Half-truths & White Lies (4 page)

When it was time to leave the sanctuary of the hospital,
I did so with the minimum of fuss. I didn't want to
alienate Aunty Faye by asking Uncle Pete for a lift, even
though he had been my most frequent visitor. I caught
the 164 to the top of my road and approached the
house from the opposite pavement, ready to walk past
and round the block if I couldn't face it. I almost walked
past by mistake and had to double back.

Half a dozen wilted bunches of flowers were propped
up against the wall, the wording of the carefully written
cards smudged by tears and rain.
Laura and Tom. Miss
you. Words cannot express. Always valued your friendship.
Not just a sister
. Faded rose petals looked as fragile as
tissue paper. The front garden was overgrown and the
glass of the door was clumsily boarded. No one had
thought to tell me that there had been no option but to
break in to rescue Nana, and I presumed there had been
a burglary. I suppose that they didn't want me to feel
guilty about having left her on her own. I half expected
that my keys wouldn't work in the lock, but I didn't
have trouble opening the door the first half-inch. It was
only then that it became wedged against something on
the inside. I launched an unsuccessful attack with my
shoulder, my frustration growing by the minute, before
bending down to try and reach under the door to move
whatever was blocking the way.

I became aware of onlookers, neighbours who had
appeared to see who was breaking the door down this
time. Neighbours who were a little afraid to approach
when they saw it was me.

'Out of the way,' bustled Lydia from next door but
one. 'Coming through! You're no good to her just
gawping. Andrea, love, you're home.' She held my hands
in hers momentarily, this brassy woman I only knew in
passing but had a reputation for being the local busybody.
I could have buried my face in her jacket with
gratitude. 'I wanted to come and see you, but I'm afraid
I don't do hospitals. They give me the willies. And now
this is all my fault. I've spent the last couple of weeks
pushing post through the letter box so it didn't look like
the house was empty. You can't be too careful, can you?
There's been sacks full of the stuff. I'll get my Kevin to
give you a hand. I'll just go and prise him off the sofa.
You wait there. Won't be a mo.' And she took charge,
nudging the bystanders away in the process and tutting,
'Haven't you lot got anything better to do than stand
there catching flies?'

Returning with her reluctant son, I could see that
she'd had to push him all the way. He didn't like crowds
and was obviously ill at ease.

'Aren't you going to say something, Kevin?' She
nudged him encouragingly.

'Andrea.' He nodded at me, keeping his eyes on the
path. I was grateful that he kept it short and returned his
nod, my eyes similarly averted, knowing that he would
have been embarrassed by anything more.

'That's it, love,' Lydia approved, smiling and nodding.

I couldn't remember the last time I had seen Kevin.
He was not keen to exchange his natural habitat for the
great outdoors, although he had been known to wander
as far as our house on occasion to see what my dad was
up to under one of his cars.
That
he called 'goin' for a
walk'.

'Tom,' he would acknowledge my father's feet,
scrutinizing the vehicle.

'Kevin!' a muffled voice would respond. No need to
avoid eye contact that way. 'Nice to see you out and
about, mate.'

After a while, Kevin would enquire, 'Spot of trouble?'

'Just a little fine tuning. You've got to be gentle with
her.'

Later still, after much nodding with arms folded in
front of him, Kevin would add, 'Ah'll be off, then.'

He would wait for the reply, 'Right you are,' before
shuffling away.

That
he would call 'a discussion'.

'Nice walk?' Lydia would enquire on his return. Often
she would have stood guard at the gate, pretending to
busy herself with a cigarette or a few weeds that had
strayed on to the path.

'Gonna have a sit down, Ma.'

'That's right, love.'

'He's simple, that one down the road.' Nana made her
views on Kevin well known, but my dad said he
admired his economy of speech and any grown
man who had learned how to avoid working for a
living.

'That's it, love,' Lydia encouraged, patting her son on
the back. 'Now, what it needs is a nice big shove. Door's
bust anyway. You can't do a lot more damage.' As an
aside to me, she winked and said, 'That's what he's good
for, breaking things. But he'll put them back together
better than new. You'll see.'

I stood aside and mumbled through my useless jaw,
'Be my guest.'

'That still bothering you, love?' She put an arm round
my shoulder. 'Don't expect you're ready for talking yet.
Perfect excuse if you need one. Go on, Kevin! I expect
Andrea's dying to get inside. Oh, Lordy!' She brought
her spare hand up to her mouth. 'Could've put that a bit
better, couldn't I? Me and my big mouth.'

And there it was. I had been dreading the prospect of
an empty hall, an empty house. Instead, there was a
cluster of neighbours, too timid to approach me and yet
feeling that they should be there, and a mountain of
post. I was bustled into the kitchen by Lydia who
thought that a cup of tea was just the thing for it. It was
black tea as the milk turned out to be well past its sell-by
date and the consistency of porridge.

'I'll have that,' she enthused, after seeing me recoil.
'Make you some nice scones to go with our next cuppa.
Waste not, want not.'

Never criticize a busybody. The thing about busybodies
is that they are interested. They sort the junk
mail from the post, they organize, they clean, they shop
and they cook. They have a friend who owes them a
favour who can come round and fix the lock at a
moment's notice. All this without being asked. They do
not pity, but they are deeply aware of your feelings and
generous with their hugs. They do not stand and gawp,
worrying that what comes out of their mouths is not
precisely the right thing to say. In fact, Lydia could talk
a fine line in drivel, but she was aware of that too.

'I'll stop if you want to think, but thinking's never got
me anywhere. And it's not good for you at a time like
this. You can tell me to leg it anytime you like.'

She talked. I stood and stared at the piles of post that
had swiftly been sorted by size and content the moment
the kettle was on.

'Bet you didn't realize you had so many friends. Those
are for the bin, that's your business end, those are letters
and those are the cards.' She pointed to various piles.

'How can you tell?'

'Years of practice,' she shrugged. 'Do you know, when
I was a lass, many's a time when I would steam open a
letter, have a look and then stick down the envelope so
you wouldn't know any different. Quite an art to it. But
if you need to know what's in your school report before
your parents, you get the hang of it pretty quick, I can
tell you.' Her laugh turned into a terrible bout of
smoker's cough and she thumped her chest with a
clenched fist. 'They don't teach you that in school! So
what shall we start with?' She tagged the question on to
the end of the story so innocently that I almost
answered automatically. 'I can imagine all of those
people' – she tapped the table next to the pile of handwritten
envelopes – 'dragging theirselves out to the
shops and rummaging through the sympathies' section
for half an hour, getting their knickers in a twist about
which one to buy, then dragging theirselves home again
and sitting there with a cup of tea, fretting for an
eternity over what to write. Feeling like it's the
individual words that are that important.' She paused
and I wondered if she had some words of wisdom to
add. 'Me?' She scraped back her chair and stood up. 'I
thought I'd make you a nice brew instead. And we did
all right, didn't we, love? See! I'm going to get Kevin's
tea now.' She switched on the radio ('Bit of company for
you') and looked around her as if she had forgotten
something. 'That lad's a genius but he can burn a salad
left to his own devices. You're very welcome or I can nip
back later on if you need anything.'

'No.' I tried to sound convincing. 'I think I need to
spend the first night here on my own.'

'That's right, love.' She patted my arm. 'I'll pop round
in the morning then. Before I go and do for my ladies.'

As I followed her to the front door, she turned and
said, 'You know, it's funny. I don't think we've ever had
a proper chat before. Isn't it strange that you can live a
few doors away and not get to know someone? It wasn't
like that when I was growing up around here.
Neighbours could count on each other. That's what
made me decide to come back home after my Bill died.
When your world falls apart you need to be close to
family. I expected it to be exactly the same, that was my
mistake. Not all change is for the best, you know.
Anyway, love, you know where I am. Don't be a
stranger.' She plodded down the corridor, and just when
I thought she was gone I heard her mutter quietly, as if
she was struggling to get the words out, 'I'm sorry for
your troubles.'

Then, for the first time in my life, I knew what it was
like to be alone.

When you lose someone, there is an expectation for
quite a while that you will get over it. That, in time,
things will get easier. That's what you have always been
told. The first night will be the worst. There is a vague
hope that the funeral will bring some sort of closure.
That the first anniversary will be the most painful.
Maybe once Christmas is out of the way.

As time passes, it gradually dawns on you that this
feeling is not temporary. Doctors are happy to sign
medical certificates with a flourish. You are offered
sleeping pills, counselling and anti-depressants, but it
doesn't feel as if they should be the answer. Something
has changed permanently and you have to get used to
this new reality, a whole new perspective. Possibly, an
entirely new way of living. The loss becomes a part of
who you are and, in time, as you begin to accept that, it
seems only right. There is a chance that the people you
knew before will not fit into your new life. It is not that
you think of them any differently. It has more to do
with the way that they look at you with pity in their
eyes. The nervous way they approach you. The way that
they call with forecasts of their good intentions, but
when it actually comes down to it, it's easier for them to
go to the pub with a new friend rather than cry into a
mug of tea with an old one. The things that they don't
say rather than the things they do. And it has to be said
that I wasn't a good host to those people who dared to
come near me. To tell the truth, I was far happier to be
left alone with my memories than to confront all of the
todays and tomorrows that were queuing up endlessly
just outside the front door, complete with its brand-new
five-lever mortise deadlock: Kevin's addition to what he
considered to be the extremely lax approach to security
taken by the so-called professionals. It was easy to sit in
the centre of the sofa and imagine that my mother was
in the kitchen trusting Delia to let her into the secret of
what it was you were supposed to do with the celeriac
you bought in Tesco in a fit of enthusiasm, while my
dad was lovingly tinkering with his latest acquisition
out the front. His desirable wrecks, he called them.
There were days when I could swear I saw the fleeting
movement of a skirt through a half-opened door, heard
the clanging of a wrench being dropped. The memory
of the senses is a powerful tool. Sounds that I had
always thought were man-made turned out to be the
sounds that the house itself made. It had a voice of its
own. The central heating firing up early in the morning.
The staircase creaking as the house warmed up and
relaxed. The wind singing through the chimney. The
clatter of the letter box when the postman visited, which
sent me running down the stairs to see if we – if I – was
being burgled.

Sometimes, my parents' absence seemed more
powerful than their presence. Sometimes I could have
sworn they were still there.

Between Aunty Faye and Social Services, it had been
decreed that Nana had taken complete leave of her
senses.

'In some cases, a shock like this can accelerate the
ageing process,' was one of their favourite theories.
Alzheimer's was the word that was being tried on for
size. And, one way or another, they were determined to
make it fit. Like the ugly sisters with Cinderella's glass
slipper. Then they could give her a label and they would
know exactly what to do with her.

There is no doubt that her inability to recall the
accident from one day to the next was causing Aunty
Faye a great deal of distress. 'She doesn't want to
remember. She's doesn't want to remember
anything
.'

But it had to be more than that. If there was the
option of choosing not to remember, I would have
taken it. As, I'm sure, would Aunty Faye, who had gladly
accepted the mountain of sleeping pills that her doctor
had offered. If I slept, there were a few moments of
peace on waking before I was struck by the stillness
of the house and questioned the reason for it. Then, of
course, it dawned on me, and I pulled the duvet over my
head to shut the facts out. Nana had always called out
for one thing or another as soon as she woke up. The
first thing that I would hear was 'Laura do this' or
'Laura, fetch me that'. It was far more reliable than an
alarm clock, as was my father's retort, 'Legs fallen off in
the night, have they, Brenda? Sorry to hear that.'

'Nana.' I approached her single bed in Aunty Faye's
spare room cautiously. 'It's me. Andrea.'

She looked at me sideways, and then gestured to the
chair beside her. Even confined to bed like an invalid,
Nana had a neatness about her. Her short grey hair still
looked as fresh as when she returned from her weekly
shampoo and set, and she gathered the duvet around
her small frame as she propped herself up. I noticed her
nails had been painted in a dark plum shade and
suspected Aunty Faye's work. It was not her usual colour
and it looked wrong.

'Well, of course it's you. Good Lord, child, what've
you done to yourself?' She clutched me by the elbow,
pulling me towards her. 'You never had your mother's
looks but you could take a bit more care with your
appearance. Mark my words, you don't want to end up
on your own like that other one.'

I was a little taken aback by her bluntness. I knew she
was capable of it, but I had never been her target before.
'I broke my jaw,' I explained.

'What did you want to do that for? Here! Have they
let you back in the house? They tell me there's a
problem with it. What's happened to it? Are the mice
back again?'

'There are no mice, Nana.'

'Is it the boiler? It hasn't been the same since your dad
tried to mend it. Just because he can change a set of
spark plugs, he thinks he can do anything with a
spanner.'

'The boiler's fine.'

'Why won't they let me home then?' she implored, then
lowered her voice: 'I don't like it here. They're keeping me
cooped up. Faye's got some strange ideas about cooking.
Everything's out of a packet or done in the microwave. I
haven't had a square meal in a fortnight.'

'I can hear you, Mum,' came a voice from the living
room. 'I'm not deaf, you know. Just got the word "mug"
printed across my forehead.'

'Shut the door,' Nana mouthed, looking even more
frantic about her predicament. I complied. 'I can't do a
thing without them checking up on me. I'm not allowed
to flush when I go to the toilet because they want to see
the colour of it. They take notes about everything I say.
I can't leave the flat. Am I too hot, am I too cold? You
don't think I'm ill, do you? I don't feel ill. Feel my
head!' She grabbed my hand and pressed it to her
forehead.

'Do you remember what happened to Mum and Dad,
Nana?' I tried to say softly.

'Do I remember?' She became short with me and
folded her arms. 'Of course I remember. They gave away
my grandchild.'

'I'm your grandchild.' I was taken aback. I was her
only grandchild. Thoroughly spoilt, too.

'I hope you're not going to treat me like an imbecile
too, Andrea.' She was most put out and sounded like her
normal self for a moment. 'The one after you. They gave
away my grandson. And
you're
worried about
my
memory! I thought I could rely on you to be on my side.
Now let's stop this stuff and nonsense, have a cup of tea
and then you can take me home.'

'Are you talking about the stillborn baby?' I repeated
what Uncle Pete had told me.

'Is that what they told you?' she sneered, before
making a cradle shape in front of her. 'I held that boy in
my own arms. In my own arms.' Then she started
humming softly and smiling, a lullaby for the child that
only she could see. 'We'll all be going home soon,' she
cooed. 'All going home soon.'

'I'm afraid we can't do that.' I lowered my eyes, not
knowing how I would respond to the challenge that
would inevitably follow.

'Why on earth not?' She bordered on the aggressive.
'It's my house just as much as it is yours. In fact, I'm sure
a lawyer would say it's almost all mine.' It seemed that
there was some truth in what Aunty Faye had told me.

I hadn't wanted to lie to her. I had avoided telling her
the news before and I felt that it was only right that I
should make it up to her. But I honestly believed that if
I had told her, she would have been distressed, and
what was the point for the sake of a few short
hours before she forgot again? 'You were almost right
about the mice.' I avoided her gaze. 'It's rats this time.'

'I knew it!' Nana seemed triumphant. 'Finally! I knew
I could get the truth out of you. You've never been very
good at lying.'

Returning to the living room to report back to my
aunt, I sat down heavily and sighed, probably louder
than I had intended.

'Well,' she asked without taking her eye off the paper
she was reading, 'what's your verdict?'

'She
sounds
like Nana,' I ventured cautiously and then
paused.

'But . . .' She motioned diagonally with her left hand,
sweeping it away from her face.

I shrugged hopelessly and mimicked her hand
movement.

'So you'll support me in finding a place for her?'

One innocent question. I knew everything that it
would mean for both Nana and me. All of her hopes of
living in her own home in her old age dashed. The sale of
the only home that I could remember. But more than
that, it felt as if I was betraying my memories of my
parents. And yet I knew that it was unreasonable to expect
Aunty Faye to look after Nana in the long term. Given the
choice, I had to admit that I didn't want to care for Nana
at home on my own, even if it meant keeping my treasured
memories. I betrayed them all with a nod,
swallowing the words that I could not bring myself to say.

'Good girl.' Aunty Faye's voice had no trace of
emotion in it. 'It's going to work out for the best. For
everyone.'