Читать книгу Lies Lies Lies - Adele Parks, Adele Parks - Страница 25

Sunday, 26th June 2016

Simon hated visiting his mother. He thought it was a waste of time. She often didn’t know who he was and, even if she did seem to temporarily recognise him, she forgets that they’d seen one another within an hour of his visit. But Daisy was adamant. She was religious about it. She visited every Wednesday after school and insisted that they all visit every Sunday. She said it was their duty. It was the right thing to do. She argued that even if Elsie’s relief was only temporary, she was cheered while they were there. This wasn’t always true, sometimes Simon’s mother just cried when they visited. Or swore, cussed at them in a way that would make a sailor blush and made Millie giggle inappropriately. Daisy always took flowers, which Millie liked to present to her grandmother with a little over-the-top flourish. Once Simon’s mother tried to eat the flowers. Millie laughed at that too, she thought her grandmother was being deliberately funny. Daisy never took chocolates; chocolate messed with Elsie’s digestive system. Daisy said that dealing with the aftermath wasn’t pretty.

Simon thought that it was a depressing hellhole, the care home. He understood that they tried, he wasn’t saying otherwise. The staff were friendly enough, and no doubt dedicated, conscientious, blah blah blah. But in the end, all he could see was an over-heated institution, where people went to die. You couldn’t polish that turd.

His father had died of a heart attack just a few years after Daisy and Simon married. At the time, his dad being cut down before he’d even retired, seemed like a tragedy. Now, Simon had redefined what tragic was.

‘Hey, do you remember that game show on TV?’ he asked.

‘Which game show?’ Daisy did not quite manage to hold in her sigh of frustration. She didn’t like his non sequential thoughts, his musings. She called them ramblings.

‘The one where people would carry buckets of water over greasy poles or rolling logs, and others would interfere, try to knock contestants off balance by squirting water or throwing custard pies. What was it called?’ Simon was excited by this thought. He really wanted to know the name of the show. It was on the tip of his tongue. ‘Knockabout, something like that…’

‘It’s a Knockout,’ offered Daisy.

‘It’s a Knockout, that’s right.’

‘What about it?’

‘Nothing.’ Simon turned and looked out of the window. It was a bright day. He wished he’d brought his sunglasses.

Even with his head turned away he could feel Daisy’s frustration. She wouldn’t have liked him to elaborate, though. Not really. He was thinking that sometimes life was something akin to a great big game of It’s a Knockout. The show was designed to emphasise skill or organisation. Brains mattered, strength and endurance too. People always started the game grinning, showing great determination and spirit but everyone ended up looking foolish; wet, exhausted, broken. Yeah, life was like that game except it wasn’t pies that were thrown, it was infertility, depression, madness, infidelity, death. No one was immune, no one was safe. You think you’re doing OK, drifting along, going to university, getting hired, getting laid, getting married, things are going well and then suddenly, from out of nowhere, a great big blast of icy water knocks you off your greasy pole. Daisy wouldn’t want to hear him say that.

If they had to visit his mother every Sunday, Simon would have liked to do so in the mornings. It was not that he was a make-the-most-of-the-day sort of person, far from it. If anything, it was more of a get-it-over-with mindset. There were two main reasons for his preference. Firstly, if they arrived at 11 a.m. they had to leave at 1 p.m. because that was when the carers served the strained mush that they called lunch to the oldies, so the visit could be a maximum of two hours. Secondly, he liked to go out for long pub lunches, the sort that shimmered with the chance of swelling into the afternoon. There was nothing better in the winter than a roast, washed down by a bottle of red, maybe a couple of whiskies, in front of a fire. In the summer he was more of a G&T guy. The long lingering lunches weren’t possible if they had to be at the care home by 2 p.m. However, Daisy didn’t agree with Simon. She’d decided it was more convenient to visit his mother in the afternoon. That way she could take Millie to the dance studio for a private lesson in the morning and have a big meal in the evening. Millie wasn’t even dancing this week, but it seemed there was no room for flexibility. Simon was pretty sure Millie could be dancing again by now, she seemed as bright as a button, fully recovered. She was practically climbing the walls, she had so much energy to spend, but Daisy wouldn’t hear of it. Daisy was milking it, making more of the accident than need be. She was punishing him. Still. Even after the success of the garden camping. It didn’t matter what he did. How hard he tried. Daisy wasn’t the forgiving type.

She was such a hypocrite.

Daisy argued that the long, lazy lunches weren’t as much fun for her as she always drove. She did most of the driving when Millie was with them. She never said anything directly, but he knew she didn’t quite trust him, didn’t think he was quite up to it. It was insulting if you thought about it, so he tried not to think about it. In all honesty, he did have a bit of a thick head, it was probably best that she drove. Simon hated Sundays. They were swamped with a sense of dread and impending doom. He always had a shot of whisky before he visited his mother. It took the edge off. He couldn’t quite remember when he’d started this habit, a year ago? Maybe more.

Dr Martell was back in his head today. The fucker. He thought he’d pushed him out but, today, he’d crawled back in.

Daisy was such a hypocrite.

At first, Simon thought they were going to have a good afternoon with his mother. She was dressed appropriately, smartly in fact. His mother used to have standards, she was a consistently beautiful, elegant woman, but that was no longer the case. He hated it when he found her wearing someone else’s scruffy tracksuit, maybe because the staff had got the washing mixed up, maybe because she’d stolen it. Today she was wearing a neat blue dress, tights and shoes. Not mismatched socks and grubby slippers. Someone had brushed her thin, white hair; even put on a bit of lipstick for her. There was some on her teeth but that was not necessarily anything to do with dementia, Daisy often had lipstick on her teeth. Simon felt cheered and had a quick slug from his flask by way of celebration. But then Elsie started to talk, and Simon realised the lipstick was just a mask for the chaos.

‘Who is this?’ Elsie demanded imperiously, pointing at Daisy.

‘It’s Daisy, Mum. My wife,’ Simon explained unenthusiastically.

Unperturbed, Daisy kissed his mum’s cheek. ‘Hello, Elsie. You’re looking lovely today. What a chic dress. Look, we’ve brought you some flowers.’

Millie sprang forward. Everything was a performance for her. She beamed and held out the yellow roses.

His mum stared at Daisy, Millie and the flowers with a mix of hostility and surprise. Then her face melted. It was like water. One minute frozen, the next liquid. Simon thought that one day she would evaporate. ‘Thank you, they are beautiful,’ she said graciously. ‘So, you are the new wife, are you? I like you far better than the last one. She was podgy and giggly. A horrible combination.’

Daisy sighed. It was a fact that she used to carry a few extra pounds, something Simon’s mother – a lifetime borderline anorexic – hated with a level of ferocity that most people reserved for paedophiles. Also, when Simon first met Daisy, her thing was giggling. She would frequently erupt into chortles and even outright laughter, when most people were only moved to wryly grin in amusement. Simon had thought it was a result of being a teacher, always being around kids. She found life fun, entertaining. He liked it about her. Now, he’d say her thing was sighing.

‘I’ll go and see if the nurse has a vase,’ said Daisy.

‘Go with your mum,’ Simon instructed Millie.

‘It’s not a two-person job,’ commented Daisy. ‘Millie, stay with your grandma. Tell her what you’ve been up to at school this week.’

Millie looked from left to right, eyes swivelling between her parents. She was an obedient child and found it confusing when they issued conflicting sets of instructions. Which they did with increasing frequency. She hovered near the door, unsure what to do. Simon chose to ignore her. The moment Daisy left the room, he started to rummage through his mother’s bedside cabinet.

‘What are you looking for?’ Millie asked.

‘Bedsocks,’ he lied.

Elsie suddenly engaged. ‘Are you looking for this?’ She held up a large print book.

‘No.’

‘Are you looking for this?’ She waved a banana.

‘No, I said bedsocks,’ he muttered impatiently. Simon found the gin at the back of the cabinet, behind the bed socks. His uncle Alan brought his mother a half bottle every week. It was an irresponsible gift to give a dementia sufferer but, no doubt, Alan believed any comfort he could offer the old lady was justified at this stage. Every Thursday when Alan visited, he secreted a bottle in the cupboard and he believed Elsie knocked it back throughout the week. She didn’t, but the gift was gratefully received. Simon quickly put it in his laptop bag, which he’d brought for this purpose. Millie looked at her feet.

‘Is this what you are looking for?’ Elsie pulled out her hearing aid and shoved it under his nose. Simon could see her ear wax on the plastic.

‘No, I told you—’

‘What are you looking for?’ This time, the question came from Daisy. She was stood in the doorway next to Millie, holding the flowers which were now in a vase of water.

‘Nothing. She’s confused, you know what she’s like.’ He turned away and looked out of the window. There wasn’t much to see. A carer was pushing an old man in a wheelchair around the small garden. It took less than thirty seconds for them to do a lap. The silence in the room was deafening. Simon wished his mother would say something. She could usually be relied upon to talk nonsense to fill a gap.

Daisy carefully placed the vase on the bedside cabinet. She bent and closed the cupboard door. ‘What did you put in your bag?’

‘Nothing.’

The room wasn’t large and, in the same instant, they both reached for his laptop case. Simon was slightly speedier. He hugged it to his chest.

‘What are you hiding?’ Daisy demanded.

‘Nothing, nothing at all,’ Simon insisted.

She started to try to prise the bag off him. Simon was taken aback that she was being so openly confrontational – what was wrong with her? – and so he momentarily slackened his grip. It was enough for her to get some purchase, she yanked the bag off him and opened it.

‘You brought gin here?’ she asked in disbelief.

‘No, I was taking it away.’

‘You were stealing her gin?’ She glanced at Millie who was trying not to look at her parents. Daisy’s shock was palpable. Simon felt it calcify, another layer of disappointment settling on their history.

‘Not stealing it. Taking it away for her own good. She shouldn’t be drinking. It messes with her meds. Alan brings her it every week.’

‘You steal from her every week?’ Daisy shook her head. Disgust oozed from her.

Simon didn’t answer. What was the point? She didn’t want to know. Not really. She’d prefer not to know that when he nipped into the other rooms, ostensibly to say hi to the other oldies, like a decent chap, he checked their bedside cabinets too. There was usually a quarter of whisky, a small bottle of sherry, at the very least. On a quiet week, he’d settle for a box of liqueurs. He told himself that he was doing them a favour. It was irresponsible to give la la old people alcohol. There could be accidents. He wasn’t stealing. They’d give it to him if he asked. They liked him. These old dears that smelt of pee. They all thought he was their son or husband. They didn’t know their arse from their elbow. Simon knew Daisy wouldn’t understand if he explained all of that, so instead he did the only thing he could think of, he lurched forward and grabbed the gin out of her hands. In an instant he’d unscrewed the top and started to down it. Glug, glug, glug. Temporarily, she was frozen. Then she reacted. She tried to knock the bottle out of his hand.

‘Stop it, Simon. For God’s sake, stop it.’

But if he stopped drinking she’d take it from him. He knew she would. She did succeed in spilling a fair amount down his shirt, which was a waste. He flopped back into the armchair and slung the empty bottle into the wastepaper basket. It landed with a satisfying clunk. He yelled, ‘In the back of the net,’ and punched the air. Millie giggled, nervously.

Daisy looked like a fish, her mouth was gaping. She was swirling, sort of gauzy. She looked from him, to the wastepaper basket and back again. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded.

The air between them shuddered.

‘Him? Oh, he’s my husband. He’s always been rather too fond of the bottle, I’m afraid,’ said Elsie. She carefully patted the back of her hair with her frail, veiny hand. Then in a whisper, leaning towards Daisy, she added, ‘I find it’s best to ignore the matter. It doesn’t do to bring it up.’ She sighed, shook her head. ‘I only wish he had a hobby.’

Simon started to snigger. It was hilarious. It was just fucking hilarious.