Fat Girl Slim, page 12
‘No, I’m fine, honestly.’ Have I been crying? Maybe I have.
He leans towards me and puts an arm around my shoulders, ‘Is it, you know.’ He looks around to make sure no one is listening. ‘Your mother?’ He mouths the words without sound and in spite of my misery I stifle a giggle which I quickly turn into a sob.
‘Oh dear.’ Dolph’s eyebrows furrow in sympathy. ‘You poor thing, why don’t you come into mine and have a cup of tea? Brian might even have baked one of his lemon meringues.’
‘Thank you, but I can’t,’ I say in my best trying to be brave voice . ‘I need to get in and see to Mother.’
‘Hmm, I can help out you know, take the strain off you if you need some time on your own. I could sit with her for a few hours.’
Warning bells clang, I need to be very careful. I can’t have people coming in to the house and speaking to Mother.
‘Thank you, Dolph, that’s really sweet of you but I couldn’t ask you to do that.’
‘You’re not asking, darling, I’m offering.’
Shit. This can’t happen. That sodding magpie.
I bite my lip and frown in what I hope look like an agony of indecision look.
‘The thing is, Dolph,’ I say hesitantly. ‘If Mother sees anyone but me she’s likely to have one of her episodes. I’ve tried getting carers in and it was an absolute disaster.’ I risk a quick look at his face; he looks a bit worried. ‘I feel really disloyal saying this because I know she can’t help it, bless her, and I hope you won’t repeat this, for Mother’s sake, but the last carer we tried had to stay off sick for a week after Mother had finished with her.’
A look of horror flashes over Dolph’s face which he quickly tries to hide but I’ve seen it.
‘Oh, that’s so awful, lovey. It must be so difficult for you.’
‘It’s not been easy, I’ll admit,’ I say. ‘Although luckily she agreed not to press charges otherwise I don’t know what would have happened.’ I let my bottom lip quiver so Dolph knows how awful it was.
Dolph stares at me in shock and I can see his mind whirring as he tries to imagine what Mother might have done. I’m almost disappointed when he doesn’t ask as this is the most fun I’ve had all day.
‘Well you know best, sweets,’ he says hurriedly. ‘You just let me know if there’s anything I can do.’ He’s already backing away down the path.
‘Thank you, Dolph, that means a lot.’
‘Anytime, lovey, anytime.’ He’s already reached the garden wall and I breathe a sigh of relief; there’ll be no more offers of help from him.
I watch him hurry down to his house and half expect him to break into a run. That’s what people are like; all that talk about helping but not really meaning it. I’ve been looking after Mother for the last ten years and never had a genuine offer of help and the few friends I did have soon vanished.
Dolph disappears through his front door and no doubt is already regaling Brian with the goings on at number six. I unlock the front door, go inside and close it firmly then pick the post up from the mat and go into the lounge and flump onto the sofa. Right now, I could eat and eat and eat. Only the fact that there’s no junk food in the house stops me. I should go for a run; a good, long run. For hours and hours.
The house is quiet; usually I can hear the murmur of Mother’s television which she has on from early in the morning until late at night when I turn it off after she’s fallen asleep. But the house is silent and I wonder if she’s okay. She could have passed away in her sleep while I was out, I mean, she’s not getting any younger, is she?
I get up to go and check on her when I realise I still have the post in my hand. I look at the three letters without interest; Mother’s bank statement, an offer of a credit card addressed to Mother and strangely, a letter addressed to me.
I never get post.
I turn the letter over in my hand and scrutinise it; my full name and address and it has a stamp on it so I know it’s not junk mail. The envelope is good quality, thick white textured paper. I hold the letter in my hand and study my name and address as if the answer to what’s inside will suddenly present itself to me. I quickly turn the envelope over and peel the flap back and carefully pull out the contents; one thick white sheet of textured paper. I unfold it and open it out; Thompson’s Solicitors and Commissioners of Oaths is printed in curly black lettering across the top of the page with an address in Frogham underneath .
Dear Miss Travis
We are very sorry to inform you that your father, George Henry Patterson, has recently passed away. Please accept our sincere condolences for your loss.
We have been informed that you are his next of kin and as such there are various matters to discuss with you. Can you therefore please telephone this office at your earliest convenience to arrange an appointment.
Yours sincerely
Gerald Thompson
Partner
I stare at the letter open mouthed, trying to take in what the words mean. I don’t know which is more shocking – the fact that my father is dead or that he’s put me as his next of kin. I’ve never met him, he’s never contacted me or written to me in my life yet he knows where I live – that’s probably because Mother has stayed here all of her life. I don’t know what to make of it. He’s never attempted to contact me when he was alive. Why? It just doesn’t make any kind of sense.
I’ll never meet him now. I’ll never have the chance to find out the truth about why he ‘cleared off’ as Mother puts it. Bitter regret rises in my throat; too late, I’ve left it too late. I thought I had all the time in the world, thought that one day I would meet him. Although I made no attempt to find him . I was waiting for him to contact me; I was sure that he would, one day. Always at the back of my mind was the idea that one day we would meet when the time was right and his reasons for abandoning me would be explained, and of course there would be a good reason, and we’d all live happily ever after.
But not now.
If he knew where I was why didn’t he contact me? Did he care anything at all about me? I veered between believing that he didn’t care because he ran away and never made contact or that somehow he’d been prevented from contacting me, I could never quite decide. But if he didn’t care why would he put me as his next of kin?
Why?
I need answers and I’m not going to get them from him now, am I?
I pull my mobile out of my handbag and tap in the number of the solicitors on the letter and let my fingers hover over the call button. I think for a moment and then delete the number.
Mother.
First, I need to speak to Mother, see what lies she has to tell me, find out if she’s known where my father was for all of these years. How humiliating will it be to make an appointment at the solicitors and have them know that I’ve never met my father and know nothing about him? Or do they know already?
I stand up and walk out into the hall and stand at the bottom of the stairs for a moment. Calm down, I must compose myself before I go up there. Knowing my luck Mother has died in her sleep and I’ll never know. I could live with that , that nasty little voice pipes up, I could live with not knowing if she was dead.
I push the nasty voice away and take a deep breath in through my nose and exhale slowly through my mouth several times, focusing my gaze on the treads of the stairs .
Which is when I see it; a peach thread caught on the carpet fibres of the second step. I bend down and catch hold of the thread and pull it out. I straighten up and hold it in my fingers and scrutinise it; only two inches long it’s the exact colour of Mother’s dressing gown.
I close my eyes for a moment.
The magpie.
Bad things come in threes.
Rita’s back and taken over Bella’s cleaning.
My father is dead.
Mother’s been downstairs.
Chapter 14
M other knew that I’d be out until late this afternoon; I’d made her sandwiches for lunch and told her that I’d be back in time to make her dinner. She knew that she had most of the day on her own.
But how? How did she manage to get downstairs? She’s always been able to get to the bathroom on her own but never bothered unless she’s desperate; too afraid of falling and hurting herself and ending up in hospital. Also, she likes me to be at her beck and call. She can’t be as disabled as she pretends to be.
It must have taken her forever to get downstairs and even longer to get back up, she must have dragged herself on her elbows. She’s determined, I’ll give her that. Motivated. Maybe that’s where I get it from. I have a sudden panicked thought; the phone – what if she’s called someone? I rush back into the lounge and look at the phone holder on top of the mantelpiece; empty.
Panicked, I scan the room and see the handset lying on the coffee table on top of a magazine. Was that where I left it? I can’t remember. I pick the phone up press the last number redial button and hold it to my ear.
Nothing. The phone is dead.
Think. When was the last time I used the phone?
It very rarely rings, and on the rare occasion I make a call I use my mobile. Wednesday, that’s it, on Wednesday I answered a call from someone selling water softeners. I remember I told them I wasn’t interested, hung up and then tossed the phone onto the sofa next to me, not the coffee table.
Which proves she’s been down here. Luckily for me the battery has died because it wasn’t in the charger, bad luck for Mother. I pick the handset up and put it back on the stand.
Luck has been on my side this time but I need to make sure this never happens again. I knew she was plotting but I’ve become over confident, got too sure of myself and thought that it was impossible for Mother to get the better of me. I’ve underestimated her and only complete luck has prevented the end of my new life.
I go out into the hall and stand silently and listen; no sound of Mother’s television from upstairs. This alone should have alarmed me enough to rush up there, instead I was distracted by that solicitor’s letter. I knew something wasn’t right when I came in, her television is always on, all day and every day. Even if she’d taken ill it would still be blaring because the first thing she does on waking is point the remote and turn it on; it stays on until I turn it off when she goes to sleep at night. She must have turned it off so she could hear if I was here.
I slip my shoes off and walk quietly up the stairs and pad silently along to her bedroom. The door is nearly closed, only an inch gap; more evidence that she’s been out of her room as I always leave it half open. I stand at the door and listen; I can hear the sound of her breathing. She doesn’t snore but breathes heavily when she’s asleep, blowing the air noisily out of her mouth.
I think she’s pretending; the breathing is too rhythmic, too perfect. I slowly open the door and step into the room. The curtains are half open as normal, she wouldn’t be able to reach over the dressing table to move them and the mirror covers a good portion of the window anyway. The mirror blocks a lot of the light out but Mother wouldn’t hear of me moving it, she likes semi-darkness, says it’s more restful.
In the half-light I can see her face is turned to the wall and she has the eiderdown pulled up tight around her neck, just the top of her grey hair peeping out. This confirms that she’s not asleep; she normally sleeps on her back, mouth open, arms by her side. Like a corpse.
I snap the light switch and the harsh glare of the ceiling light illuminates the room.
‘I know you’re not asleep Mother so you can stop pretending.’
Her breathing doesn’t alter.
‘I know you’ve been downstairs.’
The pretend breathing halts for a moment and then with a grunt of effort Mother turns over onto her back, opens her eyes and stares at me.
I walk over to the bed and stand over her. ‘Don’t bother denying it.’
She hauls herself up onto her elbows and I watch her with interest, making no move to help her.
‘Aren’t you going to help me?’ I’m surprised at the plaintive tone in her voice; I’d expected nastiness, shouting.
‘You’ve managed to get downstairs so I’m sure you can sit up on your own.’
She doesn’t move and we stare at each other.
I finally give in and walk over to the bed and grab hold of her underneath the arms and sit her up. I pull her forward and plump the pillows behind her and then settle her back onto them. She takes a long, silent look at me.
‘How did you know?’
I laugh. ‘You left too much evidence Mother, made it too obvious.’
‘I’m not naturally devious like you.’ Ah, the nastiness is still there.
‘Must have taken you a long time,’ I say. ‘I’m surprised you managed to get down the stairs and even more impressed that you got back up them.’
‘I don’t know how I did it either. It certainly took it out of me.’ She does look exhausted. And old.
‘Why? What did you intend doing? Ringing the police? Tell them I’m keeping you prisoner?’
She shrugs. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Yes, you do. If you want me to leave, just say the word and I’ll go and live somewhere else. You can pay for carers or go into a home, you only have to say the word.’
A complete lie but I say it with confidence. There’s no way I’m leaving but she doesn’t know that.
‘Maybe that would be for the best,’ I continue with a smile when she doesn’t answer. ‘I could have a life then and you can get a stair lift and go downstairs whenever you want. I could give them a ring if you like, get them to come out and give you a quote. You decide. I’m not bothered, I’ve got a job now, I can easily find somewhere else to live. ’
Mother looks uncertain, not sure if I’m bluffing.
‘There’s no need for you to move out,’ she says. ‘If we had a stair lift I could come downstairs and I wouldn’t feel so isolated. We could watch TV together – I could help, you know, with a bit of dusting and that. Be like it was before I had the stroke.’’
Ah yes, that idyllic life before she was ill. I remember it well; I couldn’t so much as move without her permission. She doesn’t fool me with her pathetic act; she’s being nice to try and get what she wants but I don’t trust her one bit. The threat of my leaving is working for the moment but I know Mother; once she’s got her own way it won’t stop there, she won’t be happy until things are back the way they were before. The sweet little old lady act doesn’t take me in; give her access to a phone and my access to her account will be blocked and she’ll have the doctor and social services around here in a flash.
‘Anyway,’ I say. ‘Enough of that, we have more important things to talk about.’
She looks confused, unsure where this is going.
‘Like my father, for instance.’
Mother’s lips clamp even tighter and her eyes narrow.
‘I have nothing to say about him .’
‘No? Well, apparently, he’s died and I’m his next of kin. Or so the solicitor’s letter says.’
She doesn’t bat an eyelid, no acknowledgement at all of the death of my father and her one-time lover. She glares at me in defiance.
‘Nothing to say at all? Because what I’m wondering, Mother, is why he’d put me as his next of kin when he’s never even met me or made any attempt to contact me.’
She still says nothing.
‘So you’ve nothing to say?’
‘No.’
‘Okay.’ I walk over to her dressing table and attempt to pull out the top drawer, but it’s locked as usual.
‘Where’s the key Mother?’
‘There’s nothing in there that concerns you.’ She tightens her crossed arms across her chest.
‘Okay. Last chance, Mother, give me the key or I’m going to get a crowbar and break it open.’
She sits silently and can’t hide the hint of a smile on her face.
She doesn’t believe me; even now she still thinks she can control me. I could look for the key, there are only so many places that she could hide it but I won’t give her the satisfaction of watching me grubbing through her things to find it. Attacking the dressing table with a crowbar suddenly seems very appealing.
Without another word I leave the room and run down the stairs. I don’t even know if we have a crowbar, or actually, what a crowbar even looks like but there must be something that I can break the drawer open with.
I go into the kitchen, yank open the cupboard door and start pulling the clutter out from under the sink. Bleach, washing powder, a myriad of cleaning sprays and old dusters. The only tools are a plunger and a bottle brush and they aren’t going to do it are they? Would a kitchen knife do it? I dismiss the idea immediately; the dressing table is old and built when furniture was made to last a lifetime. The knife would probably break first.
I know where there are some tools but I don’t want to go there. Grandfather’s toolbox is in the cellar, along with all of the other old rubbish that we’ve never got rid of. I hate going down into the cellar and I haven’t been down there for years, it’s cold, damp and full of spiders. Small and dark, it doesn’t even have a proper floor, just compacted earth.
I’ll have to go down there though or she’s won. I go out into the hall and put my shoes back on in readiness and go into the dining room. The door is hidden behind the heavy Welsh dresser that I dragged in front of it shortly after Mother had her stroke. So that I wouldn’t have to see it or think about it ever again.
The key is in a jug on the top shelf of the dresser; a large, yellow hued pottery jug that I have vague memories of being filled with gravy for our Sunday roasts. I take the jug down from the shelf and put my hand in and pull the key out and put it in my jeans pocket. I then remove all of the plates and crockery from the dresser and place them on the dining table.
It would have been so much easier if Mother had given me the key but I won’t give her the satisfaction of asking her for it again.
Dresser emptied I stand at one end and attempt to push it; it doesn’t budge an inch. When I put it here I had a lot more weight to put behind it. I decide the best thing to do is try and drag it out from the doorway to give myself just enough room to get in there .
