‘I need to get back,’ I say, already wondering why we continue to meet like this. Habit, I guess. Habit and an invisible cord that will always bind us together. With Mum in the care home and Simon and our father long since gone, all we have is each other.
‘I’m going to visit Mum in the morning.’ She says lightly it as if it is a passing comment, something we say in everyday conversation, like isn’t the weather awful or how are things with you?
Going to visit our mother is a major event. It is exhausting, traumatic and any other extreme emotion you care to add. Not a thing we do lightly.
‘I’ll go with you.’ The words are out before I can stop them, an explosion of garbled syllables that have the power to make Kim freeze, to stop her from rummaging in her expansive handbag and to stare at me as if I have grown two heads. ‘I haven’t seen Mum for a few weeks. I’ll tag along. If that’s okay with you?’
She widens her eyes, nods at me warily, turns away but not before I see the tremble in her hands, the slight tremor of her head. The tic that takes hold in her jaw. I often need to protect Mum from Kim’s sharp words, her unwillingness to soften her serrated manner. It may sound egotistical and I do not mean it to, but I am better at handling Mum. She is unpredictable, flighty. As her mind crumbles into dust, she has little or no control over what comes out of her mouth, saying things that simply aren’t true, things that often rile her eldest daughter, causing her to defend herself against Mum’s insults and accusations.
‘Whatever you want to do. Completely up to you.’ She shrugs and turns away, already slighted, already thinking that I have somehow usurped her. She shuffles through the door, her heels clicking on the stone flooring, making my scalp prickle with dread.
We arrange to meet at the care home at 10 a.m. Mum will be dressed by then, will have eaten and be at her best, rested after a good night’s sleep and a decent breakfast. Her demeanour declines the closer it is to bedtime, her brainpower depleted by simply existing and trying to make it through an average day. Not that all of her days are average. Some are better than others. And some are particularly hideous – a protracted stream of vile words and allegations fired out at anybody who will listen – swear words, invectives, attempts to hit out and scratch at anybody unfortunate enough to be close at hand. It’s as if the Devil himself has landed deep in her soul and is doing his damnedest to tear her apart and burst out of her chest, a writhing, spitting demon who will devour anybody within reach. We visit in the hope of catching her on a good day, but we never can tell.
‘See you there,’ I say as we part.
Kim gives me a cursory wave over her shoulder before sliding into the car and disappearing around the corner before I’ve even had chance to find my keys.
It’s the howling wind that wakes me. That and the ground that feels unsteady under my feet. At least I think that’s what it is. When I come to, I am acutely aware of the cold and the noise of the breeze passing through the treetops: the branches groaning, the leaves rattling and whispering. I was dreaming that somebody was calling out to me, murmuring my name, but the memory is too distant, too ethereal to define.
I stare down at my feet – bare, numb from the night air. I’m wearing pyjama bottoms and a vest top. I wrap my arms around myself, rubbing at the cool, prickled flesh with my fingers to try to warm myself up.
My eyes take some time to clear, my vision still blurry from sleep, my brain muddled and clogged up with dreams and weird visualisations. I blink, wait for things to come into focus and when they do, I begin to cry, shockwaves rippling through me. I am on the main road in the village, my house a good way behind me. Wandering into the back garden in my sleep was no longer good enough for me, not daring or brazen enough. My body and mind have now decided to steer me into a public area, half dressed and freezing cold while still asleep.
Gravel cuts at my feet. I stumble and right myself, aware that I am in the middle of the street. My toes curl, a response to the pain as I tiptoe onto the path, doing my best to dodge the sharp stones and loose grit and tarmac that roll around the ground.
The village is deserted. I thank God for that. Hempton is a small place. Nobody around, nobody out in the early hours who will see me. Or help me. What if something had happened? What if a car had come tearing around the corner at full speed in the dark?
I shiver, my feet burning and throbbing as I head down the path towards home. My home. The place where I grew up. The place where Simon went missing. My head is aching, my back rigid and sore, the cool breeze forcing me to tense up, my spine as taut as a bowstring.
The front door is wide open when I get there. Anybody could have wandered in. Any passing drunk. Any passing druggie or rapist. The chances of there being any in these parts is almost zero. I know this. It doesn’t stop the fear from nipping at me, or halt the vulnerability I am experiencing at being so exposed and alone.
I peek my head inside and flick on all the lights before slamming the door behind me and locking it. Smears of blood cover the tiled floor. I grab at a scarf, place it next to my feet and stamp on it then turn the soles of my feet upwards to inspect the damage. They are red and sore, small lines of blood settling in the creases of my skin. I prod at a larger circle of scarlet, wincing as I check for any embedded pieces of grit.
One of the few upsides of living alone is that I can do whatever I want whenever I want. I turn on the radio, run a hot bath and sink down into the white bubbles, my toes and the undersides of my feet buzzing as the warm water laps over them. It will help me to sleep, to take my mind off the horror of what has just happened. How I managed to sleepwalk, leave the house and wander down the road in the dead of night. Even the hot water can’t stop the chill that runs through me at the thought of what could have happened out there. Yet it didn’t. I rest my head back, try to think of different ways to stop this happening again. Tomorrow, I will use the top bolt on both doors, perhaps even hide the key, putting it out of reach. My mind, clouded with sleep, surely won’t locate it. There are ways to stop this weird occurrence, ways to make sure I don’t end up out there again. It’s a form of self-preservation. I have to do it. I need protecting from myself.
I lather myself down, gingerly dabbing at my feet with the bath sponge, relieved that the cuts and bruises will heal. No lasting damage. Part of me wishes there were. At least it might stop me from heading out again. Pain has got to be a sure-fire way of stopping any future sleepwalking, hasn’t it?
Exhaustion envelops me. I stand up, wrap myself in a towel, empty the bath and switch off the radio. The sudden silence is like being plunged underwater. I’m meeting Kim later. I will have to be in the right frame of mind to deal her and my mother. What I need to do is to climb into bed and sleep soundly so I can wake rested and ready to face them both with a clear head.
The bed is cold as I slide in. I curl into a foetal position, shivering against the cool sheets, my brain still full of images – Simon’s small face staring at me, my mother’s wails as we searched for him the following morning, my father’s arms pumping furiously at his sides as he ran from house to house knocking on doors, calling out to neighbours, asking if they had seen him.
His bed was empty this morning when we went to wake him up!
Those words will stay with me until the day I die. Those cold, terrifying words that left a lasting impression in my mind and a hollow carved deep in my heart that will never be filled.
Then Kim refusing to come out of the bedroom, her sullen face staring out at us from above as we searched the garden, pulling shrubbery out of the way, opening the door to the old coal shed. I stood and watched, my chest swelling with terror as she stared over into the garden next door where Mr Waters lived with his family before pointing an accusatory finger and stepping back out of sight.
5
I am greeted by a wall of heat as I step into Cherry Tree Home where Amanda, the deputy manager steps aside to let me through. ‘Your sister’s already here. She’s in the lounge with your mum, who, incidentally, is having a really good day today.’
Relief blooms in my chest. I guess that Amanda, as skilled as she is, knows how much visitors long to hear this and is keen to pass it on to put everyone at ease. Going to visit Mum is always an unpredictable and sometimes frightening experience.
On a bad day, I can hear her shouts and protestations from the car park, am aware that behind closed doors, staff are working hard to calm her down and reassure her that they are not trying to kill her.
And then on a good day, she will sit peaceably, her hands folded in her lap, eyes twinkling with happiness as she reminisces about the past. Her own childhood past, not the near past, our childhood. Sometimes, she speaks of Dad and Simon, her words tearing at my heartstrings. I try to jolly her along, steer her away from the obvious, knowing she is in no fit state to cope with those sorts of memories, her mind too fragmented to handle them or make sense of them. I struggle with memories of that time in our lives. For her, it’s almost an impossible task.
More often than not, she will speak of growing up with her siblings, how they all had to share a bed, how they would play out in the street from dawn till dusk with no fear of strangers or traffic. How they would hear the air raid sirens going off and make the terrifying dash to the shelter, covering their ears from the explosions, the crashing of buildings as bombs hit them, leaving nothing behind but piles of dust and rubble.
It’s only when I hear this that I realise how brave she is, how much she had to endure; all that terror finally behind her after the war ended only for her to lose a child later on in her life: her boy, our brother who disappeared into thin air. Nobody deserves that. Nobody.
‘Here she is,’ Mum says, her face lighting up as I head towards them. ‘It’s the woman from next door. Have you brought us any cake?’
Kim is perched next to her on the tiny, velour sofa. She rolls her eyes and smiles at Mum’s words. On my last visit I was her sister, Denise, and the time before that I was an intruder who was trying to steal all of her money. I’m a shapeshifter, transforming and morphing with every consecutive visit.
‘Hi, Mum,’ I say tenderly as I lean down to kiss her cheek. She smells of lavender and old talcum powder. Her skin is soft with a fine layer of downy hair that covers her sallow cheeks.
‘Who’s your mum? Is she here? I’d like to meet her. Don’t mind if I do.’ She narrows her eyes and stares at Kim. ‘And who’s this pretty young thing, eh?’
‘It’s me, Mum,’ Kim sighs, her patience evidently wearing thin. She will have been here for all of ten minutes, and is already itching to leave. ‘And I’m not exactly young.’
‘Me mum? Who’s she? Don’t think I’ve ever met her. Nice, is she? Not like that Dorothy at number twenty-six. She was a right gadabout she was, always out and around town with different men who couldn’t keep it in their trousers.’
I laugh. Kim joins in, her tense posture relaxing as I sit down and take Mum’s hand in mine. It lessens the load, two of us here talking with her. My thumb strokes her fingers, straying over her parchment-like skin, tracing the deep grooves that line her palm.
‘How are you doing, Mum? Everything okay with you?’
