1

My mother’s face had haunted me since I’d last seen her, almost two weeks ago. Her one good eye staring. A string of saliva stretching from the corner of her mouth. Her right hand frozen into a claw as she struggled to reach for the warmth of mine.

This would be the first time I had seen her since she’d been transferred from the big hospital in Glasgow to Lennox House – a nursing home in the village where she’d spent most of her adult life.

The driveway was just wide enough for one car – there were a few passing places dotted along its length. The grass verges were neatly trimmed and a mix of large-leafed trees and giant rhododendron bushes broke the view over a wide, closely clipped lawn.

I followed the long curve of the drive and a couple of minutes later we were pulling up in front of a large ivy-covered Victorian mansion. There were three rows of tall windows set into stained, blond sandstone. In the centre, a grand portico, supported by four Greek pillars, stood over a large glass door.

‘It’s lovely,’ Angela said to me from the passenger seat, as she craned her neck to look up at the building. ‘The village seemed nice as well. A nice place to grow up. I’ve only ever known the city,’ she added wistfully.

I studied her expression to check if she was having a go at me. Despite the fact we’d been together for around two years – by around I mean we’ve been as much ‘on’ as ‘off’ over that period – I’d never brought her to the village where I’d grown up.

Inside, I was struck by the elegance and grandeur of the place. This impression was followed by the recognition of the subtle smell that hung in the air. It clung to my nostrils and filled my lungs. It was the smell of incontinence, dying breaths, and fading memories. The flowers spilling from vases on every available surface did nothing to mask it; their perfume only added to the cloying smell. We approached an imposing desk, and the receptionist looked up from her paperwork and offered us a smile. She had dark, straightened hair and was wearing a black jacket over a white shirt. The name badge on her lapel read Donna. Receptionist. ‘Morning. How can I help you?’ She looked from me to Angela and allowed her gaze to rest on her as if she judged Angela the more important.

‘I’m here to see my mother, Donna,’ I said. ‘Mrs Lorna Docherty.’

Donna smiled over at me, then looked down at her screen and punched a few keys on her keyboard.

‘Room twenty-two, first floor.’

I nodded my thanks, turned and walked over to the staircase. As I looked around, the doctor’s words from the last time I spoke to him echoed in my mind: ‘Your mother has had a massive stroke, Mr Docherty. And sadly she didn’t get to a hospital quickly enough. Our tests indicate…’ He went on speaking but I couldn’t really take it in. Lots of big words and serious expressions. ‘…We remain ever hopeful of course, but despite her relatively young age we expect she will see her days out under assisted care…’

And this place would cost money. A lot of money.

I’d need to sell her house.

Angela reached for my hand. ‘You okay?’ she asked.

‘Got a bit of a sore head,’ I replied, offering her a smile, aware my tension was causing it to fray at the edges.

Together we walked over to the wide staircase and started to climb its plushly carpeted steps. The oak panelling on the walls matched the banister and was hung with large portraits of grim-faced Lennox men and women. The men all wore some form of army uniform and the women were dressed in dark, no-nonsense garments, the only flesh on show their pale hands clasped firmly on their laps.

Finding the door marked 22 I paused before it, steeled myself against the upset of what I would see on the other side, knocked on it with a single knuckle and entered.

My mother’s room matched the scale of that part of the old house we’d seen so far. Immediately on entering we were greeted by a wide space, her bed against the wall to the right, so that she was afforded a spectacular view out of the large bay window, taking in the rooftops of Seamill, a wide strip of sea, and the outline of the sleeping warrior on the horizon: the Isle of Arran.

‘…ohn,’ my mother tried to say my name and reached her good hand out to me.

With a churning stomach I rushed over to her, praying I was convincing in my effort to hide my shock at her appearance. Each time I visited her in hospital the jolt I experienced at the change in her didn’t lessen. I felt it again as I attempted a reassuring smile.

‘Whe … you … been?’ she asked, squeezing out the words with considerable effort, her mouth making almost impossible shapes.

I used the time it took to pull a chair over to her bed to compose myself. To force my mind to accept what I was seeing as her new ‘normal’.

‘I was here just the other week,’ I lied, struggling to meet her gaze.

‘I know … s’not easy…’

I leaned forwards and kissed her cheek, and in response I could feel her stiffen as she inhaled, as if she had caught the scent of something.

‘You … drinnkinnng?’

‘Goodness sake, Mum. Give it a rest, eh?’

I distracted myself again for a moment by reaching for a tissue from the box on her bedside cabinet and then wiping at the dribble sliding from the side of her mouth and down to her chin.

‘Hi there,’ said Angela as she moved to the other side of the bed. Leaning forwards she gave my mother a peck on the cheek. ‘I hope they’re looking after you.’ I envied her apparently casual and natural demeanour. Thinking that I’d never get used to this version of my mother, I once again composed my features into an expression that suggested everything was normal.

But it wasn’t. My mother was a stricken, haunted version of herself. Always slim, she was alarmingly thin now, the weight loss exaggerating the lines on her face and the size of her one good eye.

Her hair, which she had always taken great care over, was flat and lifeless on her crown and was pressed to the side of her head by her pillow.

‘I think we should get in touch with Marie at your salon. See if she’ll do an outside visit,’ I said, forcing some energy into my voice.

Mum’s face looked like it was being pushed to one side as she worked on a smile. ‘Would be … nice.’ Then she turned her attention to Angela and I could see a wariness there. Mum had never taken to any of my girlfriends.

Mum made a sound that could have been a thank-you. Or it might just have been her trying to clear her throat. Angela took the kinder interpretation, smiled in response and continued talking. Her chatter was warm and unaffected, and eased the tension in the room. I couldn’t have been more grateful for it.

Back in the car, Angela reached across and held my hand. ‘You okay, honey?’

I craned my neck and looked up at the old house. ‘She’s in a bit of a state, isn’t she?’

Angela’s face formed a reassuring expression. ‘She’s in the right place.’

‘I know. It’s just … she’s not long turned sixty. She’s way too young for this to have happened.’

‘Can happen at any age,’ Angela said. ‘A man at my work had one when he was only fifty-six.’ She stroked my hand, her eyes warm with sympathy. ‘You OK? Can’t be nice seeing your mum like that?’

‘I envy your … you were just so calm with her. And she’s hardly been the most welcoming…’

Her smile was pained but accepting. ‘Mothers and sons,’ she sighed. ‘Lots of mothers struggle with another woman in their son’s life.’

‘I should really go to Mum’s, have a look and work out what needs to get done before I try and sell the place.’

‘Good thinking,’ Angela replied. ‘And you need time on your own to process all of this. Why don’t you drop me off at the train station and I’ll make my way back home? I need to get back up for the wee one, and it strikes me that you could do with some time on your own.’

As we made our way back up the drive, I looked in the rear-view mirror. A glint of evening sun against a window caught my eye and I stared up at the building. Ivy leaves the size of hands clung to it, lifting and shifting in the determined breeze, giving an illusion of movement, a deception of life.