The Scrapbook (6 page)

She was dead and my mother was drunk and I couldn't deal with this by myself.

Please, will you help? You have to stop her.

The great-aunt moved towards me reluctantly, wincing slightly at the hysteria clipping my words. Embarrassed by it.

But she nodded grimly and strode after me, with her shoulders pulled back and her chin up.

I had to drag mum from the front room and her fascinated audience and coax her up the stairs. She lost one of her slingbacks during the struggle to get her up to her bedroom and when I found it the next morning I dropped it into the dustbin and buried it in cigarette ends and potato peelings. Spat on it for good measure. She'd drained all of the dignity out of my granny's funeral and I hated her for that.

The great-aunt tugged plates from reluctant fingers, heaped coats onto laps, and opened all of the downstairs windows to let in the cold air. Within twenty minutes the guests had all gone.

While mum snored her way towards an epic hangover, I made coffee. The great-aunt drank hers standing by the sink, umbrella still hooked over her wrist. I asked her if she'd like to stay for dinner and when she refused I asked her if she'd like to return soon for a visit. The hysteria was edging back in, but this time she wasn't going to be taken hostage.

No, I don't think so. But I'm sure you'll be fine. Say goodbye to your mother for me.

I stood by the window and watched her walk down the path. Her coat captured a gust of wind and billowed out around her, turning her into a giant. She paused to button it up. My arm was raised, ready to wave if she were to turn around. My elbow started to ache but I kept it hoisted in readiness.

That joint still stiffens with remembered rejection, whenever I'm passed over for a job interview or ignored in the street by an old acquaintance. That sudden, sullen throb always makes me think of navy coats, piped with charcoal. In the time it took her to reach the gate and disappear from my life my eager affection had hardened into resentment. If it was just going to be me and mum from now on, if no one else wanted us, then so be it. We'd be fine.

*

It takes ages for mum to be seen by her doctor and the only magazines in the waiting room are tatty copies of
Fast Car
and
Kingpin
. There's a couple sitting opposite us who must also be mother and daughter, slouched in their chairs with identical scowls. I nudge mum and angle the toe of my shoe discreetly in their direction. ‘I guess both of them. Syphilis. Advanced state in the daughter, just diagnosed in the mother.'

Mum gasps, sniggering behind her fingers, and is still sniggering when she's called in to see the doctor. I stand up to accompany her but she gestures for me to sit back down. ‘I can do this by myself, Fern. You wait there and I'll be out soon.'

By the time she returns I've diagnosed most of the waiting patients and am trying to eavesdrop on their conversations to prove myself right. She tugs at my arm to hurry me along. ‘There's your bag. Come on, we've got to go to the bank.'

I stretch and stand, taking my time. She keeps thrusting my handbag at me until I take it. ‘Come on, Fern. Hurry up.'

I can see a twitch of white behind her, flapping like the underside of a gull's wing. Mum starts to back up, pulling at me, and reverses heavily into the doctor. They both squeak, but she looks the more pained. I grin at her and reach past with my hand out.

‘Are you Iris's doctor? Hi, I'm Fern, her daughter. I was hoping to get a chance to speak to you.'

He looks at mum, who hesitates for a moment then nods her acquiescence. As we move into a side room I smile over at her but she cradles her broken wrist and gazes into nothing, ignoring us both. The doctor tries to get her attention and then gives up and turns to me.

I nod and watch his mouth as it forms words. Alcoholic Cardiomyopathy. Increased fatigue and weakness. Radical lifestyle change. Moderate cognitive impairment. Increased anxiety and confusion. Heart failure.

Mum's breathing as if she's asleep and her expression is one of serene disengagement. I try to match my breaths to hers and feel the muscles in my shoulders start to relax. When the doctor pauses I laugh and look from him to mum, and back.

‘I don't understand.' I say. ‘I know she drinks a bit too much but she's not even fifty. Could the fall down the stairs have done something to her heart?'

The doctor gives me a look that is equal parts incredulity and pity and then turns back to his notes. ‘No, Miss Gilbert, it was likely because of her heart that she fell down the stairs. That and the fact that she was drunk.'

I glance around the room while he continues to speak. There's a poster emblazoned with the warning signs of meningitis and I read it through carefully, try to commit the symptoms to memory. You never know when that kind of information might come in handy.

Another has a large, colour picture of a diseased lung, with a cigarette stubbed into it. Wisps of filthy-looking smoke curl all the way up to the top of the poster. I imagine how awful that must have smelt for the photographer taking the shot. How awful for the person who died and donated their organs to science, only to have their shameful lung end up as an ashtray, a warning to others.
No better than it deserved
.

There is silence and I refocus on the doctor. I think he wants some sort of response from me but I'm not sure what he's just said. I glance at mum for help but she's still absorbed in the poster detailing the risks of high cholesterol.

So I smile and nod thoughtfully and tuck my hand into the crook of mum's arm. Her attention snaps back immediately and she swings round to the door. I have to hold onto her jacket to stop her from disappearing as I thank the doctor.

We pass the dour syphilis-ridden pair as we hurry down the corridor and mum nudges me and smirks. I study her face for signs of emotion and see only pleasure in a shared joke.

‘Christ, mum, when were you planning on telling me?'

She jabs at the button to call the lift, then takes my wrist and squeezes it. ‘I wasn't planning on telling you at all, Fern. It's not your business.'

Outside the bank, I stuff fivers into my purse and give mum back her IOU's. A high-heeled, elegantly dressed middle-aged woman stops and stares. ‘Iris?'

We both jump guiltily. Mum peers and stiffens. She smoothes at her fringe. ‘Diane? Well. How long has it been? I'm surprised you recognised me, after all these years.'

I think Diane is a little surprised too but she hides it well. She steps close and they embrace awkwardly, mum's silver threaded hair drab beside the other woman's shiny gold. I stand and smile the rigid smile of the excluded.

‘And this is my daughter, Fern. Fern, Diane is one of my old friends.'

I give a little wave and murmur a greeting and Diane scans me with interest. She turns back to mum. ‘Less of the old, please!
God, where do we begin? What happened to your arm? You're looking … well, how are you?'

I can see mum panicking. She turns to me. ‘Aren't we going to be late? For the thing, the appointment?'

I flourish my wrist and frown down at my watch. Twitch the lifeline out of her reach. ‘No, we've got plenty of time. You carry on.'

Her eyes narrow. She turns back to Diane who is ready with more questions.

‘So, where have you been living? What have you been doing?'

‘I've been right here,' Mum tells her. ‘I never moved away from the island in the end.'

Diane mimes extravagant surprise and I bristle, immediately regretting my moment of malice. Stooped and shapeless in her coat, hunched over her handbag as if scared it will be stolen from her, mum looks worn and weary, so much older than the woman beside her.

‘Really?' Diane raises her eyebrows. ‘Out of all of us, I'd have bet you'd be the one to leave. You were always on at us. Then you met that man. So, are any of the old crowd still here? We all used to have such a blast on a Friday night, do you remember? I still think about that.'

Mum pretends to ponder for a moment before answering. Her face has taken on the bland expression of someone steeling themself against hurt. I flick quickly through my childhood memories to try to place this woman but there's no mental index card with her name on it. Before me, then, and before my father. Back when mum had friends. The thought of her once belonging, once having a crowd and a blast is strange, but nice.

She fidgets and bites at her finger. ‘No, I don't think there's anyone else left on Spur. Molly went to the mainland with you didn't she, back in sixty-three? And Terry followed a few months later. I lost touch with everyone then. Fern came along in sixty-six, so I got a job at the soap factory and decided to just stay here.'

Diane laughs and covers her mouth with her hand, spraying mirth daintily through her fingers. ‘God, I remember the soap factory. We all had jobs there, didn't ever need to use perfume. I'm surprised you gave in and applied, though. Didn't you used to say that it would make you lazy? And what happened with that man you were seeing? Did that last long? We were all convinced he was married.'

I take over as mum flinches slightly. ‘Dad, do you mean? Lawrence? He died in a road accident when I was small. Saving a little girl who ran out in front of a lorry. I'm surprised you didn't read about it in the papers at the time, I think it made mainland news. Mum, we really should get you to that thing, that appointment.'

We all stand and bare our teeth at each other. As we walk away, back to the car, mum starts to sniff. ‘Why did you say that about your father? She knew you were lying. Did you see how elegant she looked? So … polished.'

I dig out a tissue and pass it over. ‘Polished, my arse. The woman was held together with staples and sticky tape. The poor cow probably hasn't been able to laugh in years in case her ears fall off.'

I glance at her quickly and see that she's looking gratified. ‘So, who was she anyway?'

Mum blows her nose loudly and then passes the tissue back to me. ‘Just an old childhood friend. She moved away not long after I met your father. All of them did in the end. It's ironic really, I was the only one desperate to get off the island and as it turned out I was the only one who stayed behind.'

The irony seems to fill her legs with concrete and I take her arm as she droops.

As we drive past the church I'm overcome with a sudden urge to visit Granny Ivy's grave. I pull onto the verge and switch off the ignition, turn to mum. She hasn't even registered that we've stopped. The memories battle away behind her eyes, her mouth works soundlessly.

The day is colder out than it looks from the warm interior of the car and as I tug my coat from the back seat I decide not to bother her with my plan. She wouldn't want to accompany me anyway.

Contrary as ever, she jumps and focuses when I open the car door. ‘What's going on? Where are you going?'

The wrench from past to present is too abrupt, the sudden sweep of chill air on her skin too disorientating. She sounds afraid and I reach to soothe her. ‘It's okay, mum, I'm just having a quick look at Granny Ivy's grave. I won't be long. You stay here in the warm.'

She fumbles out of the car and almost falls into the road. I have a quick sniff at her breath as I rush to steady her and she takes my arm.

‘I'll come with you, love. Don't leave me here by myself.'

She leads the way through the side gate, into the graveyard. Waist deep amongst the markers for the dead, we both pause and squint across the fields, looking for our house. Her house. It's partially obscured by a tumbled, rusting barn that severs the landscape. Just the poke of a chimney and the thrusting oak are visible. The sea in the background, flat and grey.

‘They're going to take that down.' Mum nods towards the barn. ‘He died, the farmer. His family have sold the land off. They weren't interested in staying round here. This whole area will probably be an estate before too long.'

She doesn't sound too bothered but I'm enraged for her.

‘That's awful. You don't want a housing estate right next to your back garden, surely? I'll give the council a ring.'

She scuffs her feet through the fallen leaves and starts to walk on. She looks as if she's floating through flaming tissue paper. ‘Don't do it on my account, Fern. But do it for yourself if you want. The house will be yours, after all.'

She moves away and I let her go. We wander in different directions, pursuing our pieces of the past. Whenever I glance over she seems content to potter and mutter and so I leave her alone while I locate and tidy my grandparents' plot.

I run a hand gently over Granny Ivy's gravestone and use a fingertip to write ‘beloved' before her name. The word imprints for a second on decades of decay before collapsing into the moss. The granite has acquired a gothic finish, coated as it is in bird droppings and draped with creeping weeds. It leans over my grandfather's grave as though the earth itself has shifted to allow a closer embrace. She would be pleased if she were here to see it.

I wander into the little side porch to look at the ivy carving on the window frame then stroll back to check on mum. She's picking her way through the overgrown grass at the far end of the graveyard and doesn't turn when I speak. ‘What are you up to over here? I notice that you haven't bothered to do a damn thing to maintain Granny Ivy's final resting place. I bet you only pop over to sprinkle breadcrumbs over her crumbling bones and encourage the local bird life to crap on her …. Mum?'