“But, James, your father wanted me to carry on living here,” Mrs Bracknell said.
“He’s been dead for 15 years. He wouldn’t want you to stay here and be lonely. I’m convinced of that. He’d be pleased to think that you were well taken care of. Medical facilities, care workers, a social club, Bishop’s Court has it all. You’ll be very happy there.”
“Yes, dear, I know I will.”
James turned his face so that she couldn’t see his elation. At last he’d be able to finance his business without having to worry about owing the bank money, and he could cover Adam’s university fees as well. It had been a long haul bringing his mother round, but well worth all the effort.
It had all come about through a remark of Betsy’s a few weeks ago. He hadn’t taken any notice of his wife’s twittering, until he heard her mention the most amazing sum of money.
“What did you say?” he demanded.
Betsy, flustered by his peremptory tone, wasn’t sure which of her words had caught his attention.
“The supermarket has raised its prices again,” she repeated.
“Not that,” he snorted. “As if I’d be interested in the price of chickens. Although I’ve noticed our household bills have been a bit steep lately, you’ll have to be more careful. No, what was it you said about a house in my mother’s street?”
“There’s one for sale in Epperson’s window. It looks exactly like your mother’s, a bit run down and needing some work.”
James placed his newspaper carefully on the table. “You know I don’t have the time to spend looking after mother’s place. The factory needs all my attention.” He looked at her with suspicion. “What did you say?”
“Nothing, dear, I was clearing my throat,” she murmured.
Satisfied that he had quelled any desire on her part to argue, James continued. “Well, get on with it. What price did Epperson’s value the place?”
“Nearly three hundred thousand pounds. Can you believe it? I was speaking to your mother last week, and she said that Mary Brown had told her that the street has become quite fashionable, apparently because it’s so convenient for town. Young couples are buying the old houses and doing them up.”
“And you say the place advertised looked in the same condition as mother’s house?” James asked, his plump face flushed with excitement.
“It looked pretty much the same. Why are you so interested, it isn’t as if mother wants to sell, is it?”
“I think she might,” he murmured. “I really think she might want to move.”
Betsy got up and began mechanically straightening cushions.
“What are you fidgeting with those cushions for? Sit down, for goodness sake.”
“James, you won’t try and force her to sell, will you?” Anxiety was etched on her timid face.
He could hardly believe his ears, Betsy never argued with him.
“You look like a dormouse, standing there quivering like that. Of course I won’t force her to do anything. Even though father left me a half share in the house, his will stated quite clearly that mother was to stay there for as long as she wished. I wouldn’t go against that, but I’d be failing in my duty as a son if I didn’t see what the alternatives might be.”
On those words he picked up the paper, showing Betsy that the topic was now closed.
Saturday morning arrived and the postman delivered a brochure that James had been eagerly awaiting.
“Buy me a bunch of flowers while you’re out shopping. I thought I’d take a look in at mother later today.”
“Oh, James, I wish you’d said earlier. I’m due at the church this afternoon. It’s my turn to do the altar arrangements.”
“There’s no reason for you to come. You see her nearly every week anyway. Don’t forget to buy those flowers for me. And don’t be long, I don’t want to hang around all day waiting for you to get back.”
After lunch he pulled up outside his mother’s house. He could hardly believe the changes that had taken place in the street, since he’d last visited six months before. The entire road, with the exception of his mother’s house and a few others, appeared to be taking part in a giant makeover. The street looked like a cross between a building site and a beautiful homes exhibition. Nearly all the properties had either been renovated or bore telltale signs of work in progress. Scaffolding, ladders and men in overalls, had sprouted like weeds everywhere he looked.
He smiled to himself; this was going to be easier than he’d thought. Mother wouldn’t like living with all this noise and chaos going on every day. He let himself in, and called out. He was surprised to hear voices, and walked through to the kitchen. His mother was sitting at the table with people that he’d never seen before.
Mrs Bracknell looked up. “James, how lovely. I had no idea you were coming. Let me introduce you to my new neighbours. Mr and Mrs Bourne, this is my son, James.”
The couple stood up and James saw that they were quite young. Late twenties to early thirties he guessed, certainly not the age to be calling on a woman in her seventies. He nodded hello, but remained standing, and they took the hint and left.
“What are you doing, Mother? Who are those people, and why did you let them in?”
“They’re my new neighbours, and they came to apologise in advance about the noise and mess that’s likely to happen when the renovations start. Would you like some tea?”
He was about to refuse and launch into a lecture on what happens to foolish old ladies who take strangers into their homes, when he realised that getting irate would not further his cause. Instead, he gave her the flowers and answered in a gentler tone, accepting the offer of tea before settling his bulk uncomfortably on one of the spindly wooden kitchen chairs.
“Oh, James, how lovely.”
He watched his mother bustling about searching for a vase. When the flowers were arranged, she started fussing over the biscuits, and bemoaning the fact that she hadn’t bought any cake.
“Which I would have done,” she said, “if I’d had the least idea that I was going to get two sets of visitors in one day. Betsy always brings cake when she comes, how is she?”
Again James had to quell his irritation, discussing his wife’s petty concerns had never interested him, but he managed to inject a modicum of enthusiasm to his voice.
“She’s fine, sends her love. She’s at the church this afternoon, doing the flowers, or some such thing.” He paused, wondering how best to introduce the real reason for his visit. “I have to say I was surprised at the changes to the street. You must find it strange, now that so many houses have changed hands. I suppose many of your old friends have moved into retirement homes. That’s one of the reasons I came today, apart from to see you, of course.”
He looked up to find his mother regarding him. With her head slightly tilted she reminded him of a small bird, intent on seeing what was going into the seed box. Really, he thought, she was much too fragile to continue living here alone.
“I’ve been giving a lot of thought to your future. It isn’t good for someone of your age to be by yourself, and I worry that you might fall or something and can’t get to the telephone. I’ve discussed this with Betsy, and she agrees with me. You should consider selling up here and moving into a more secure environment.”
Saying that, he placed the brochure on the table. “There’s a lovely place not far from here. It’s called Bishop’s Court. Betsy will still be able to visit you each week, and you’ll have people your own age to talk to. It will be better for you than living amongst people at least 40 years younger than you are, and if your new neighbours are anything to go by, maybe 50 years younger.”
“But, James, I don’t want to move. I’ve lived here since your dad and I married.”
“I know that, but it isn’t safe for you to be on your own. You have to think about the medical aspect, now that you’re getting on in years.”
He finished his tea and looked around. It was a long time since he’d sat in the kitchen, and he was surprised at how dingy it appeared. Cracked tiles and peeling paper all added to the general sense of neglect. Nothing that a decorator couldn’t put right, he thought. A few pounds spent on cosmetics would make all the difference. Satisfied, he got up to leave.
“Have a good look at the brochures, Mother. I’ll come back next week, and we’ll discuss the best way to market the house.”
He saw that she was looking a bit stunned. Her blue eyes were filled with tears, and her tiny frames looked even more delicate than usual.
“Don’t worry. You know I’ll organise everything for you. See you next week.”
The following Thursday he was astounded to find Betsy inclined to argue with him, when the subject of Bishop’s Court came up. Not that Betsy’s view was worth anything, but it made his life uncomfortable if she was upset. So he decided not to discuss the matter with her again. If she chose to believe that he’d dropped the idea, then that was up to her.
On Saturday he set off for his mother’s house. Without flowers this time, he didn’t want to send Betsy out for them, and set her off again. He was so sure that his words of wisdom would have prevailed with his mother, that he was unprepared for the shock awaiting him.
“Come in, James. Barbara is still here, she’s been explaining the alarm buttons to me.” She took him through to the kitchen, where the woman from the week before was sitting. She stood as he came in.
“Hello, Mr Bracknell,” she said. “Your mother told me how concerned you were, that something might go wrong when she’s alone in the house. So I’ve fixed up a medical alarm system for her. I’m a social worker, and as I know all the right people, I thought you wouldn’t mind if I sorted it out for you. It’s good to know that some people care about their older relations.”
He heard the words with disbelief, all his hard work last week undone by this interfering busybody, and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. Except swallow his bile, and say thank you. He looked at the woman in front of him, her dark eyes were laughing, almost daring him to disagree with her. When she left, he watched her retreating back with dislike. Well, he’d simply have to try a different tack.
“I’m glad your neighbour has been so helpful, but it doesn’t alter the aspect of loneliness does it? Just think how happy you’d be, if there were a social club that you could attend. Bishop’s Court has regular bingo sessions, sing-along evenings, and trips to the coast. Did you look at the brochures?”
Mrs Bracknell nodded. “James, I know that you mean well, but I love this house. I don’t want to move.”
“But look at the place. The paint is peeling, and the garden’s a mess. You can barely look after the house, let alone the garden, and I can’t afford to pay for someone to do it for you. Think about it, it’s a millstone hanging round your neck.”
Head bowed, she answered: “You’re right, I know you are. But my memories are all here, James. As you get older, your memories become more important than anything else in the world.”
“That’s as may be, but you can’t live in squalor. Consider Bishop’s Court, that’s all I’m asking. I’ll give you a few weeks to think about it.” He regarded the scruffy kitchen with disfavour. “If the rest of the property is like this, I’ll need to spend some money on it before we can sell.” He patted his mother on the shoulder and left.
When he returned, a month later, he was less than pleased to see the grass neatly cut, the flowerbeds weeded, and a large section of the lawn dug up.
“What on earth is going on?” he asked.
“One of the people that Barbara, you remember Barbara, don’t you? Anyway as I was saying, one of the people that Barbara visits had to give up his allotment, and I was telling her what you’d said about the garden going to pot, and she suggested that he come and look after my garden.”
“But how can you afford to pay him?”
“I don’t. That’s the beauty of it. He’s going to grow his vegetables in that new bed that he’s dug over, in exchange for looking after the rest of the garden. His name’s George, and he’s going to introduce me to the senior’s social club that he belongs to. I have to say, James, your visits have done me a power of good. I’d been sliding into senility without even realising it.”
James looked properly at his mother for the first time this visit, and saw immediately that she looked different. Her white hair had been styled and, he was horrified to note, she was wearing lipstick.
“Well I’m glad that you’ve seen the necessity of getting your social life sorted out. Imagine how much nicer it will be, when everything is on your doorstep, so to speak. Once you’re installed in Bishop’s Court, you’ll soon find yourself at the centre of everything that’s going on.”
“But, James, your father wanted me to carry on living here,” Mrs Bracknell said.
“He wouldn’t want you to stay here and be lonely, Mother. I’m convinced of that. He’d be pleased to think that you were so well taken care of. Medical facilities, care workers, a social club, Bishop’s Court has it all. You’ll be very happy there.”
“Yes, dear, I know I will.”
He turned away to hide his elation. It had been a long haul bringing his mother round, though well worth the effort. But the smile faded at her next words.
“And I promise that as soon as I feel unable to look after myself properly, or I no longer have such kind neighbours, then I’ll move . Let’s hope that it won’t be for many years yet.”
She was staring closely at him, as if she could read his mind. He felt as he had when he’d been a child, and she’d caught him out in a lie. She was smiling at him with such understanding. He knew that he’d been outwitted.
“Shall we have tea now?” she asked.
© Lorraine Mace 2004
