Margaret gazed around her and smiled. It felt good to be back home. The sofa from which she could never rise pressed flush against the wall, the large china spaniel at the foot of the gas fire, the mauve embroidered throw folded in half and draped across the reading chair. She extended her fingers out towards a brown, buttoned cushion, carelessly discarded to one side of the sofa where it’s occupant sat less than an hour before. It would be warm she knew, carrying a lingering legacy of life. How she longed to push her fingers deep into the plush, feel the silky softness of the fibres against her finger tips. It was the closest she could be to Anna now.
They’d spoken very little since the row that evening after supper. One of those silly mother and daughter arguments full of reproach and recrimination; so much said – so little meant. How silly we were she thought…
‘Anna, leaving just isn’t an option; I don’t want to talk about it,’ she’d argued, dropping her knitting needles with their woollen square of burgundy into her lap. ‘I’m happy here and besides we both need each other – you’re on your own as well.’ That would have hurt – she remembered regretting the words the instant she’d uttered them but it had been too late.
‘But Mum you can’t stay in this house on your own all day – it’s not right.’ Anna’s green eyes had brimmed over behind her glasses as a wiggle of curly grey fell from her neat bun. She’d coaxed the stray hair back into place with fluttering fingers – a welcome distraction. At the time she thought Anna had been upset and anxious. But she’d been wrong. Anna had been afraid. Afraid for her. She’d kept her head down and pretended to count stitches under her breath while the television comedy show continued to play out it’s never ending stream of comic one-liners. But Anna had continued.
‘I’m at work all day and anything might happen to you Mum. I’d never forgive myself if you fell or someone broke in while you were here on your own. You’d be completely alone until I got home in the evening. And I’ve noticed you’re stopped eating when I’m out in the day – you need someone around to help you.’
‘I just don’t get hungry sitting here all day – that’s all.’ That wasn’t true. She struggled with the slippery packets of ham and sliced cheese in the fridge, her fingers unable to grasp the plastic wrapper and ‘peel back from the corner’ as instructed. And the horrid metal tin opener with it’s sharp edges cut into the fragile skin on her arthritic fingers. But she wasn’t gong to admit that to Anna of all people.
‘I’m staying here and that’s final Anna. Remember this is my home – try and understand that. I can’t leave. And you must stop fussing over me. I may be old but I’m not stupid. I’ve lived here all my life and I’m quite capable of looking after myself when you’re not here.’
She hadn’t been of course – not really. She’d fumbled at the gas ring as she’d try to light the gas. How fiddly those tiny matches were – so hard to grip. And the zipper at the back of her favourite bottle-green dress; the way it always seem to jam half way up. On those days she’d wear a cardigan over the top so that Anna wouldn’t notice.
In the end though she’d given in to Anna and moved to the Mock Tudor house by the library – The Elms Residential. All peach blinds and high-backed chairs and rooms so hot she had felt she would melt. It had felt all wrong from the start. She missed home and longed to be back in her familiar surroundings with her daughter for company instead of sitting with strangers in the musty room – air full of the smell of antiseptic and yesterday’s supper. They’d agreed it was to be for just a couple of weeks – see how she ‘fitted’ in. How she’d hated that expression. But it hadn’t worked out that way. She’d left much earlier than either of them had expected.
Her mind returned to the room. Anna would find it cold in here now but it was always that way during the early Spring, the warmth from the gas fire unable to reach the far corners of the room. Unlike her daughter she’d always enjoyed the fresh chill of the air on evenings like this and longed to feel it’s freshness catch in the back of her throat once again. And how quiet it was – only the tick tick of the fire cooling and the faint, far away thrum of traffic in the distance. She looked around her again. The usual temptation rose within her to take the dirty coffee cup into the kitchen, stack the magazines into a neat pile and straighten the tassels on the tapestry rug. That way she could show Anna that she cared – that she could still help her and look after her; but of course she knew she couldn’t anymore.
Then a flash of something bright caught her attention; something new – something unexpected by the window. On the glass-topped coffee table sat a crystal vase packed tight with bustling gold chrysanthemums. A newly fallen petal, a little yellow comma, lay lifeless on the glass. Who had given Anna those she wondered – a man maybe? She hoped so. Or maybe she had bought them for herself to cheer herself up. She hoped not.
Padding quietly up the stairs, feet silent as they met thick pile carpet, Margaret stopped at the landing by her favourite spot and looked down into the hallway. The etched glass set snug within the round window by the door sparkled and glittered as moonlight filtered through, splashing a pool of speckled white onto the floor. She’d always loved the way the milky light spun intricate designs through the patterned-glass, creating crystals and stars and silvery galaxies in the window.
Walking into the bedroom she felt the familiar sense of anticipation rise within her as she made her way to the foot of the bed. She stood and watched. Anna – her beautiful daughter Anna – asleep. Anna in her familiar foetal curl, fingers flat against the lace-trimmed pillow, hair tied back in the way she had always taught her. She still loved to watch her sleep: the pink ruff of her nightdress nudging against her chin, lips slightly apart, breath hanging in the cool air and then dissolving into nothingness. She could have been just a child again. She still was a child to her.
Margaret looked up. The bedroom was still so familiar – after all it had been her room once. A warm glow from the landing night-light cast a thin rod of gold across the floor beneath the door. She knew it well. It used to comfort her when she was lying in bed alone. She’d hated the dark then. But she didn’t mind it now.
The walls were hung with the usual pictures of varying size and shape. She loved the gilt-framed water colour of the Lake District just right of the chimney breast. The mottled greys and greens, the blue of the lake seeping out between the surrounding hills. It reminded her of the week they had enjoyed there just after the war a little before Anna had been born.
A street light flickered momentarily, it’s harsh, orange light flashing through a gap in the heavy curtain. She worried it might wake Anna. But no – Anna was as untroubled by the light as she was of her nocturnal visitor.
By the bay window stood the old mahogany chest – rich and dark like chocolate – smooth and well polished. She contemplated the trinkets and boxes and gilt picture frames spread out on top of it in their usual places.
There was a new photograph tonight – once she had never seen before. A picture of a man with a glass of wine, laughing as he ran long fingers through thinning hair. Beside him stood her daughter, in an evening dress, holding a bunch of flowers. She smiled to herself.
It was time to move to the other photograph – the one that always sat to the right of the chest with the tall, arch-backed frame. She bent closer to look as she did every night she visited. The face looking back at her was oh-so-familiar and every time it never failed to make her take stock – pause a moment. The long dark hair tied back in an old fashioned knot, the youthful smile, the khaki Land Girl uniform: pristine, sharp and crisp. But it caused her no intake of breath – no wispy, warm exhaled air to linger in the night like that of the sleeper. She smiled as she read the familiar inscription carved in little silver loops and whorls at the base of the gilt frame:
‘Margaret my mother – always loved – always missed – always remembered.’
