The Fat And The Thin Of It Page 17

you better if you shouted. “Your daughter!”

  Mum gave me a horrified look. “How dare you! I do not have a daughter! I’m not even married.”

  Dad looked at me and rolled his eyes. “She’s off again.” He said in a loud whisper. “Thinks she’s bloody twenty.” He then turned to her and gave her a gentle prod. “Who am I, Pat?”

  She squinted at him and said. “You’re Bill, you silly old fool.”

  He wasn’t; he was Collin. Bill was Mum’s brother who was much older and had died at seventeen in the Second World War. She’d only been three at the time. There were two other sisters and another brother for her to confuse us with, so the morning could be a long one.

  Mum then turned to me and said as clear as day. “Did you remember to bring me my liquorice, darling?”

  Oh, fuck! She’d asked me to bring her liquorice on my last visit and I had forgotten. It was a mystery as well as distressing how she could swing out of and back in to lucidness from one second to the next.

  “No! I’m sorry, would you like me to go for it now?” I got up from the chair and made to grab my coat. It was encouraging that she’d remembered something recent and cohesive, and I felt guilty about forgetting because she rarely asked for things.

  “What?” she squinted again.

  “The liquorice,” I reminded her. “Would you like me to get it now?”

  “Why?” oh, dear. “Is that you, Phoebe?”

  She’d gone again, but Aunt Phoebe was still alive, so it was an improvement. I sat back down again.

  Dad tapped me on the arm. “Feel that.” He poked a crooked finger out at me and I rubbed the knuckle. “See how that lump’s getting bigger?” I nodded and continued to massage the distorted finger. “I can’t bend it now, you know. I have to use the left one if I want to change channels.” He wrinkled his nose again. “Hurts like hell some days.”

  He let me continue to rub the finger, as I suppose it gave some relief. I looked at his hand and saw how gnarled and veined they were, and it was just as distressing to see how deformed he was getting with the arthritis as it was to see Mum lose her mind.

  I was their only child and they’d given me everything a kid could want. Dad had been a civil servant and Mum had worked as a secretary, and I remembered on school holidays how she’d sometimes taken me to the editing office of the medical journal she’d worked for. It was a small office with about a dozen workers, including the journalists and the editor, and I loved going. I’d take my toys but I preferred to scribble in my little note pad, where I’d pretend to write articles and imagined I was an intrepid reporter who was madly in love with a super hero. The days I had to stay with Aunt Phoebe, I’d set my dolls out and my cousin Ruth and I would pretend they were our co-workers at The Horley Daily. Regrettably, I never had a doll that would have passed for a super hero, but in my imagination he was out saving the world while we wrote about his exploits. Once I started secondary school, Mum thought I was old enough to stay at home on my own with Mrs Miller, who lived next door, keeping an attentive ear out for me and making sure I ate my sandwich at lunch. I wasn’t on my own for long, though, as Jackie and I became thick as thieves before the first term ended, and my childish fantasies ended. Jackie and I would go out and muck about in the shops trying on clothes and putting on make-up, and she would flirt shamelessly with anything in trousers and I’d cringe and walk off as if I didn’t know her.

  I stayed for about an hour, rubbing Dad’s hands and listening to his running commentary on his health and toilet achievements – or lack of – and observed Mum drift off and back again countless times. All the while, Maria-or-Pilar kept her nose in her book, occasionally glancing at her charges. There was a sudden, over-powering smell of ammonia and both Dad and I wrinkled our noses. I looked at Dad, and he jerked a thumb towards Mum and whispered loudly, “That’s her; she’s wet herself.”

  The nurse was only tiny, but she manoeuvred Mum towards the stair lift with great tact but firmness. I heard Mum scream, “Take your fucking hands off me, you heathen bitch! You’ve got your fucking fingers in my cunt!” and raced to the bottom of the stairs to see what on earth Maria/Pilar was doing to her, but Mum was passively sitting on the stair lift with the nurse walking slowly beside her, keeping in line with the stair lift and holding her hand. She continued to scream obscenities at the nurse while she was being led into the bedroom.

  I really had to have that talk with Terry, and I left with a sick, fearful feeling in the pit of my stomach that we wouldn’t be able to afford the nurses. The idea of a nursing home and the possibility they’d be separated just wasn’t on the cards, as far as I was concerned. I’d do anything – clean houses, sweep streets, anything to keep my parents together and well-looked after.

  Wednesday came, and I had no idea what I was going to do with myself.

  I’d been out of work since the Monday before and had spent days in the same bloody pair of jeans and hadn’t looked at my mobile since I’d thrown it in the drawer beside my bed. I was so tempted to turn it on and see how many messages I had and to sneak a peek at my inbox, but then I feared that there wouldn’t be anything worth looking at. Maybe I’d see a whole heap of stuff from clients and colleagues, telling me how much they missed me, but there again, maybe I wouldn’t. I didn’t know if being missed would make me feel smug or even more depressed, but if no-one had sent anything like that, it could make me feel bloody suicidal.

  Oh, I don’t know…

  I did my usual work-out, and was beginning to notice that the sensitive patch on the side of my thigh was getting less sensitive. I’d hidden the bathroom scales behind the toilet again, and when I went for a shower I spied them sitting there, daring me to climb on their back. I resisted, though, and sneered at them as I finished showering and went to the bedroom and put the same baggy pair of jeans on and yet another of Terry’s sweat-shirts. However smelly these jeans got, I didn’t care. I was absolutely not going to depress myself any further by feeling tight clothes around my arse until that patch had settled down.

  Right: now what?

  I checked the time and decided to watch TV for a bit, but then thought better of it as I didn’t think I could have stood another session of aimlessly flicking channels, so I went and shopped for dinner.

  When I came home and unloaded the shopping, I noticed that the pantry looked quite disorganised: when was the last time anyone had had a good look in here?

  Christ! It was chock-a-block with crap!

  I pulled everything out, checked the sell-by dates and threw away all the dodgy stuff. I then washed the shelves down and packed everything away again.

  Yep, that looks better. Now what?

  Ah, I know; wardrobes. I need to look for clothes that aren’t tight and not working suits, if that was possible. If I couldn’t find anything, I’d have to just go out and do some shopping.

  I attacked all the wardrobes and drawers, both mine and Terry’s and the linen cupboard. It had been a good idea, in fact, as I shifted a lot of old clothes and mouldy-looking bed linen and towels. I found a couple of loose-flowing skirts that would do for the time being, and another pair of jeans that were about the same size as the ones I had on. At least I could wash them now. I didn’t throw any of Terry’s stuff away, though, as he’d have a fit. I simply folded it all up and packed it away neatly, and re-arranged the hanging stuff so it wasn’t so bunched up.

  Okay, time for a fag and coffee. You deserve it, girl, as you haven’t had one since ten o’clock and it’s now half past two.

  When I went to the conservatory for a fag break with my coffee, I noticed how dirty the windows were. What the fuck were we paying Maggie for! What with the state of the pantry and now the conservatory windows; as far as I was concerned, Maggie could stay away and nurse her lumbago at the expense of someone else. I’d tell Terry that tonight, and he could deal with it.

  After the break I got down to cleaning the windows. I had to wear an anorak for the job, and my hands were chapped from t
he detergent and biting cold outside when I’d finished as I couldn’t find any rubber gloves.

  God, they were sore! Perhaps getting rid of Maggie altogether might not be such a good idea: I’d have a word with Terry about it before we make the final decision.

  The time was roughly five o’clock and night had well and truly fallen by the time I’d finished, so I thought about having a quick fag and a glass of wine before starting on dinner.

  Christ, look at the state of my hands! The French manicure was all chipped and... bugger! I was missing half a nail on the right index finger! Dammit, that meant a trip up to London to get them done again and that nail sorted.

  Oh, sod it. Maggie can stay, just as long as she’s back by the Monday of next week. I must tell Terry to call her tomorrow.

  The conservatory was well and truly freezing, as all the windows had been open while I’d cleaned them, so I kept on the anorak as I sipped and smoked. Dammit, I really had to ask Terry about the heater! Oh, fuck; and my parents! So much for the post-it on the fridge door, twat-head.

  Actually, Terry gave me a lovely surprise when I told him how worried I was about Mum and Dad’s care. “Sweetheart, there’s enough money saved to keep the nurses on for the next ten years.” He’d said nonchalantly while he carved into his steak.

  That had surprised me.