take on a different meaning as I look at them with a new, more mature perspective. The statue had been something that
was just there, in the background. Now I wondered what stories it might tell if it could speak.
As Mona emerges from Daddy’s back door, and climbs the steps towards me, there’s an odd moment where the head of my mother, and that of Mona, are juxtaposed. I feel
this is significant.
Perhaps Mona has come to replace, in some symbolic way, the things Mummy stood for. Perhaps she would enable us all to find the goodness within again.
‘Is everything all right?’ I ask her. ‘How did you get on today?’
She nods, smiles. ‘Very well, thank you. Did you see I cooked for you? For Leo and Charles.’
‘Thank you. I’m just popping down to see Daddy, then we’ll have a chat in the kitchen.’
Daddy’s sitting in bed in clean pyjamas, listening to
Book at Bedtime
on Radio 4.
He smiles up at me, holds out his hand and squeezes mine.
‘You’ve had a good day, Daddy?’
‘Yes, thank you very much. Very good.’ His polite tone is disconcerting. Does he know who I am?
‘You got on all right with Mona?’
‘Oh yes. We bought Mummy a birthday present. I asked Nancy . . .’
‘Mona.’
‘Yes, the girl.’
‘Woman.’
‘I asked her to help me choose Mummy some flowers. And a vase to put them in. She says she’ll take them to her in the hospital.’
Sometimes it’s as if he’s losing his memory in tiny steps, incrementally, but this, this believing Mummy is still with us reveals a massive gap in his recall – a catastrophic
one. It means he has to go through the grief of losing Mummy all over again. But I can’t have him living with delusions. He has to know how things are, or his whole world will
disintegrate.
‘Daddy,’ I say. ‘Mummy’s dead.’
He looks at me for some time, bewilderment furrowing his brow, before a tear trickles down his cheek.
‘Do you know, I completely forgot,’ he says.
I squeeze his old hand.
‘She died a year ago, Daddy. We had a funeral. Remember?’
‘Yes, yes. Of course I remember. Where’s Mona, that lovely girl who bought the roses?’
‘I’ll send her down.’
My chest hurts as I climb the stairs, and I’m not even sure whether it’s due to witnessing Daddy’s grief, or feeling a different kind of my own.
Mona’s at the cooker, stirring.
‘Won’t you have some yourself?’ I ask.
She shakes her head. ‘I ate with Charles.’
‘He wants you again. He needs settling down for the night. Then you can come and sit with me for a bit.’
‘Yes. Very well.’
She comes back in as I’m helping myself to some of the dish she’s made. A lamb tagine. I try to remember if I’d asked her to buy lamb.
‘Daddy says you bought my mother a birthday present.’
She smiles, moves across to the sink to wash the pans.
‘Oh yes. He said it was your mummy’s birthday. So we bought flowers for her.’
‘But she’s dead,’ I say.
‘I know. But it made him happy. I wanted to make him happy. This is good, I think. To believe for a few hours, that his wife is alive. He enjoyed buying the beautiful roses.’
Mona may well be right, it might be kinder to go along with Daddy’s happy memories. Perhaps I’m wrong to jolt him back to reality.
‘And Leo was polite?’
‘Yes. I told him to go upstairs. I said he cannot stay all day in his pyjamas.’
‘You know, Mona, it might seem that I put up with a lot from him. But I want him to feel at home here, that he can do as he likes.’
I pour myself a glass of wine. Mona’s being here is softening the terrible things I’ve been dealing with. Leo’s depression, Daddy’s Alzheimer’s, the loss of Mummy.
Here I am, a meal made for me, my disaffected son doing something more useful than his usual indolent TV-watching, and Mona to look after me, to keep an attentive eye on Daddy. I let my remorse
about the argument with Gina fade.
‘Tell me about your family.’
She shrinks
was just there, in the background. Now I wondered what stories it might tell if it could speak.
As Mona emerges from Daddy’s back door, and climbs the steps towards me, there’s an odd moment where the head of my mother, and that of Mona, are juxtaposed. I feel
this is significant.
Perhaps Mona has come to replace, in some symbolic way, the things Mummy stood for. Perhaps she would enable us all to find the goodness within again.
‘Is everything all right?’ I ask her. ‘How did you get on today?’
She nods, smiles. ‘Very well, thank you. Did you see I cooked for you? For Leo and Charles.’
‘Thank you. I’m just popping down to see Daddy, then we’ll have a chat in the kitchen.’
Daddy’s sitting in bed in clean pyjamas, listening to
Book at Bedtime
on Radio 4.
He smiles up at me, holds out his hand and squeezes mine.
‘You’ve had a good day, Daddy?’
‘Yes, thank you very much. Very good.’ His polite tone is disconcerting. Does he know who I am?
‘You got on all right with Mona?’
‘Oh yes. We bought Mummy a birthday present. I asked Nancy . . .’
‘Mona.’
‘Yes, the girl.’
‘Woman.’
‘I asked her to help me choose Mummy some flowers. And a vase to put them in. She says she’ll take them to her in the hospital.’
Sometimes it’s as if he’s losing his memory in tiny steps, incrementally, but this, this believing Mummy is still with us reveals a massive gap in his recall – a catastrophic
one. It means he has to go through the grief of losing Mummy all over again. But I can’t have him living with delusions. He has to know how things are, or his whole world will
disintegrate.
‘Daddy,’ I say. ‘Mummy’s dead.’
He looks at me for some time, bewilderment furrowing his brow, before a tear trickles down his cheek.
‘Do you know, I completely forgot,’ he says.
I squeeze his old hand.
‘She died a year ago, Daddy. We had a funeral. Remember?’
‘Yes, yes. Of course I remember. Where’s Mona, that lovely girl who bought the roses?’
‘I’ll send her down.’
My chest hurts as I climb the stairs, and I’m not even sure whether it’s due to witnessing Daddy’s grief, or feeling a different kind of my own.
Mona’s at the cooker, stirring.
‘Won’t you have some yourself?’ I ask.
She shakes her head. ‘I ate with Charles.’
‘He wants you again. He needs settling down for the night. Then you can come and sit with me for a bit.’
‘Yes. Very well.’
She comes back in as I’m helping myself to some of the dish she’s made. A lamb tagine. I try to remember if I’d asked her to buy lamb.
‘Daddy says you bought my mother a birthday present.’
She smiles, moves across to the sink to wash the pans.
‘Oh yes. He said it was your mummy’s birthday. So we bought flowers for her.’
‘But she’s dead,’ I say.
‘I know. But it made him happy. I wanted to make him happy. This is good, I think. To believe for a few hours, that his wife is alive. He enjoyed buying the beautiful roses.’
Mona may well be right, it might be kinder to go along with Daddy’s happy memories. Perhaps I’m wrong to jolt him back to reality.
‘And Leo was polite?’
‘Yes. I told him to go upstairs. I said he cannot stay all day in his pyjamas.’
‘You know, Mona, it might seem that I put up with a lot from him. But I want him to feel at home here, that he can do as he likes.’
I pour myself a glass of wine. Mona’s being here is softening the terrible things I’ve been dealing with. Leo’s depression, Daddy’s Alzheimer’s, the loss of Mummy.
Here I am, a meal made for me, my disaffected son doing something more useful than his usual indolent TV-watching, and Mona to look after me, to keep an attentive eye on Daddy. I let my remorse
about the argument with Gina fade.
‘Tell me about your family.’
She shrinks
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