Short Story - Taking Care of the Elderly

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Taking Care of the Elderly

‘She can’t live much longer’.

The words ring in my ears as I walk up the flight of steps to open the door of this Victorian Italianate monstrosity with its curved-glass bay windows.

It is his mother’s house. She is a witch. She is over ninety but retains her power.

‘We’ll marry then. We can wait surely,’ the words support my resolve as I enter. I pass the banistered stairs which go from basement to fourth floor attic. I look up at its ornate ceilings which no-one can reach nor afford to paint. I walk across its woodworm riddled floor boards with its tell-tale creaks. I wonder about its leaking up-in-the-sky-too-high-for-a-ladder roof which houses a multitude of pigeons. When I sleep over I wake in the night as the passing trains shake the foundations and I wonder how it and the witch remain.

‘We will sell the house and have a big wedding,’ I remember his promise.

In the garden the snow drops forecast the coming of Spring. The crocus and daffodils follow and the grass always grows to mowing length. The roses alert us to Summer. Alas the greenhouse only harbours ghosts of lah-di-dah wedding guests sipping champagne. When I’m not in the house my memory plays tricks as does his mother the witch. The rooms are dark and dingy, cold and claustrophobic but when I am here they are light, bright, airy and warm. Today I will not be fooled.

I go to the kitchen to make tea. I wait nervously for the kettle to boil and wonder if I can go through with it. But I must. He will never marry me while she lives and this house will hang around our necks like an albatross for years.

In the living room I sense more ghosts. I glance at the Epstein bust on the bookcase

then the Dresden dancer under a glass dome on the marble mantelpiece. Her

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suspended action reminds me of my own inability to move forward. But it will change after today. The grand oil painting of their despised, slave-trading ancestor hangs over the settee. He stares down at me with his disapproving eyes. There are tartan rugs thrown over the leather couch and armchairs. Useful occasional tables and practical footstools abound but no dust. When does she do it?

A monstrous antique arm chair, the cause of family feuds stands in the hall. Pathetic! Adults squabbling like children over a useless piece of furniture which has escaping stuffing and a protruding spring. They care for the chair but not her I muse.

I finish my tea and replace the cup carefully so as not to chink on the saucer. I don’t want to alert her. I feel jumpy. And guilty. I have to get it over with before I lose my resolve.

I find myself outside her bedroom tapping on the door. I open it. I’m surprised. The wall paper is not black and she’s not a witch. She’s a beautiful, white-haired, old lady, reclining on pink flowered pillows. Her arms reach out to me. I sit on the bed. She grips my hands. I kiss her lips. She grips harder. She speaks.

‘Forgive me, forgive me. Will you ever forgive me? I have never done it before. Never in my whole life. I’m sorry. Will you forgive me?’

I have heard it too many times. The terrible remorse will not prevent her becoming inebriated again. But this will be the last time.

The tears flow.

‘What shall I do? Tell me what to do. The pain. I can’t bear the pain. The loneliness. I’m so unhappy.’

The vice-like grip on my hand tightens.

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‘Would you like some tea,’ I say without feeling, tearing my hand away. I pass her the cup. I take the miniature whiskey bottle from my pocket and pour in as much as the half-full cup will hold.

‘There,‘ I say, ‘that will keep out the cold and take the pain away.‘

I make my escape but on my way to the door I surreptitiously exchange the empty bottle under the bed for a half-full one. As I close the door her disguise disappears and she’s a witch again in a black-painted room.

I breathe a deep sigh of relief. It was easier than I’d imagined. I cross the landing and go into ‘my’ bedroom. This is where she ‘messes’ with my head. Nothing stays in the same place. It is full of beds. Some are made up, some are piled with blankets others with pillows. There are mattresses propped against walls. The bookcases change places as do the books. How does she do it? My belief is that she twitches her nose to control everything in the house. When does she do it? I know why she does it but I smile to myself, she’s done it for the last time. You can’t control me any more. I’m saner than you and so much younger and he loves me. I’m tempted to scream he loves me out aloud so that she can hear it as she realises her fate. She has had her life. I deserve mine.

I go back to her door and open it just a crack. She doesn’t hear or see me. She is lying back on her pink pillows, eyes closed. She looks peaceful. I close the door silently. I must wait until tomorrow before I raise the alarm. I return to the kitchen where I rinse my cup and saucer. Leaving unwashed crockery would be careless. I notice the clothes-rack which is full of drying clothes. I am convinced that her power comes from nose twitching. How else could she manage this seventeen-roomed house when

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she is rarely sober and vows that she never leaves her bed. I smile to myself. Well no more your ladyship. Not after you’ve finished your last cup of tea.

I take a bottle of gin from the drinks cupboard and notice that she’s been at this too. I pour half a glass and top it up with tonic. I knock it back in one then pour another. I wonder whether I should go back upstairs to make sure she’s drunk her whiskey-laced tea.

I feel strange. I sit down. I hear the door open. I struggle to stand. I can’t. I fall. I look up at her face.

She says, ‘My teas gone cold I came down to get another. I’m pleased you drank the gin.’

She smiles and steps over me.