Homemaking for the Down-At-Heart. Finuala Dowling
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her head lying there once more. Every day, making it, Margot promised her bed that she would return. They would try again. They could make this work, she and the bed. It was only a question of getting through the day, and the covenant between sleeper and sleep could be fulfilled.
Since Curtis was not there to watch her, she stood in her underwear and wondered what to wear. She would like them taken away from her: the decision what to wear every morning and the decision what to cook every evening. Why not wear a uniform and shuffle your plastic tray along the canteen counter? What she really wanted to do was climb back into bed and stay there all Sunday like an eighteen-year-old. She remembered lying in bed all day, reading until she felt queasy.
The brass doorhandle rattled. Margot sighed. Now what? Now who? She was so tired of being looked at. The cat, the dog, everyone looked at her, wondering where their next meal or reassurance or caress was coming from.
It was Zoe, holding on to Margot’s bedroom door and peeping round it suspiciously.
“What’s wrong, Ma? What are you looking for?” Margot asked.
“I am all alone. Who is supposed to be looking after me?”
Margot shepherded her mother back down to her room on the first landing and helped her dress. Each shirt she took from its hanger was stained or dirty. She fetched a laundry basket.
“Why are you putting that perfectly good shirt in the wash?”
“Because it’s filthy. You should put your clothes in the wash basket when they’re dirty. Though I suppose that’s hard for you now that your eyesight’s not good.”
Sadness pulled Zoe’s mouth down. “I’m going mad, aren’t I? You should put me in a cave for geriatrics.”
“No, Ma. It’s just your eyesight. And anxiety.”
“Ash flutters by all the time. All I see is falling ash. The sun never shines any more.”
“I’ll take you for a drive. We’ll find a sunny road.”
“When is my next eye appointment? The left one feels as though it has a rusty spade inside it.”
“Monday week,” said Margot. She brought out a smart navy blazer, once her father’s, for Zoe to wear. “But you know the doctor can’t fix it. It’s gone – that eye is gone. The optic nerve exploded from the ocular pressure or whatever it is that happens. You should’ve had regular eye checkups when you were younger.”
Margot’s words disappeared into Zoe’s pedal-bin memory. “When is my next eye appointment?” she asked.
“Not this Monday but next,” repeated Margot.
“The problem with my eyes is that they don’t water any more. I wish the Queen would die.”
“Why do you want the poor Queen to die?”
“I need a good cry. My eyes need a good cry.”
“And the Queen’s dying would set you off, would it?”
“It’s the gun carriage. And the slow march to St Paul’s.”
“Thank heavens for televised funerals.”
It was her mother’s fault, really, leaving her eyes till glaucoma set in. In Homemaking for the Down-at-Heart, Zoe had written in the chapter on health that one should stay away from the medical profession. Most ailments are caused by constipation or liverishness. Clear the blockage. Try twenty-four hours without alcohol (offer it up) and take a spoon or two of stewed prunes or castor oil. Before venturing into a waiting room full of germ carriers, ask yourself whether this ailment could not perhaps be helped with Jamaica ginger, camomile lotion, friar’s balsam, a salt-water rinse or Chamberlain’s Colic Remedy.
When Zoe was dressed, Margot led her downstairs, holding her mother with the arm that wasn’t clutching the laundry basket. To add to the balancing act, Linus twined himself in and out of Margot’s footsteps. He was rounding her up, lassoing her so that she would feed him. The kitten bought for the child becomes the mother’s cat.
“Is this our cat?” asked Zoe.
“Yes,” said Margot, pushing the creature aside as she filled his bowl.
“They didn’t look like that in my day.”
“Like what?”
“So large and with so much white fur. Cats used to be black, or occasionally ginger. They used to be very sweet.”
Margot didn’t want an absurd discussion about cat evolution. “You sit in the front room while I put your dirty clothes in the machine.”
“Where is the front room?” asked Zoe.
Margot took her mother by the arm again and led her to the bay window. “You might spot a whale,” she said encouragingly.
“I don’t like whales. They always interrupt me.”
Zoe stared out of the bay window, thwarted. The water looked ashen and choppy, the clouds scrappy. “How dismal it is. In my day, clouds were big, puffy things. They floated in a proper blue sky. This is surely the end of the world. People must have phoned in to the radio to say so. Have they, darling?”
“It’s a recurring theme among my callers,” said Margot.
“I’m sure the world will end soon,” she repeated. “Mr Morland would know. Where is Mr Morland?”
“He’s got clients today.”
“And Curtis? Where is he?”
“Outside,” said Margot. Her mother had always preferred the company of men.
“Where is outside?” asked Zoe.
“I’ll show you in a minute, once I’ve loaded the washing machine.” Surely it could only last until December, this flickering bulb of her mother’s mind. Then it would be night.
As for things changing – cats, clouds – it was her mother’s eyes that were changed. Not just what they saw, but the eyes themselves. They were filmed over, wary and uncomprehending. The person who looked out from them was not the mother she knew and loved.
Zoe stood in the horribly altered world. Everything that was known and comforting had fled. Something catastrophic was about to happen.
Curtis kept Pia company in the shed, but did not pry into her thoughts. Occasionally he would show her an object and ask, “Could you use this in your little house?” For the most part, though, they were silent.
The shed where they worked was on the lowest terrace of the garden. Curtis looked up and saw Margot and her mother standing together in the bay window. Zoe looking so dear – gallant, almost – in a man’s dark blue blazer turned up at the cuffs, and Margot still a little tousled, as though roused too soon from bed. Mother and daughter: what a beautiful sight. He smiled and waved and pointed to what he was doing. He would love to tell Margot and Zoe about this project of the garden shears – the fine old pair he’d found in Margot’s shed. It was very satisfying. Whose had they been? They had good oak handles, and appeared to have been little used over the years. Curtis had sanded off all the rust and sharpened the blades. Now his attention was focused on the handles. Dryness had opened a split halfway along the length of one handle. He mixed some sawdust and wood glue into a paste and filled the split.
He should really have found something else to do while the handle dried – the to-do list was always there, pinned above his desk. But he was loath to leave his handiwork. He wanted to stay with the shears. He wanted someone, a woman ideally, to see what he had done.
Ah, now they were coming down the steps towards him! Curtis dashed up to assist Zoe. He was a tall man, but always held himself stooped, so as not to make his companions feel diminutive.
“You’re mending the old shears,” said Margot. Curtis beamed as though he’d been warmly praised.
“When