Lies Lies Lies. Adele Parks
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10, Simon
Sunday, 26th June 2016
Simon hated visiting his mother. He thought it was a waste of time. She often didn’t know who he was and, even if she did seem to temporarily recognise him, she forgets that they’d seen one another within an hour of his visit. But Daisy was adamant. She was religious about it. She visited every Wednesday after school and insisted that they all visit every Sunday. She said it was their duty. It was the right thing to do. She argued that even if Elsie’s relief was only temporary, she was cheered while they were there. This wasn’t always true, sometimes Simon’s mother just cried when they visited. Or swore, cussed at them in a way that would make a sailor blush and made Millie giggle inappropriately. Daisy always took flowers, which Millie liked to present to her grandmother with a little over-the-top flourish. Once Simon’s mother tried to eat the flowers. Millie laughed at that too, she thought her grandmother was being deliberately funny. Daisy never took chocolates; chocolate messed with Elsie’s digestive system. Daisy said that dealing with the aftermath wasn’t pretty.
Simon thought that it was a depressing hellhole, the care home. He understood that they tried, he wasn’t saying otherwise. The staff were friendly enough, and no doubt dedicated, conscientious, blah blah blah. But in the end, all he could see was an over-heated institution, where people went to die. You couldn’t polish that turd.
His father had died of a heart attack just a few years after Daisy and Simon married. At the time, his dad being cut down before he’d even retired, seemed like a tragedy. Now, Simon had redefined what tragic was.
‘Hey, do you remember that game show on TV?’ he asked.
‘Which game show?’ Daisy did not quite manage to hold in her sigh of frustration. She didn’t like his nonesequential thoughts, his musings. She called them ramblings.
‘The one where people would carry buckets of water over greasy poles or rolling logs, and others would interfere, try to knock contestants off balance by squirting water or throwing custard pies. What was it called?’ Simon was excited by this thought. He really wanted to know the name of the show. It was on the tip of his tongue. ‘Knockabout, something like that…’
‘It’s a Knockout,’ offered Daisy.
‘It’s a Knockout, that’s right.’
‘What about it?’
‘Nothing.’ Simon turned and looked out of the window. It was a bright day. He wished he’d brought his sunglasses.
Even with his head turned away he could feel Daisy’s frustration. She wouldn’t have liked him to elaborate, though. Not really. He was thinking that sometimes life was something akin to a great big game of It’s a Knockout. The show was designed to emphasise skill or organisation. Brains mattered, strength and endurance too. People always started the game grinning, showing great determination and spirit but everyone ended up looking foolish; wet, exhausted, broken. Yeah, life was like that game except it wasn’t pies that were thrown, it was infertility, depression, madness, infidelity, death. No one was immune, no one was safe. You think you’re doing OK, drifting along, going to university, getting hired, getting laid, getting married, things are going well and then suddenly, from out of nowhere, a great big blast of icy water knocks you off your greasy pole. Daisy wouldn’t want to hear him say that.
If they had to visit his mother every Sunday, Simon would have liked to do so in the mornings. It was not that he was a make-the-most-of-the-day sort of person, far from it. If anything, it was more of a get-it-over-with mindset. There were two main reasons for his preference. Firstly, if they arrived at 11 a.m. they had to leave at 1 p.m. because that was when the carers served the strained mush that they called lunch to the oldies, so the visit could be a maximum of two hours. Secondly, he liked to go out for long pub lunches, the sort that shimmered with the chance of swelling into the afternoon. There was nothing better in the winter than a roast, washed down by a bottle of red, maybe a couple of whiskies, in front of a fire. In the summer he was more of a G&T guy. The long lingering lunches weren’t possible if they had to be at the care home by 2 p.m. However, Daisy didn’t agree with Simon. She’d decided it was more convenient to visit his mother in the afternoon. That way she could take Millie to the dance studio for a private lesson in the morning and have a big meal in the evening. Millie wasn’t even dancing this week, but it seemed there was no room for flexibility. Simon was pretty sure Millie could be dancing again by now, she seemed as bright as a button, fully recovered. She was practically climbing the walls, she had so much energy to spend, but Daisy wouldn’t hear of it. Daisy was milking it, making more of the accident than need be. She was punishing him. Still. Even after the success of the garden camping. It didn’t matter what he did. How hard he tried. Daisy wasn’t the forgiving type.
She was such a hypocrite.
Daisy argued that the long, lazy lunches weren’t as much fun for her as she always drove. She did most of the driving when Millie was with them. She never said anything directly, but he knew she didn’t quite trust him, didn’t think he was quite up to it. It was insulting if you thought about it, so he tried not to think about it. In all honesty, he did have a bit of a thick head, it was probably best that she drove. Simon hated Sundays. They were swamped with a sense of dread and impending doom. He always had a shot of whisky before he visited his mother. It took the edge off. He couldn’t quite remember when he’d started this habit, a year ago? Maybe more.
Dr Martell was back in his head today. The fucker. He thought he’d pushed him out but, today, he’d crawled back in.
Daisy was such a hypocrite.
At first, Simon thought they were going to have a good afternoon with his mother. She was dressed appropriately, smartly in fact. His mother used to have standards, she was a consistently beautiful, elegant woman, but that was no longer the case. He hated it when he found her wearing someone else’s scruffy tracksuit, maybe because the staff had got the washing mixed up, maybe because she’d stolen it. Today she was wearing a neat blue dress, tights and shoes. Not mismatched socks and grubby slippers. Someone had brushed her thin, white hair; even put on a bit of lipstick for her. There was some on her teeth but that was not necessarily anything to do with dementia, Daisy often had lipstick on her teeth. Simon felt cheered and had a quick slug from his flask by way of celebration. But then Elsie started to talk, and Simon realised the lipstick was just a mask for the chaos.
‘Who is this?’ Elsie demanded imperiously, pointing at Daisy.
‘It’s Daisy, Mum. My wife,’ Simon explained unenthusiastically.
Unperturbed, Daisy kissed his mum’s cheek. ‘Hello, Elsie. You’re looking lovely today. What a chic dress. Look, we’ve brought you some flowers.’
Millie sprang forward. Everything was a performance for her. She beamed and held out the yellow roses.
His mum stared at Daisy, Millie and the flowers with a mix of hostility and surprise. Then her face melted. It was like water. One minute frozen, the next liquid. Simon thought that one day she would evaporate. ‘Thank you, they are beautiful,’ she said graciously. ‘So, you are the new wife, are you? I like you far better than the last one. She was podgy and giggly. A horrible combination.’
Daisy sighed. It was a fact that she used to carry a few extra pounds, something Simon’s mother – a lifetime borderl ine anorexic – hated with a level of ferocity that most people reserved for paedophiles. Also, when Simon first met Daisy, her thing was giggling. She would frequently erupt into chortles and even outright laughter, when most people were only moved to wryly grin in amusement. Simon had thought it was a result of being a teacher, always being around kids. She found life fun, entertaining. He liked it about her. Now, he’d say her thing was sighing.
‘I’ll go and see if the nurse has a vase,’ said Daisy.
‘Go with your mum,’ Simon instructed Millie.
‘It’s not a two-person job,’ commented Daisy. ‘Millie, stay with your