Helen parked her car outside the old house, bracing herself to go inside. Three times a week she visited her mother, conscious that it must be lonely for her still living here in the old house, with so many of her old neighbours and friends gone or living in retirement or nursing homes. As Sheila grew older the demands were greater, and she relied on Helen more and more for everything. Helen did her best, and brought her out shopping and for drives and walks, and often had her to stay at the weekends. Getting old was no fun, but Sheila Hennessy was still full of spirit and determined to be independent and live in her own home.
The family home where Helen had grown up looked run-down and unkempt, the grass long and covered with fallen leaves. The front windows and front door were both in need of repainting. She remembered a time when this house had been one of the finest on the street. Her mother had always insisted on having a border of colourful seasonal bedding plants running to the front door, the lawn immaculately clipped and the hedge trimmed.
This house on Willow Grove had been home for so long to Helen and her three brothers. They’d had a great childhood, and she must have swung on the rusting gate thousands of times. Along with her brothers, Tim and David and Brendan, she’d raced and chased up and down the road here, and played rounders and football with the rest of the kids, and endless games of elastics and hopscotch with her best friends, Marianne and Claire. It had always seemed safe, and she could never have imagined a better place to live. Her bedroom was the one up over the garage, with the Virginia creeper rambling beneath the window sill. Number thirty-two looked shabby and neglected now, a complete contrast to the neighbours’ houses, many of which had been sold to be gutted and transformed by their new owners.
Billy Maguire’s one next door was being extended now. The builders were giving it expensive wooden windows and ceiling-height glass doors that ran the length of the back of the house and opened on to an immaculate paved garden with box hedging, borders of French lavender, and outside silver lighting.
Helen locked the car and went to the front door. She rang the bell two or three times, waiting for her mother’s footsteps to sound in the hall. Her mother’s hearing was bad; she could see through the patterned glass that Sheila wasn’t coming and opened the hall door with her own key.
‘Mum, it’s me!’ she called loudly, not wanting to scare her as she walked around downstairs. There were newspapers all over the living room, and the curtains were only half-pulled. Passing through the dining room, she noted the table was covered in books and magazines and odds and ends of things. Her mother had become a hoarder of late, unwilling to throw anything out, and even at a quick glance Helen could see some of the papers were months old. The kitchen was worse, with pots and pans atop the cooker and the draining board covered with dirty plates and saucers and cups. Nothing looked clean, and the bin in the corner was overflowing. What was Sylvie, the home help they had hired, doing to have the place in this state? She was meant to help Sheila twice a week with simple household cleaning and washing.
‘Mum!’ Helen yelled again, hearing movement from upstairs.
Her mother was sitting in front of the dressing table in the bedroom in her dressing gown, trying to dry her damp hair. Helen stifled her annoyance, as her mother was supposed to have been ready to be collected and brought out to lunch and to the shops.
‘Mum, what are you up to? You told me that you were ready when I phoned you earlier this morning.’
‘I didn’t realize the time, love,’ Sheila apologized, as she tried to manoeuvre the hairdryer.
‘Here, let me do that,’ offered Helen, taking the brush from her mother’s hands.
Sheila Hennessy might have grey hair but it was still thick and full, with a slight curl to it. She was eighty-four, but was still a very attractive woman. She had great skin and a good figure, with only a touch of arthritis in her hands and trouble with her knee.
‘What happened to Sylvie?’ Helen asked, as she dried the hair.
Her mother didn’t answer, and Helen made a mental note to phone the home help later and find out what was going on. Her mother had already gone through three other home helps, but with Sylvie – the gentle, calm Filipina who had come to work in Ireland – Helen had thought they had found someone who would stay.
‘She stole my ring,’ her mother whispered.
‘Which ring?’
‘The sapphire one that your father gave me,’ her mother insisted. ‘She was a thief.’
‘Mum, I don’t think Sylvie was a thief,’ Helen protested, searching for her mother’s gold-coloured jewel box. Four rings sat snug on the top layer in their velvet slits, the sapphire among them.
‘Mum!’ She pointed it out. ‘You are wrong. Sylvie’s a lovely girl!’
‘I never liked her.’
There was no point arguing and Helen concentrated on drying her mother’s hair. ‘You get dressed, while I go down and tidy the place a bit before we leave,’ she bossed.
In the kitchen she put on the kettle and filled the sink with hot soapy water, lowering the filthy plates and cups into it. Why her mother had refused to get a dishwasher was beyond her, and she vowed to club together with her brothers and buy her one for Christmas, whether she liked it or not.
‘I’m ready.’ Her mother appeared, smiling, wearing a soft pink pastel twinset and a grey check skirt.
‘You look lovely,’ said Helen, giving her a kiss. ‘The hair looks great.’
‘Where are we going?’ asked her mother. ‘Is Lar coming, too?’
Helen nearly dropped the cup she was drying with a tea towel. Her dad, Larry Hennessy, had died ten years ago.
‘Mammy, you know Daddy’s not coming,’ she said gently. ‘We are going to lunch in Poppies, and then we’ll do a bit of shopping. We’ll get a few groceries, and see if there are a few things you want for Christmas.’
Her mother gave a little smile as Helen helped her to put on her blue wool jacket. Helen tried to hide her concern as she buckled her mother into the front seat of her car.
Poppies restaurant was busy, but the waitress managed to find them a table for two near the back. It was a regular haunt, and there were lots of women friends and mothers and daughters having lunch there. Helen and Sheila ordered Poppies’ chicken special and a pot of tea.
‘How are you?’ asked Sheila, patting Helen’s hand. ‘You look a bit tired.’
‘I am tired,’ Helen admitted. ‘There’s a lot to be done with the wedding. I always seem to be rushing around checking things and phoning people and getting prices. I mean, it’s lovely, but there is a lot of work, and I’m trying to give Amy a hand with it all.’
‘Will I be going to the wedding?’ her mother asked hesitantly.
‘Mum, of course you’re coming to Amy and Dan’s wedding! You’re her granny.’
‘I love weddings,’ smiled her mother, as the waitress put the plates of creamy chicken with crunchy topping and salad down in front of them. ‘I’ll get my hair done and wear something nice.’
‘Of course you will,’ laughed Helen, wondering what the hell had got into her mother. She normally demanded a blow-by-blow account of her grandchildren’s doings and love lives, and here she was, acting as if she didn’t remember about Amy’s wedding. She knew old people could be forgetful, but usually her mum was as sharp as they came. She hoped Sheila wasn’t coming down with something.
‘Mum, are you feeling OK?’
‘I’m fine, Helen. My knee is acting up a bit, but I have those tablets Doctor Shaw gave me. Still, I can’t complain at my age about a bit of stiffness when I get up in the morning.’
‘I get stiff myself,’ confessed Helen, wondering what she was going to be like when she was her mother’s age.
‘Are we having a dessert?’
‘You have one, Mum. I’m cutting back for the wedding.’
‘I’ll have a meringue, then.’
Watching her mother tuck into the huge meringue shell filled with cream, Helen dismissed the nagging sense of worry she had about the old woman.
Sheila Hennessy was entitled to dislike a home help, and to have a messy kitchen and sitting room. Look at Fran! Some of her other friends had homes like tips, too, and they weren’t near her mother’s age. Old people let things slide. Anyone who ever went to see a house that was up for sale where elderly people lived was usually appalled by the state of it. She and Paddy would probably be the same when they were eighty. No! She was worrying needlessly. There was her mother sitting across the table from her looking pretty in pink and enjoying her favourite dessert. She’d talk to Sylvie. Find out what had happened, and if she couldn’t reconcile the two of them, she’d see if the agency could find Sheila a new home help. Meanwhile, she’d talk to her brothers about getting home help for an extra day a week. Sheila had always treasured her independence and refused to consider moving to a retirement home the way many of her elderly neighbours had done. Helen hoped that her mother would still be able to live alone.