part0010

‘Y ou seem very chipper today, dear, have you been up to something nice at the weekend?’ Mrs Forsyth sets my cup of tea on the table and sits down opposite me. She’s such a love, she won’t even let me make a cup of tea for her, let alone do the cleaning that I get paid for.

‘Oh, nothing special. Took Mother out for a drive in the countryside for a change of scenery but nothing much apart from that.’ I amaze myself at how easily the lie trips off my tongue.

‘You’re so good to your mother, she must be so proud of you.’

I say nothing but smile and take a sip of tea.

‘Cake, dear?’ Mrs Forsyth proffers a plate of daintily sliced Battenburg.

I shake my head, ‘Not for me thank you, although it looks delicious.’

‘Oh, silly me.’ Mrs Forsyth slaps herself on the wrist. ‘I mustn’t tempt you, you’re doing so well. They’ll soon be nothing of you at the rate you’re going.’

I thought that the weight loss would slow down but if anything it’s speeded up; the longer my nocturnal runs get the more weight I lose. I’ve had to buy another pair of trainers from Foodco because the ones I bought when I started running are too big – they actually flop off my feet; I’ve gone down two shoe sizes. My feet look almost normal now and hardly bulge over the top of ballet flats at all.

‘Did I ever tell you the story about Mr Forsyth and the time we were posted to Singapore?’

‘No,’ I say, lying again. ‘That must have been quite exciting, what was Singapore like?’

I fix an interested expression on my face as Mrs Forsyth happily tells me a story I’ve heard many times before. I did listen the first time so I don’t feel too bad and I’m getting quite adept at making the appropriate noises in the right places.

I zone out and ponder the events of the last couple of days. The weekend started like any other; Mother demanding this, that and the other; cooking, cleaning and running up and down the stairs to her. Her soup was too hot, the bread was dry, the towels were hard because I used the wrong fabric conditioner, the vacuum too noisy, the tea too weak, the toast not buttered enough.

A Saturday like any other.

And I behaved like I always have done; apologising, cajoling, tip toeing around her so as not to spark one of her episodes.

I think, maybe, in my own mind, I was giving her one last chance to change; to be nicer, to be more reasonable, before I told her how it was going to be from now on.

The shock on her face was a picture.

And she didn’t believe me; she thought she could shout and scream and bully and threaten me to get her own way, just as she’s always done.

It started with the telephone; I wondered how long it would take her to realise that it still wasn’t working. Longer than I thought as it turned out. It took her until lunchtime so I think it must have slipped her mind and it wasn’t until I took her lunch in– scrambled eggs on toast and a cup of tea –that she remembered because as I walked into the room she had the receiver in her hand.

‘The telephone still isn’t working,’ she said mulishly, holding it aloft. ‘Bring me up your mobile. I want to make a call to the stair lift people.’

‘I shouldn’t think they work Saturdays,’ I said in my most pleasant voice.

‘I’ll try them anyway. Get me your mobile. I’ll keep it until the engineers come and fix the phone.’

‘They’re not coming.’

‘What?’ she has that edge to her voice, the edge that will soon turn into a screech. ‘Haven’t you called them? I thought you were going to pick your phone up this morning when you went shopping.’

‘No. I didn’t. It was downstairs all of the time but I didn’t want you to use it. And there’s nothing wrong with the landline, the one downstairs works perfectly well.’

She looks momentarily confused and amazingly is quiet for a moment, but not for long. The calm before the storm.

‘MINE doesn’t work.’ She waves the phone around.

‘Oh, that.’ I pulled the legs out on the tray and placed it carefully over her lap. ‘That’ll be because I cut the cable.’

Her mouth made a perfect O of surprise, a bit like a fish just landed in the net, gasping for air. An old, miserable trout.

‘WHAT are you talking about?’

‘I cut it,’ I said in my most reasonable tone, ‘with your nail scissors. So you can’t use it.’

Puzzlement quickly gave way to anger which is Mother’s default for everything.

‘You had better explain yourself, my girl. And quickly.’

‘Okay,’ I said, settling myself down on the foot of her bed, ‘but eat your scrambled egg before it gets cold, because that’s something that’s going to change around here – eat what you’re given or go without. No more cooking something else because you don’t like what’s on offer.’

She never did eat that scrambled egg, or the toast, or even drink her tea.

She had one of her episodes, of course, I wouldn’t have expected anything less. I told her that there’d be no stair lift and no telephone but things could go on pretty much as they always had. I’d still look after her, cook her meals, clean, shop; everything I’d always done. Nothing would change as far as she was concerned except that I would be doing what I wanted from now on and I wouldn’t be kowtowing to her and putting up with her nonsense anymore.

She didn’t believe me of course, she thinks I don’t have the guts so she started with her shouting and nastiness and do you know what I did? I left. I closed her door, quietly, went downstairs and put my trainers on and went out for a nice long run for a couple of hours. It was nice to run in daylight and I didn’t feel embarrassed at all because although I’m not slim I’m not supersized anymore, I’m normal fat-but-is- running-to-lose-weight size, and no one gave me a second glance.

When I came back I wondered if she’d still be shouting but the house was quiet when I let myself in. I ran up the stairs and opened her door and she was still awake – I thought she might have worn herself out and gone to sleep – still sitting there with the tray on her lap with her lunch gone cold.

I walked over and picked the tray up, and all the while she watched me with plain hatred on her face.

‘Are you sure you don’t want this Mother? I asked pleasantly, ‘Dinner’s not for another couple of hours.’

Her look of rage was comical and I had to swallow down a giggle. Because it is funny and I don’t know why it’s taken me so long to see it; all this time I’ve been the one with the power and I’ve let her boss me around and make my life hell. I think it’s because I’m the nicer person; nicer than her. I’ll still be nice, in my way, but I won’t be ordered around anymore. Anyway, she opened her mouth, probably to shout at me, but before she could speak I held up my index finger and waved it at her.

‘Just to remind you Mother, of our previous conversation. If you want me to do anything for you then you need to be civil to me, you need to speak nicely.’

She glared at me and I thought she was going to start again and I would have to shut the door and go downstairs and turn the television on really loud. But she didn’t shout. Maybe I have a new aura of I mean it around me.

‘No,’ she said through gritted teeth.

‘See, that wasn’t so hard was it?’ I whisked the tray away from her. ‘What about a cup of tea and a biscuit?’

She glared at me without speaking so I turned and had got to the door before she spoke.

‘Coming right up,’ I said cheerfully in my best American diner voice, and downstairs I went with a bit of a skip in my step. Even after all that running.

And that’s how things have continued. I know Mother too well and I can see her plotting to put things back the way they were; she just can’t figure out how to do it. She’ll realise eventually that there’s nothing she can do and as long as she behaves her life will continue as normal. Apart from me not putting up with her rudeness of course, but she’ll get used to it. I’m making some other changes too, but not too much at once. I’ll let her get used to things the way they are now and then I’ll broach the subject of my wages, because I’m not giving them to her anymore. I think I’m being very reasonable; if she had to pay for a live-in carer it’d cost her an arm and a leg. I’m not expecting her to pay me – I’m just not going to pay her. But I’ll leave it a couple of weeks before we have that discussion, which will no doubt cause another of her episodes.

Mrs Forsyth puts another cup of tea in front of me and I realise that I’ve missed most of her stories of Singapore and I’m not sure if I’ve given the appearance of listening. I watch her and she seems happy enough so she can’t have noticed; I don’t want to upset her, she’s a nice lady.

‘You said you’ve got a new client to do after me, dear ?

‘Yes, I have. I did a trial clean for them and they were so pleased with it they particularly asked for me.’ I don’t know why I’m lying, I’ve no reason to, I just can’t seem to stop myself. It’s so easy. I think I might make a hobby of it.

‘That’s wonderful dear. Is it once a week or twice?’ Is that a hint of jealousy I can hear in her voice? I need to tone my enthusiasm down, I don’t want to upset her as I am quite fond of her. It’s easy money too.

‘Just once. And they won’t be there, they’re always at work. It won’t be like coming here, you know, like coming to visit a friend.’ Mrs Forsyth blushes slightly and smiles and I feel a bit of a rat for playing to her like that.

‘And between you and me,’ I lean towards her conspiratorially, ‘they’re not the cleanest.’

Mrs Forsyth puts her hand to her mouth and giggles.

‘Ooh, you are naughty, Alison, tell me more.’

So, I lie a bit more.

I let myself into Bella’s house with the key Veronica gave me. I close the front door and stand in the hallway while I drink it all in. The pale cream walls with one wall papered in pale grey paper with large silver leaves cascading down, the deep piled cream carpet that you sink into, the faint aroma of jasmine coming from the plug-in air freshener.

I go into the kitchen and scrutinise it; reminiscent of my first visit with Doris and Rita, the worktops are littered with dirty plates, glasses and cups with not an inch of clear beechwood to be seen. A heavy copper frying pan is wedged in the sink, the remnants of bacon and eggs floating in the scummy water that’s been run into it. I drain the water from the frying pan and scoop the leftovers out with a spoon and slop it onto the nearest dirty plate. I put the sink plug in and turn the taps on and run fresh hot soapy water while I scrape the leftovers from the plates into the bin. Judging by the contents of the bin they’re partial to Marks and Spencer meals for two and steak, lots of very expensive pre-packaged steak. I pile the dishes next to the sink and unload the clean items from the dishwasher and reload it. Not strictly my job but I want to do it, I want this house to be perfect and I have a hard act to follow in Rita. I don’t want Bella asking for someone else to clean because I’ve not done what Rita always does.

I wonder if I’ll ever have the need to buy a Marks and Spencer meal for two? I could buy one for myself and Mother but it’s hardly the same is it? Anyway, too many calories in it; maybe when I’m slim.

I clean the frying pan and then whizz around the worktops and cupboard doors with the spray and cloth until they’re sparkling. I look at my watch to see that I’ve already used over an hour of a two-hour clean. I’m not bothered if I run over, I want to make a good impression even though I won’t get paid for the extra hours. Besides, I get paid for cleaning Mrs Forsyth’s and I don’t do any cleaning at all there.

I slowly walk upstairs but unlike the first time I was here I take my time and use the opportunity to have a good look at everything. I go into the room that’s used as a study and look at all of the stuff on the desks being careful not to touch anything. Bella’s side is untidy; her pink laptop is still open at her emails and post it notes are stuck haphazardly on the notice board on the wall in front of the desk. I sit down in her seat, a squishy leather swivel chair on wheels that don’t move very well on the plush carpet. I straighten my shoulders and cross my legs and pretend I’m Bella. Her laptop keyboard looks shiny with grease in places and I minimise the screen to wipe it over with a cloth but then stop myself and leave it dirty; I don’t want them to think I’m prying. I don’t recall seeing Rita clean it, in fact I’m sure she said something about them not wanting anything touched on the desks and just to vacuum the carpet and dust everywhere but the desks. Her partner’s side of the desk, or Justin, as I discover he’s called from the credit card bill lying in the ‘to do’ tray, is much tidier and organised. His laptop is closed and squared tidily in the middle of the desk, his chair neatly pushed underneath. A neat row of post-it-notes are soldiered along the edge of the notice board, lined up with precision.

Bella and Justin. Even sounds glamorous doesn’t it?

After dusting the chairs and the windowsill and skirting boards, I stand back to make sure I’ve not disturbed or moved anything. Satisfied, I move onto their bedroom. I make straight for the walk-in wardrobe; Bella has so many clothes, beautiful clothes in sizes eight and ten. She has at least ten gym outfits; not cruddy leggings and baggy t-shirts like I wear but glossy black stretchy leggings shot through with lovely rainbow colours with matching zippered tops. At least five pairs of trainers, all designer names. I can’t imagine Bella sweating, she’d even look beautiful working out.

I wonder what her job is; she has lots of smart suits with tiny silky blouses, lots of different coloured, high heeled court shoes. Designer jeans in every colour imaginable, several still unworn with the price tags dangling from them. I grasp hold of a pair and study the ticket and gasp at the price; several of my weeks’ wages for one pair of jeans.

Dresses too, short, swingy mini-dress, knee length elegant day dresses and gorgeous, long, flowing dresses in sumptuous silks and lace.

I turn to Justin’s side of the wardrobe; suits, so many suits. I can tell by the feel of the fabric that these are not run of the mill. I select a dark blue jacket with the faintest of gold pinstripes and carefully unbutton it to find the hand sewn label inside; Gillespies of Saville Row . Of course, handmade.

I spend far too long in the wardrobe but I can’t help myself. I even look through Bella’s underwear drawer – she’d probably call it lingerie. Beautiful lace and satin bras, everything matching in every colour available. I think of my own greying giant-sized cotton knickers and utility bras and feel ashamed. One day, one day.

I look at my watch to see that two hours have gone by and I’ve barely started. I drag myself out of the walk-in wardrobe and begin to dust, picking up discarded clothes from the floor and putting them in the huge wicker hamper in the bathroom next to the his and hers basins. I wonder if they send their laundry out? I can’t imagine Bella washing and ironing.