to feel useful, as if he was still a productive member of society. And where he led, I followed. It wasn’t my place to question him really, or that’s how I felt at the time. Looking back, I wonder whether I should have pushed a bit harder.’
‘Still,’ she said, folding her napkin decisively onto her plate, ‘I wouldn’t have changed it for the world – those years of being his carer, they were hard, but it brought us closer together. He needed me.’
‘He did,’ I said, suddenly feeling a bit choked up in the face of my mother’s previously unrecognised sacrifice. ‘And you were always there for him.’
She nodded. ‘But that’s why I won’t do it again, Harriet,’ she said, some steel returning to her voice. ‘I can’t be a full-time carer again. Not just yet anyway. I can’t switch from years of looking after your father right up to when he was on his deathbed, straight to attending to the needs of other elderly gentlemen, mopping brows and spooning feeds, washing bedding and checking tablets have been taken, sitting through endless medical consultations and procedures designed to eke out a tiny bit more life from the shell of a person. I need to live a bit of my own life first.’
‘Hence the serial dating and the non-exclusivity clause with the Silver Soulmates,’ I said.
‘Exactly.’ She folded her hands in her lap to indicate that this part of the conversation was closed.
‘Well,’ I said. ‘For what it’s worth, I think you’re doing the right thing.’
I meant it. Although it hasn’t been the easiest sometimes seeing my mum dating multiple men following the death of my father, I knew I couldn’t expect her to remain in purdah for the rest of her days just to honour his memory. I had to remind myself on those occasions when I felt hurt on Dad’s behalf that Mum’s moving on wasn’t a reflection on how much she’d loved him – the fact that she’d cared for him so uncomplainingly and for so long was testament to how very deeply she had loved him. And I knew also that in putting herself first for a change she was setting a good example to me and her granddaughter.
We smiled at each other, aware that big topics had been covered – both knowing that we needed to scale back down to the shallower levels of our usual discourse in order to lighten the mood.
‘Does your smoothie smell a bit like sick?’ she said, peering into the dregs of her glass.
I nodded. ‘Yes, and the gusset of my swimsuit is starting to chafe. I’m concerned if I stay here any longer I’m going to get thrush, which wouldn’t be very relaxing.’
‘Rightio,’ she said, rising from her chair. ‘Well, thatwasan interesting luncheon, wasn’t it darling. Shall we go to the pool before our hot stone massage or sit in the jacuzzi and read magazines for a while?’
Chapter Fourteen
I was thinking about mine and Mum’s conversation as I made my way into the city centre this morning for my first day at work – mainly because I love and care for her, and worry about how she’s coping without Dad, but also because I definitely needed some distraction. I was ridiculously nervous.
I parked my car in the huge concrete monstrosity of the multistorey and cast an anxious glance in its direction as I abandoned it to enter the stairwell, which was damp and smelled terrible. My car was by no means a prized possession and wasn’t particularly expensive or even clean, come to that, but I did want to be sure I had a way of getting back home this evening and I wasn’t entirely convinced that I wouldn’t find my wheels stolen or my windows smashed when I returned from my shift.
‘You’re being ridiculous,’ I muttered to myself, car keys held pointing out between my fingers as I descended the echoey levels, just in case someone came to assault, rape or murder me and I had the presence of mind to remember to stab them in the eye. ‘People park here every day. People come into the city to work, they park their car, they do their job and they return home, safe and sound, just like you’re going to.’
Thus reassured, I emerged from the stairwell through a heavily graffitied fire door and found myself on a sodden pavement accompanied by multiple other human beings and their umbrellas as they dodged the rain on their way to the station, the shops, or their office blocks. ‘You’re one of them now, Hattie,’ I thought. ‘A city worker, a cog in the machine of commerce and trade’ (although I’m not sure that library services strictly fall into this category).
It wasn’t far from the multistorey to the library, which was situated in one of the main civic buildings next to the station. It had clearly once had an impressive frontage, but the stone façade was now stained with the black streaks of gutter run-off and two of the concrete paving slabs near the entrance were cracked and broken. A low brick wall, evidently placed with the aim of providing a secure cycle rack, was covered in graffiti and stickers – not the artistic Banksy type of graffiti either, more the cock and balls variety that had adorned the pencil cases of spotty boys in my youth – and the bicycle fixtures had been wrenched from their sockets, the metal brackets now hanging limp and useless. In addition, the neighbouring shop windows were all boarded up with similar graffiti adorning their shutters and faded signage indicating the tattoo parlours, off-licences and kebab shops that had once graced their interiors. One of the units was gamely still trading as Kathy’s Cosy Cafe but there was no sign of Kathy through the smeary windows, just a very large man scowling at the passers-by.
It was quite a relief to enter the central foyer just to get out of the rain. On my return from the spa yesterday, I’d spent about four hours choosing my outfit with care but had made the mistake of going for pale linen wide-leg trousers and a floaty scarf, thinking it gave off a bookish vibe. My trousers had sucked up the rain and were now damp to mid-calf with a greyish puddle tinge and my scarf was plastered to my neck like a bandage. My nose was running, and I was sweating under my woollen duffle coat (again chosen with a bookish Paddington theme in mind).
I decided the best option was to head for the communal toilets that we shared with the council offices upstairs and spent the next twenty minutes steaming myself in various contorted positions underneath the hand drier, resulting in a lot more sweating and no discernible drying of my garments. Still, atleast I wasn’t late. I’d left the house this morning with over an hour to spare, so nervous that I might lose my way or get stuck in traffic and arrive to find hordes of customers thumping their books against the library doors and baying for entry while David tapped his watch with disappointment before pointing at me,Apprentice-style, and shouting ‘You’re fired!’. Never let it be said that I can’t build an anxiety-inducing scenario with minimal material.
I walked in through the side door to the library at five minutes to nine and was greeted by a young man with a smiling face, who was waving at me from behind the main counter.
