I push the door open. Although it’s late every light in the room is burning bright. Overhead, uplights, a bedside light. It’s an unforgiving arena to walk into. There’s a connection between Mum and Pam that’s as close as if I’d walked in on an illicit couple canoodling. And they break apart quickly, as if caught out. Mum recovers equally quickly and, eyes lighting up, croaks out a speedy, ‘Rachel! Pam said you were here! Oh, come and let me look at you!’
I move and sit on the bed alongside her, taking her hand, pretending I’ve not heard what I heard through the door. After a few stilted sentences Pam is keen for us to call it a night.
‘Your mum’s tired.’
‘Plenty of time for sleeping when I’m gone,’ she replies, and that’s most unlike her. Unlike her to disagree with anyone quite so blatantly. And unlike her to joke about something so serious.
This isn’t the mum I’m used to. And this is a side of her I suddenly like.
‘I won’t tire her out too much, Pam. Promise.’
Pam looks to Mum. A hesitant, unsure look. Mum glances away and smiles at me and squeezes my hand.
‘I want to hear all your news.’
Pam beats a polite retreat and says she’ll see us in the morning.
‘Pam says you’ve been away. Africa?’
‘Morocco.’
‘Gosh. Was it interesting?’
‘Yes.’
‘The Man Who Knew Too Much.’
‘Exactly. I saw the market square and I went for dinner at the hotel that they filmed a bit of it in. It’s a beautiful place.’
‘I’m sure. And how’s baby doing?’
‘Mother and baby are doing just fine.’
‘Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl yet?’
‘I don’t. I want it to be a surprise.’
‘If it’s a girl, call it Jane.’
‘Right.’
I wasn’t sure what I thought of that, actually.
‘Don’t worry, dear. That was a joke.’
A joke? My mother never made jokes. And when was the last time she called me dear? Actually, has she ever called me dear? This is like having a whole new mum.
‘Can I do anything for you?’ I ask, expecting her to maybe ask for a glass of water. Or an ice lolly. But her response wrong-foots me.
‘Did you come by car?’
‘No, I don’t have one. There’s not much need in London.’
‘Can you borrow one?’
‘I don’t know. Possibly.’
‘Or hire one.’
‘I’ll try. Why?’
‘I’d like to go to the seaside.’
‘Okay.’
‘Before I die. I’d like to dip my feet in the sea.’
‘Of course. We’ll do it tomorrow.’
‘Wonderful. And for now . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘I’d love an ice lolly.’
‘I’ll get you one.’
Later, as I lie in my single bed, I think that this is not the woman I’ve known. I savour each sentence she’s said to me, the warmth and love that accentuated every sound. The light in her eyes, reflected from the many bulbs in the room, but nevertheless it made her look so content. Does this mean the cancer has spread to her brain? Does this mean that actually, in the morning, she will have forgotten all about her request and will therefore have scant desire to visit the seaside? Is it even worth me looking into hiring a car to take her there or anywhere? Mind you, a little run-around while I’m down here will save me a fortune on taxi fares. I’ll look into it first thing. Maybe tomorrow she will remember her wish to get a little sand between her toes, but maybe she will also revert to being the same distant mother I’ve always known. Maybe she was giddy from being embarrassed to have almost been caught discussing her secret, the secret she has to keep from me, and she prescribed herself some enforced out-of-character jollity to cover the salacious thrill of the near miss. Maybe now she is sleeping she is back to normal. Maybe the relief of having got away with it will make her sink back to being herself again. Either way, I know if we do visit a beach tomorrow then I will be asking her what secret she is keeping from me. I’ll have few other chances to, and at the end of the day I have to ask myself – what have I got to lose?
Pam is really hacked off that I’m taking Mum out.
‘She’s not well enough,’ she says, crossing her arms as I help myself to some past-their-best Corn Flakes.
‘It’s what she wants,’ I counter.
‘It’s abuse.’
‘As if.’
‘You’ll kill her.’
‘I’ll try my very best not to.’
‘You’re not taking my car.’
‘I don’t need to. I’m borrowing Cliona’s.’
‘Who’s Cliona?’
‘The woman from the cafe.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The Hipster Teapot.’
‘Oh, that God-awful place. Marjorie Lyons took her grandson in there and d’you know what they did?’
‘Haven’t a clue.’
‘Served home-made lemonade in a jam jar.’
‘Gosh, I’ve never heard of that before. Ever.’ She doesn’t clock my heavily sarcastic tone.
‘Well, it’s true. She took a photograph on her phone to prove it.’
‘Wow.’ I should really snap out of this sarcasm.
‘And now you go in there and tell all and sundry what’s going on with your mum, presumably?’
‘Not all and sundry. I know the woman who owns it. She’s my friend.’
She doesn’t reply to that.
‘I didn’t just do some mad dash up the high street screaming, “Need to take my dying mum to the beach, can someone lend me their four-by-four?” I’m not Challenge Anneka.’
‘It’s a four-by-four?’ She’s sounding impressed now.
‘Yes. What difference does that make?’
‘None. I still don’t approve.’
‘Are you going to barricade the door so we can’t get out?’
‘How do you propose to get her out, incidentally?’
‘I will be borrowing a wheelchair from that wheelchair place in Lymington.’
‘Oh, you’ve got all bases covered.’ Now it’s her turn to sound sarcastic. I almost spit out my Corn Flakes. I don’t. But I almost do.
‘Well, what you rather I did, Pam? Hmm? Give her a fireman’s lift?’
‘There’s no need to be sarcastic.’
‘I’m not being sarcastic.’
She pulls a face that tells me she begs to differ.
‘Would you like to come with us?’ I say, meaning, Is that your problem?
Please say no. Please say no.
‘I want no part of this. I can’t believe you’re doing it. It’s nasty, that beach.’
‘I haven’t said where I’m taking her yet.’
‘The currents. It’s a dangerous place.’
‘I’m not going to make her swim, Pam.’
‘Good, coz she can’t.’
‘I know.’
‘Neither can I.’
‘I know.’
‘If I was to jump in that sea that’d be it. I’d be a goner. Same with the river out the back. I have to keep my wits about me.’
She’s making this about her.
‘I mean,’ she continues, ‘people don’t have an appreciation of how downright dangerous nature can be.’
‘Yes. I know what you mean.’
‘Look at Noah’s Ark.’
‘Well, exactly,’ I find myself saying, even though I have scant idea what she is talking about. I see she then starts to hate herself for having forgotten that she was meant to be having a go at me.
‘I still disapprove, basically,’ she says.
‘Look on it as a morning off,’ I proffer.
She shrieks with derision and heads out of the kitchen into the garden. Heading home, presumably.
Fancy not being able to swim. Fancy getting through your whole childhood without a successful trip to the swimming baths. What was it in my mum and Pam’s upbringings that meant their parents didn’t insist they learned to swim?
I instinctively reach for my stomach and imagine my unborn child with armbands on. Diving into a pool. An Olympic swimming champion. Just like . . . like . . .
Okay, so I can’t think of the names of any famous swimmers.
Except maybe her, the one who was in the films. Esther someone?
I can’t think of anything.
Oh, well. I’d better get on and do this.
I can’t quite believe Cliona has let me borrow her ginormous car. It’s a Range Rover Sport. It feels so high up. It IS so high up, I feel like I’m driving a tank. I’m seeing the forest from a whole new vantage point. If they had a regular bus service round here then this is what it’d feel like to be on the upper deck.
Talking of bloody buses, I have to swerve awkwardly when the local tourist double-decker comes zooming towards me and runs me off the road. I stupidly think everyone will understand I have some very precious cargo in the passenger seat. So I stupidly expected the tourist bus to pull over to let us go past. No such luck, of course.
Fortunately the lanes leading down to the beach are only surrounded by grass, so it’s not like I’ve crashed into any buildings or anything. I pull back onto the lane and put my foot down. I do a side eye thing to Mum, worried this might have tipped her over the edge, or worse, off her seat, but I am relieved to see that she is asleep.
At least I hope she is asleep.
All the way to the beach I pray in my head. Please keep her alive. Don’t make her be dead. Please let her be alive.
Not because I particularly want her not to die. She has suffered so much, she can go when she wants. But more for the selfish reason that I want her to see the sea. I want to have made a wish of hers come true. Also, I’ve gone to a bit of trouble hiring the wheelchair. Sixty quid for a month. I doubt she’ll last that long and I have visions of wheeling myself round in it, making her funeral arrangements. I see people feeling sorry for me. Oh, her poor disabled daughter, wheeling round planning everything, bless her. Or, Isn’t she speedy in it? And her, a cripple.
But then I banish this thought from my head as it is cruel and unnecessary and right now I think that if I entertain any negative thoughts, if I think bad things, then the bad thing will happen to my mum. And by that of course I mean the BIG bad thing. As enough bad things have already fallen in her lap.
And then I wonder again if the cancer is affecting her brain. Has it spread there? I didn’t even ask Pam about how advanced it all is. I know it’s nearly the end, but I don’t actually know where it’s travelled. I see her body as a network of roads and motorways, canals and rivers. I picture the bastard cells moving round the roadways; some travel fast, some slow. Has it gone as far as her brain? And if so, maybe that is what affected her personality change last night.
I know there is nothing of her now. I know, despite wrapping her in two fleeces, a dressing gown and an overcoat, that she was remarkably light to carry to the car. In fact I’m starting to think that the wheelchair was a bit over-the-top. Maybe the fireman’s lift isn’t completely out of the question. And now I have images of me walking through Lymington market with Mum in a papoose round my neck.
I have to stop thinking like this or bad things will happen.
The wheelchair is a good thing. They are not confining, they are liberating. This wheelchair will afford Mum some dignity as we move from the car to the beach.
The good thing about the New Forest is that you are never more than five minutes away from a beach. Well, that’s certainly how it feels living in Beaulieu.
I swing a slow right down Thorns Lane, a thin finger that points to the sea, and eventually I slow down and pull over by what looks like a field that just drops into the ocean. I get the wheelchair out of the back of the car and push it to the passenger door. Mum is still asleep. I open her door and lean across her to undo her seatbelt. Still, she doesn’t stir.
Please. Don’t let her have died as I swerved to avoid the tourist bus earlier. I don’t want to associate her passing with that ridiculous open-top green thing with the big orange sun on the side. The tourist bus that drives round all the time, breaking the speed limit, without a single passenger on board. I want her death to be beautiful. If she is going to go today, at least let her die on the beach, smiling.
‘Mum?’ I say, quite forcefully.
And, thank God for that, she wakes with a start.
‘Where are we?’
‘The beach. We’ve just got to get you down that footpath. Should be all right in this.’
I indicate the chair.
‘Can you put your arms round my neck? I’m going to lift you out.’
She slowly moves her arms round my neck.
‘You shouldn’t be doing this,’ she reprimands.
‘Well I am, so less of the back chat, Mother.’
‘In your condition,’ she adds.
‘Well, you’re hardly Ten Ton Tessie, Mum.’
And before you know it she is in the chair.
‘Hang on, I’ve brought a picnic.’
I grab my rucksack from the boot and hoick it onto my shoulders.
Time to brave the footpath.
As I push Mum along I feel the wheels glide over wet muddy leaves, stones and the odd twig, and I wonder if this is what it will be like pushing my baby round when she comes. Is this what it will feel like tucking her into a buggy and trundling her along the muddy pathways of the countryside? Will we have a better relationship than I’ve had with the woman in this chair? Well, I definitely hope so, or else there’s little point me going through with the whole performance. And some days that’s what it feels like. A performance. Because it’s an effort, a drag. There’s no-one to share it with, so some days it feels like a pointless performance. But then I have to remind myself that in a few months’ time I will no longer be on my own. Ever. Well, not for a good few years anyway. And I shan’t be packing this little one off to boarding school. Eventually we make it to the beach.
A horse is standing in the sea. The water tickles its ankles as it stands there looking out towards the Isle of Wight, unseen today in the dampness, and I have no idea how it got here. I ignore it and fall to my knees alongside the chair.
‘Good?’ I ask. And Mum nods. She stares at the horse.
‘He doesn’t look very happy, does he?’ she comments, and I shake my head.
‘No. I don’t suppose he does. Mind you. Which of us is ever happy?’
And I see a wry smile on Mum’s face.
‘You’ve all your wits about you, haven’t you?’
She nods slowly. She does everything slowly. She is literally winding down. She speaks slowly. She breathes slowly. That smile, yes, she even smiles slowly.
I take the rucksack off my back and unload its contents onto the shale. This isn’t the nicest beach in the world, but hey, it’s a beach. It’s all rocks that I have no chance of wheeling the chair across. Every now and again there’s a low wall of little knobs of wood, the occasional tree, and then the sea. And that’s it. I’m glad I wrapped Mum up well.
‘Still want to get your feet wet?’ I ask, as I pop the cork of the miniature bottle of champagne.
I look at her as I pour it into two beakers. She is shaking her head slowly.
‘No. Now I’m here. This is enough.’
I hand her a beaker. Then clink it with mine.
‘Cheers!’ I say enthusiastically.
‘Cheers back atcha,’ she says wistfully.
We sit in silence for a bit, staring out at the sea. The horse doesn’t move once. The sea is brown today. With the yellowing spume it looks like shandy. After a while I work up the courage to ask her what I’ve been dying to ask her since last night.
‘Mum?’
‘Aha?’
‘You know last night?’
‘I think so. Memory not what it was.’
‘When I came in I heard you saying to Pam. Well. Well, Pam was asking you if you were going to tell me something. And you said . . . you didn’t know I was outside. I swear I wasn’t eavesdropping, I just happened to hear it.’
She isn’t looking at me. She keeps staring at the sea.
‘And you said. You said . . . you’d take that secret to the grave.’
And still she doesn’t turn to look at me.
‘Can I ask . . . what is it you were talking about?’
‘If I tell you . . . then it won’t be a secret.’ And now she does turn to look at me, and I see she is smiling.
‘What?’ I am more insistent, and return her smile.
‘Is nothing sacred?’ she says, shakes her head and looks away. ‘You’ll kick yourself when you find out.’
‘Is it my dad? Were you talking about my dad? And who he was. And stuff like that?’
‘Oh, Rachel.’
‘What?’
I can hear in her voice she feels sorry for me.
‘Mum, what?’
‘You’re going to feel so silly,’ she says.
‘Why? What is it?’
‘Pam was asking about my special recipe for pumpkin pie.’
I display a wry smile but inside I’m screaming. Ever so gently. A muffled scream. The sort you do in the middle of the night, just as you’re waking up from a bad dream. You think you’re screaming the house down. In reality you’re emitting no sound. I know she is lying. But you can’t argue with a dying woman. So the lie goes unchallenged.
‘I knew it’d be something like that!’ I chuckle, and she wrinkles up her nose, amused.
The horse steps to the shale from the water and goes about nibbling at the leaves on a nearby tree. Next time I look at Mum she has fallen asleep. She looks cold. I worry this might finish her off and remember there’s a blanket in the car so I make the decision to run back for it. I’m only gone for less than a minute but on my return Mum is awake, her eyes wide, almost with fear.
‘Sorry. I went to get you this.’
I wrap the blanket round her, knowing that Cliona wouldn’t mind.
‘I was all on my own.’
‘Yes, I know. I’m sorry.’
‘Good practise.’
‘Don’t say that. No need to be on your own now. I’m back. And I’m not going anywhere.’
‘I don’t want to be on my own.’ And as she says that her hand reaches out from under the blanket and clasps mine and it kind of breaks my heart because she needs me. It kind of breaks my heart because finally I feel like the parent and she is the child.
‘You’re not, Mum. You’re not,’ I say, and I cuddle into her and stroke the short downy grey hair on her head. Pam’s cut it all short for her so she looks like a reject from Greenham Common. It suits her. She looks gamine, elfin. Not just like a woman with short hair dying of cancer.
I misjudged her head. Most of your heat loss comes via your head and I didn’t think to bring a hat or put something on her head to keep her warm.
‘Are you cold?’
‘No, I’m okay.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Stop fussing.’
‘Drink your champagne.’
‘I’ll be tipsy.’
‘Well, it’s not like you’re driving.’
‘This might be my last drink.’
‘I doubt it. I have a feeling this could be the start of a rocky road to alcoholism.’
‘It might kill me.’
‘Shit. STOP NOW.’
And the pair of us laugh. A lot. Eventually we settle and she takes another swig of her champagne.
‘So,’ I say. ‘We’ve done the beach. Is there anything else you want to do before . . .’ Why did I say ‘before’?
‘. . . Before too long?’
‘No. My bucket list is very short.’
‘This is a bucket list?’
‘Well. A very small bucket. A thumble.’
‘Thumble?’
‘I mean thimble.’
‘I like thumble. It’s like a thimble, but has a bucket-esque quality to it.’
‘Are you going to be okay, Rachel?’
‘I’m going to be fine, Mum.
‘Oh, good. Because that was next on my list.’
‘Two done in one day. We’re just living life in the fast lane.’
‘Dying in the fast lane.’
And that does make me smile.
‘Oh hello, black humour,’ I say, ‘pull up a chair. I’ve been expecting you.’
‘I’m a bit cold.’
‘Then let’s get you home.’
The good thing about the Range Rover Sport, I discover on the way back, is that at the push of a button you can warm your seat up, so Mum gets so toasty in the car that she actually asks me to drive her round for a bit so she can see the scenery.
‘Aren’t we lucky? Living in one of the most beautiful places in the world?’ she says quietly.
‘Yes. We really are spoiled.’
‘I don’t like it particularly. I’ve never liked it really. But there’s no denying it’s pretty.’
I look at her, alarmed. It’s the first time she’s ever told me she doesn’t like the area.
‘I thought you liked it here.’
‘It was a good place to hide away, I guess.’
‘Who were you hiding from?’
She shakes her head, pulling a face as if she doesn’t know, or doesn’t want to say, or even that it’s not important. But then she says, ‘Me, probably. I don’t know.’
Maybe the cancer is affecting her brain, and this is how it’s showing itself.
But then I realize she is just being honest. In cancer veritas. I don’t know why I should be so surprised when she spent most of my childhood in a catatonic state. I can only imagine she was depressed for most of her adult life. She rarely seemed happy, so why should it be such a biggie that she didn’t like where she lived?
‘Have I asked you about Marrakech?’
‘Er, no, not really.’
‘Memory like a sieve.’
‘That’s okay. I’m really forgetful.’
‘Was it lovely?’
‘Yes, it was stunning. I loved it.’
‘Not too hot?’
‘Really hot. But really beautiful. They had tortoises in my hotel.’
‘What?’
‘They had tortoises in my hotel.’
‘Yes, I thought you said that. Where were they?’
‘Just . . . roaming about on the ground floor.’
‘Roaming?’
‘Yes. Not very fast. But yes.’
‘How odd.’
‘Very.’
‘I like these seats.’
‘I know, they’re great, aren’t they?’
‘Whose car is it again?’
‘Cliona’s.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘From the cafe.’
‘Yes. Jam jars.’
‘Yes. Jam jars. Pam was saying.’
‘Pam says a lot.’
And we share a chuckle.
When eventually I pull up outside the cottage Pam runs out with a tea towel in her hand, purple of face.
‘I was worried sick! Where the hell did you take her? Bournemouth?’
‘No, just Sowley,’ I say as I’m getting out of the car.
Pam is at the passenger door now and I realize it’s pointless to try to stop her from carrying Mum inside herself.
‘Hello, love. Where’s she been dragging you, then? Blimey, it’s hot in there, isn’t it? Like a flaming sauna.’
‘She likes it,’ I say.
‘She’ll get a shock once she’s in her cold place again. Come on, Trouble. Let’s get you indoors.’
And I watch her carry Mum inside.
Later, Mum is sleeping. I’ve been to Tesco and am trying to make a fish pie. I have no idea why I think a fish pie is such a good idea – it’s not like she’s going to eat it, but I guess it’s as good as any other sturdy dish that can tide us over and can always be reheated. I am assuming Pam is taking her meals over here now. She certainly never seems that keen to leave. She hovers as I prepare the fish.
‘What fish did you get?’
‘Well, I just got pre-prepared chunks.’
‘Pre-prepared?’
‘Pre-prepared chunks, yes.’
‘Bet that was pricey.’
‘What d’you want me to do, Pam? Jump in the river and stab what I can see with a protractor?’
‘A what?’
‘A protractor. Oh, it doesn’t matter.’
‘Money to burn,’ she mutters to herself.
I know what will shut her up. I know what will change the direction of our evening.
‘What secret will Mum be taking to the grave?’
‘Beg pardon?’
‘I said – what secret will Mum be taking to the grave?’
I turn to look at her. She does a very good impression of someone who hasn’t the foggiest idea what I might be talking about.
‘I heard you. Last night. Before I came in.’
I don’t take my eyes off her and I see her neck redden with nerves. I know she’s not going to tell me.
‘It’s just talk, init?’
‘She said, “Rachel must never know”.’
‘I honestly can’t remember.’
‘You can. You’re lying to me.’
‘I’m not, Rachel.’
‘And earlier. When I first arrived. You said . . . you said it wasn’t Mum’s fault we’d never been that close but . . . she had had problems.’
‘Did I?’
She gives the impression that it wasn’t that important. Can’t be, if she can barely remember it. Eventually I return to cooking.
‘Did she have a breakdown?’ I ask quietly.
She doesn’t reply.
Eventually she comes closer to me and takes my hand and removes the knife from it. I look at her.
‘I don’t know what you’d call it. And I don’t know what brought it on. But yes. She couldn’t do anything for herself. I did it all. She saw a few doctors and they all dosed her up on pills.’
‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of.’
‘Not now. Very different then. She asked me not to tell you. She wanted to . . .’
And I finish her sentence off for her. ‘Take that secret to the grave.’
That night I have such vivid dreams. Mum and I are driving around 1950s London in an open-top car. For some reason she has morphed into Doris Day but as this is a dream it’s absolutely fine. We’re having a gay old time, as gals did in those days, off on a bout of shopping. Hat boxes surround us and Mother can’t stop laughing. We really are having super fun.
I wake. And realize there’s someone in my bedroom. Disorientated, I think it’s Mum.
‘Mum?’
But the voice I hear tells me it’s Pam.
‘Rachel?’
‘Mm?’
I sit up and put the bedside light on. Pam looks pale as a sheet.
‘She’s gone.’