There was an election in the spring of 1968 in which Airey Neave led the Conservatives to victory. He made a speech talking about closer ties with Europe. There was a feeling in Italy too that Europe should become more of a political unit, a third force to stand against both the USA and the USSR. Neave talked about “Neoliberal” economics and monetarist policy. He began a program of returning nationalized industries to private control, while selling shares to the public. This was immensely popular. Pat was astonished to hear Bee’s parents when they visited talking about their shares and the money they had made, in addition to their usual sheep-based conversation.
Pat unexpectedly had a letter from Marjorie. They had been on each other’s Christmas card lists, but hadn’t caught up in person for years. She was getting married to a man she had met in Portugal. Pat, Bee and the children went to the wedding in London. Marjorie had dieted herself gaunt for the occasion, and the white dress was not kind to her complexion, but she was delighted to see all of them. “I hope you enjoy Portugal,” Pat said. They gave her a chopping board and a set of good kitchen knives made from the new much touted “space metals.”
Ireland wanted to join Europe, just as Europe was talking about political unity and a combined truly independent nuclear deterrent. This led to a renewed wave of Irish terrorist violence in Britain and Ulster, as the IRA feared joining Europe meant being more closely bound to the UK. When Pat and Bee were in Florence that summer they read with horror about a bombing campaign in London.
The weekend after they came home from Italy, they all went to see Pat’s mother in Twickenham. She was vaguer than ever, recognizing Pat but uncertain of all the others and seeming overwhelmed by them. Pat talked to the nurse she had been paying to care for her mother and was alarmed. “She’s eating like a bird, I can hardly get her to take anything,” she said. “Some days she doesn’t recognize me. I worry about leaving her at night. She should really be in a home.”
“We need to talk about that,” Bee said.
Back in the sitting room, her mother was accusing Jinny of having stolen her glasses.
“I haven’t seen your stupid glasses!” Jinny said, furious and indignant. “Why would I take them?”
“You’ve probably put them down somewhere, Helen,” the nurse said, soothingly. “Ah, here they are on the windowsill. How did they get there I wonder?”
“She stole them. She’s a wicked girl!”
“I did not!” Jinny said, crying now. “I’m not wicked. You shouldn’t say so!”
Pat hugged Jinny and looked over her head at Bee.
“Let’s all have a cup of tea,” Bee said. “Who wants to help me make it? Jinny? Flossie? Let’s see if we can find any biscuits.”
“We could afford a nice home for her where they’d look after her properly,” Pat said, when they were in the car headed home, with all three children asleep in a heap on the back seat.
“She wouldn’t know where she was and it would make her worse,” Bee said. “We should have her with us.”
“Oh Bee, you’re so much nicer than I am. I don’t know if I could face it. She’s never really approved of me, and to have that disapproval around all the time, with the confusion—I don’t know. And with the girls about to start school I was looking forward to having more time to work. That’s just selfishness. But worst of all, she really upset Jinny, and she’d keep on doing things like that. I don’t think it would be good for the children for her to be with us.”
“Would you want our children to pack us into homes when we get old?” Bee asked.
Pat thought about it as she negotiated a roundabout and turned onto a new road. “It’s so difficult. I think I would, rather than have them disrupt their lives, especially if I was that difficult. She always used to say I was wicked when I’d done anything wrong when I was a child. She used to shut me in the cupboard in the dark when she thought I’d blasphemed. I don’t want her saying that the girls are wicked. It’s a terrible thing to say. If I was like that—but I don’t know. It’s easy to say that now, when I’m not helpless. What I’d really want is for them to love us and want us, and I’d really like to love Mum and want to have her to live with us, but I don’t. We’ve never been close.”
Bee was quiet for a while. “Old age is terrifying,” she said. “And senility is the worst of all, I think.”
“Maybe we could find a good home in Cambridge where I could visit her frequently,” Pat said.
“Maybe that would be best,” Bee said.
They looked at homes, and at last found one in Trumpington, not too far, and clean. It was expensive, but not all that much more than they had been paying for the nurse and the cleaners in Twickenham. Pat drove alone to collect her mother one fine September Saturday. She didn’t understand where she was going. As they drove off, with bags packed with what Pat imagined her mother might want, she realized that she was going to have to clear out and sell her mother’s house. Pat had been born there, and had been going back there dutifully all her life.
Her mother liked the home at first, she enjoyed being shown around and told Pat how kind the nurses were. She admired the garden and was gracious to the other patients. But when Pat got up to go, congratulating herself on how easy it had been, her mother got up too. “I’ll just get my coat, Patsy,” she said. “This has been lovely, but I’m tired and I can’t say I’ll be sorry to be home.”