Small Acts of Kindness, page 8
Blink, eyes. Blink.
It appears my eyes do not wish to blink.
Where Toby came up with Schitt’s Creek, I cannot imagine. I’ve never seen a single episode. Fleabag perhaps? But this is OK. It’s a long time since I’ve watched TV.
I’ve heard about it, of course, the story of a family of multi-millionaire Americans who have lost everything and end up on their own in a crummy motel, miles away from everything they’ve ever known. The joke, I suppose, is that they’re up Schitt’s Creek.
Oh, I see. This is Toby’s idea of funny. Ha, ha, ha.
‘So, I’ll just take your blood pressure while this is on, if you don’t mind, Norton?’
No, Tammy. You go right ahead.
MRS M
Y
ES, DOCTOR, OF COURSE I understand what you are saying. I may be eighty-four but I am not gaga yet, if you please. And yes, certainly, I am aware that I am in hospital. How could I not be with those nurses insisting on sticking their – you know – into my – oh, you know, my thing – every minute of the day? It does distract one so. As do those spiders, on your – and – and yes – of course – I know my name. For goodness’ sake, man. My name is Mary Violet Malley, born Mary Violet Penhaligon on 27th March 1935. So as you can see, stroke or no stroke, I am of perfectly sound – oh, you know – you know, thank you ever so.
I’m just a little – still. But yes, I can un-der-stand.
Yes, of course I can answer I just – yes, I understand. I shall tell you as much just as soon as the – things – come back to my – you know. To my. The things in my—
KIKI
H
IS FACE NEVER LOOKS too excited, but that tail is super-stoked and he gives me a look when I tell him, ‘Sorry I’ve been so long. Long shift at work,’ like – yeah – he understands that.
I explain about needing to use my laptop while I was there and had Wi-Fi, checking the message I’d posted on a festival community site saying did anyone know where I could find a Glastonbury Festival ticket to see if there were any replies. I had one which just said, ‘Join the queue!’ And another which called me deluded.
‘People aren’t always very friendly, eh, Wordsworth,’ I say, and he wags at me like he agrees.
Not that I could afford the ticket if one did magically turn up. The wages Mervyn’s paying can’t be legal, let alone how much he’s ripping me off for that room. I tried to talk about it nicely. He said to bring it up with my union.
At least Wordsworth appreciates me. I’ll take him for a nice walk in a moment. But on his lead. I don’t think Mrs M would be happy if I lost him.
What’s that look now? Hmm. An empty dog bowl? Yeah, fair point.
I’d love Yaya to have seen this house. She was always talking about English cottages and how pretty they were, and how ‘spick and span’. All the flowers and lace and stuff.
Yaya used to call it chitz. I was twenty-four before Sue in Auckland put me right. When I told her to picture me over here in England in a flowery cottage with chitz curtains, Sue told me what the real word was.
Still, that was Yaya-speak. You had to fill in the gaps.
Yaya would have loved all the chitz here. The curtains with their ties, and the fringes on the lampshades. Wordsworth even has a crochet mat under his dog bowl. He’s gazing at it.
There was chicken in the fridge. But he’s had that already.
‘Let’s have a look,’ I tell him.
The fridge is definitely spick and span, all these little Tupperware boxes with their labels. Calves’ liver. Haddock (smoked). Sausage meat (pork). Don’t dogs normally eat biscuits or something?
Wait, Wordsworth. What about this cupboard here?
Blackberry conserve (Sept 2018), strawberry jam (frozen, Mch 2019), and these are – what? – custard powder, cornflour, bicarbonate of soda, candied mixed peel. OK. Here under the sink?
Look at that tail. Telling me I’m warm? I used to play that with Yaya. She’d hide a lolly or something and she’d tell me, ‘No, no, no, Kiriaki. Cold as icicles.’
Very warm now, am I? Aha! What about – nope, birdseed. Washing-up liquid, Brasso polish. This tin here? Let’s see. Fortnum & Mason fine ginger shortbread – well, that’s a funny place for it. Under the sink. I’m guessing it’s an old tin with something else in it? Heaps of wagging. Really warm then? Could this be dog biscuits?
Shall I have a look?
OK, so, hold on, it’s just a bit stiff this lid, it’s – here we go – deffo not biscuits.
It’s – it’s—
Wow.
I mean, wow.
I mean, look at that.
How much is there here? It’s – well – if I shake them out onto the top here, there must be – just look, there are six rolls. And they’re – let’s take off the elastic band on this. It’s a £50 note. And in this roll, there are one, two, three, four – hang on now, Wordsworth, down. Nineteen, twenty. That’s twenty notes in one roll so that’s – let me see – two notes are £100, so, hang on, one-two, three-four, five-six – £100, £200, £300 – seven-eight, nine-ten – so £400, £500. That’s ten and there are – that’s £1,000 in that one roll. And there are six of them.
That’s more than Yaya’s life savings. It’s heaps of Glastonbury tickets. It’s a round the world plane ticket. It’s £6,000. And Mrs M’s keeping it in a biscuit tin under the sink.
NED
‘B
UT YOU UNDERSTAND, NORTON, my darling, that if I could, I’d be back with you in a flash. In less than a flash. A blink, a whisper, a . . .’
I think my mother will come back to ‘flash’. It really didn’t need rewording.
‘. . . a flash, honey. You know you’re the most important thing in my life. You know that. It’s just that Sadie says – you remember her, sweetie, my lovely agent – that this casting next week is really exciting. You know, not just exciting-exciting, but exciting-exciting. The casting director requested for me to do it personally. Sadie says the role is made for me. And the script – oh, Norton, it’s divine. So I think it’s best if I stay here at least until then. Say you agree, my precious boy? I know you do.’
The funny thing about my mother is the more genuinely sincere she is, the more she looks like she’s acting. Which isn’t to say she doesn’t mean every word. Her hand is on her chest.
‘Baby, I worry about you every minute, honey, and I can’t pretend it’s easy being away from you like this. I talked to some people about flying you to a hospital out here. A specialist centre for neuro-you-know. But honey, the insurance was impossible. They say flying could be dangerous. Because of the pressure, I guess. On your brain. So I don’t think that can happen. Not for a few months anyway.’
My mother frowns. Or her mouth and her eyes do.
‘But the doctors there tell me you’re doing well. And your Annabella called me last night to tell me about this new unit and all the rehab they’re starting. She’s a sweet girl, Nortie. Such a relief to know she’s with you. And so committed to raising awareness. I’ve told her I’ll help in any way I can. Not to boast, but I do have a few contacts.’
Superb, Mother. Why stop at Norton Edbury, the Channel 5 documentary, when you can go full out for Norton Edbury, the feature film?
‘And I— Oh, sweetie, give me a moment, there’s somebody at the door.’
Her face recedes and for a couple of minutes my view is of a tan leather egg chair and a glass coffee table, on which lies a copy of Vogue. Then the white trouser suit and blonde highlights come back into view, panning in to a close-up of the face.
‘Sorry, hon, just my personal trainer dropping off this new Pilates ball I ordered. You know, Norton, got to keep your body in—’ She runs her hand through her hair. ‘Anyway, what was I saying?’
Let’s see, something about how well you know I’m doing in here?
‘Yes, I know you’re in the safest of hands. And like this, I can talk to you all the time, anyway.’
Indeed, Mother. This modern miracle that is Skype. How did we live without it?
‘Honey, there was something that I needed to talk to you about. I’ve been speaking with Maxwell. Well, he contacted me. He was very upset actually and not terribly pleasant, if you must know. He said he couldn’t believe I hadn’t let him know what had happened, and, well, I suppose I should have done, but darling I’ve been so distracted, out of my mind with worry, and I suppose it must have slipped my mind.’
Slipped your mind? Maxwell bought me my first guitar and taught me how to play. He also taught me to kick a ball and how to ski. He paid for my education. And it was Maxwell, more than anyone else, who put me back together after Dad died. He lets me live in his annexe and has never once charged me a penny. He’s probably the person who knows me best in the entire world and, on top of it all, he happens to be a qualified doctor. But it slipped your mind to tell him that I was on life support while he’s away in his French hideaway, or that I’ve remained apparently unresponsive for – I don’t even know how many weeks.
‘I accept he’s right to be angry. Not that he had to say the things he said. I’ve just been trying to hold myself together. I know you’re the one in the hospital bed, but do you not think this has taken its toll on me too?’
There is a tremor in her voice and as she looks away from her screen it’s hard to hear what she says, but it sounds like ‘I’m sorry’.
It’s a moment or two before she looks back. Maxwell always said that she and I have the same eyes, green, with flecks of blue and amber.
‘Baby, I hope you’re not angry too. If you can hear any of this, honey, don’t be mad at me. I know you and Maxwell have always had a very special connection. And maybe sometimes I’ve felt resentful of that. I said to José – I told you about José, right? – I said to José, “What if subconsciously I chose not to tell Maxwell? What if subconsciously I was punishing him for Norton loving him more than he loves me?” But José helped me see that I’ve just been exhausted and that it doesn’t help anybody for me to start blaming myself for what’s happened to you.’
Two green-blue-amber eyes blink, full of feeling that does not translate to movement in the surrounding muscles. I beg my eyes to do a blink back. And it’s not a blink, but a – something. Can’t she see it? I’m asking her, ‘Tell me more about Maxwell, Mother. What did he say?’
‘You wouldn’t understand, my darling, what it is to be a mother. You’re thirty years old but you’re still my baby. Even when you were a little boy, toddling out in the yard, every scrape, every graze, every cut, a mother feels it.’
Her hands have lowered out of shot. My memories of childhood tumbles are more the howls of, ‘Norton, you’ve ripped your pants again!’
I’m tired suddenly. It’s strange when there is nothing to do, when my body only moves if it is moved, that exhaustion still batters me like waves. But I need to concentrate. I want to know what she has to say about Maxwell.
‘You try to do your best, because that tiny child is the world to you, but it’s hard, baby.’
Mother. Please. Maxwell?
‘Maxwell wasn’t very happy. He called me selfish. He wanted to know everything that the doctors had said, you know what he’s like, and I tried to tell him, but it gets so confusing. All this about the differences between minimally conscious and fluctuating and contusions and so many tiny details about what this scan shows or whether you might have had a voluntary or involuntary whatsit, and if you’re not a neuro-you-know yourself, how can you be expected to understand it all? He asked me who was here with you, liaising with the medics. And I tried to tell him that you were in the best of hands and that I sleep with my phone on the pillow – but, well, you know Maxwell, hon. Always has to be in control.’
I don’t know how much more I can listen to. I want to know about Maxwell. But it’s so hard to keep concentrating on the words.
‘Of course he was packing his bags even as we spoke. I hope that’s OK, Norton. Because we’ve had our problems, but he does love you and you’re what matters here. So I’ve told the doctors I’m happy for them to talk to him about everything and that . . .’
The words are losing me. But Maxwell will be here soon. Maxwell’s coming. And I’m not able to – I’m not holding onto much anymore but it’s fine – and for the first time in a very long time, it feels a little bit like I’m being held in a mother’s hug.
MRS M
I
T WAS JUNE 1951. I don’t remember the exact date but it was a Saturday and school had finished. The week before we had taken our General Certificate of Education. I was hopeful that I had performed adequately, and in fact I’d achieved the highest marks in the school, whereas Harriet did not give a hoot one way or the other. She already had an offer of a receptionist position at a doctor’s surgery whilst I had a place at a secretarial school and was looking forward to learning typing. We felt modern and grown up and free. We were sixteen years old.
My mother was visiting her sister in Herefordshire so I was on my own for the weekend with food for myself and the cat and instructions to do nothing stupid. Not that Mother expected anything stupid from me. I was a very sensible girl.
It was one of those days when the sky was blue and there was just the right amount of breeze. I can still feel it in my hair as we rode our bikes up Milk Hill and then freewheeled the whole way back down to the river in search of a perfect spot to unpack our baskets.
*
‘Mrs Malley. Or can I call you Mary? Is that OK, Mary? If you could try to squeeze my hand, please.’
*
Cheese from the West Farm and apples from the orchard. Slices of thick ham in doughy bread with salty butter. Biscuits that Harriet had made – grainy because of her lazy beating, and cake which I had baked, and which was far better, if I do say so myself, and bottles of beer which she swore her father wouldn’t notice had gone. We wore our bathing costumes beneath our dresses. We paddled on stones, until we felt brave enough to swim. We laughed at the minnows zipping around our legs. Then we lay on the grass until we were dry again and we talked and talked and talked.
*
‘And if you can just try to lift up this arm, Mary. Can you lift it at all?’
*
She was trying to persuade me to go to a dance with her and Eric and Roger. Roger was Eric’s friend and her mother would only allow her to go if I went too. Her mother trusted me more than she trusted Harriet, which was very wise of her. Harriet had introduced me to Roger and I wasn’t keen. His main subjects of conversation were cricket and his prospects in the insurance company where he worked. His boss there was a Mr Scarigrew and Roger was particularly fond of repeating every blessed thing Mr Scarigrew ever said, and telling me how much it hinted at prospects for promotion. Harriet was very taken with Eric though. We both knew she’d talk me into going to the dance eventually but for now, I was refusing to discuss it, because the last thing I wanted to talk about was Roger Malley. I wanted to think about sunshine and the picnic and the fact that Harriet and I were grown up now and out of school and able to jump on our bikes with a lunch we’d made ourselves and to stay out for as long as we chose. I was sixteen years old and everything felt so terribly exciting.
I think perhaps that was the happiest day of my life.
*
‘Now Mary, if you could try to stick your tongue out for me. Can you try to do that please, my dear?’
KIKI
‘I
’M TE’BLY SED TO hear thet. Poor Mrs Melley.’
‘Mrs Malley,’ I say.
‘Indeed. Norman, d’you hear thet? Poor Mrs Melley is in hospital.’
Yaya used to say that you knew when an English person was posh because they made their words last for a very long time.
Lucinda, who lives next door to Mrs M, says she can’t really (‘rarely’) help me at all. She doesn’t know very much about Mrs Malley, since Norman and she have only had the house a couple of years and only ever come at weekends. She’s aware that Mr Malley (‘Mr Melley’) passed on not so very long ago, but as for any other close family, she’s afraid she simply doesn’t know. Fiona and Stuart on the other side might have some idea, but to be honest, they’re second-homers too, and she suspects they’re not terribly close to Mrs M either.
‘Surely she must have a mobile telephone with her important numbers in it?’ Lucinda says as I thank them and leave.
You’d think so, wouldn’t you. But there isn’t one on the hall table – or in any of its drawers. Still, it seems a good idea to check again, as Wordsworth and I come back into the cottage, and he toddles over to stare sadly at his bowl, as if he can’t believe it’s empty again. There certainly isn’t a mobile phone here. Only a vase of flowers and the old-fashioned type of phone with a long, curly lead to the wall.
It’s not even a push-button one, it has a dial, one of the ones that you have to stick your fingers into to turn. There’s no sign of a computer, either – and I’m checking all the rooms now: living room, kitchen, dining room, a bathroom and the toilet which is in a different room, the little bedroom I slept in and the one which must be Mrs M’s with two single beds. There’s a hairbrush and a box of tissues and some creams on a dressing table. I felt bad looking in Mrs M’s bedside table drawers, but it’s for her own good. Anyway, there was nothing helpful. Just a box of some pills called Pepto-Bismol and a book of crosswords. There’s also her handbag at the end of one of the beds. It’s a shiny blue one with a big gold buckle, and inside is a little black leather book, with gold on the side of the pages and gold letters spelling ‘Addresses’. It has pages from A to Z with handwriting in it, except not so much Anne to, I don’t know, Zoe, but more like Alderton, Penelope to Walton, Helen. And there’s nothing that says daughter or son or niece or cousin or next of kin or whatever, but maybe you never write that. Yaya was always just Yaya on my phone. Not that she ever answered it. Yaya didn’t like mobile phones. They were spying on us. Or giving us brain tumours. I forget which.
