‘You wouldn’t think it, but I’m seventy myself.’
Sam’s right, of course. With her metallic white hair cut jaggedly short and swept back in spikes, her sharp shirt, skinny jeans and fluorescent trainers, I’d have put her at fifty, tops.
‘My knees are worn out. Every few weeks I have to have a needle in my eye because of the macular degeneration. Which means I can’t drive. So I have to take the bus over here every day. And you know what buses are like. It takes me the best part of an hour there and back, twice a day. On top of that I’ve been living in the hospital most nights ‘cos my son in law had an accident and my daughter’s not coping. Plus my own life to sort out. Which needs a LOT of sorting out, these days.’
She takes a breath, staring off into the bright fall of afternoon sun through the window. ‘And I’ll tell you something else,’ she says, trailing off. ‘I’ll tell you something…’
Her chin begins to tremble and she has to turn away.
‘Sorry,’ she says, pulling a tissue from her pocket. ‘Sorry about this.’
‘That’s okay. I can see it’s hard.’
‘Hard!’ she says, with a bitter laugh. ‘Childbirth was hard. Divorce was hard. This is bloody impossible!’
She blows her nose and bins the tissue. Gives her head a little shake.
‘There!’ she says. ‘Now. Good. Where were we?’
We talk through the situation. How her mum Avril is ninety-eight, increasingly frail and forgetful, not eating or drinking, falling more often but refusing to accept any of the practical changes that might improve her situation. She went into hospital for a few days after the last fall. Being discharged today and expected home by ambulance any minute. Although there’ve been a lot of false starts and mix-ups as far as THAT goes. Anyway – Sam is the main carer for her mother, with a little private top-up help from a family friend. Sam has Power of Attorney, thank goodness, which is something, a small victory. But so far it hasn’t helped all that much in practice. Avril refuses to talk about residential care, even for respite, whether for her benefit or – more significantly – for Sam. Things have been staggering on like this for a while. It’s not getting any easier.
‘She was always bloody minded,’ says Sam. ‘I suppose it’s how she’s lived to such a ripe old age. It’s probably what’s kept her going all these years. I mean – It’s not like she’s any different now she’s old. In some ways I think she’s actually more of herself than she was. Which sounds odd, but you know what I mean. Do you?’
I nod and say I think I do.
‘Some things have changed, of course. She repeats herself a lot. Over and over. If I hear that story one more time of her in the air raid shelter with the GI and the rabbits I’ll scream. But essentially she’s still Mum. Which is what makes it so hard. Don’t get me wrong. I love my mum and I’d do anything for her.’
Sam laughs again.
‘Like get the bus twice a day! Anyway – enough of my moaning. Let me show you how I’ve organised her laundry…’
I follow her into the hallway. She opens an airing cupboard where a water heater is surrounded by shelves of slacks and vests, everything ironed, neatly stacked and lined up, orderly piles of pants and socks, a clutch of enormous bras hanging down from the top shelf like outlandish nests.
‘What d’you think?’ she says.
‘Wow!’ I say. ‘Pretty organised. You do an amazing job.’
‘You know what? I think I do,’ she says, giving the clothes a long, proprietary look, then slowly closing the door.
The buzzer goes. She stiffens.
‘That’ll be mum,’ she says. ‘Smile and act normal.’