‘I’m Sue.’ I smile, desperate to reassure her, to assuage the fear in her eyes. ‘I’m your daughter.’
‘No, you’re not.’ A flash of anger crosses her face. ‘Why would you say that? Why would you be so cruel?’
‘I’m sorry.’ I need to talk quickly, to calm her down before she works herself up into a state. ‘I confused you with someone else. My mother looks very much like you.’
‘Clever, is she?’ Mum says, ‘This mum of yours? Pretty too, I don’t doubt.’
There is it is again – the playful twinkle in her eye.
‘The cleverest,’ I say. ‘Not much gets past my mum. And as for pretty – well, she won Miss Bognor Butlins in 1952 so yes, she was stunning. A real beauty.’
Instead of being flattered, Mum looks cross. ‘I won Miss Bognor Butlins in 1952.’
‘Of course you did.’ I correct myself quickly. I forget that, while Mum often doesn’t know what day it is, she can recall events in the past with impressive accuracy. ‘My mother must have won in 1951.’
Mum says nothing. Instead she fumbles with the cellophane wrapping around the Turkish Delight.
‘Can I help?’ I wait for a nod then pick away at the cellophane and open the box. Mum pops a dusty sweet into her mouth and closes her eyes in delight.
‘I bought you a present,’ I say, rummaging in my handbag and pulling out a CD. ‘It’s some music. I thought it might remind you of the tea dances you went to when you were younger.’
Mum shows no signs of either pleasure or displeasure; her eyes are still tightly closed. I cross the room and load the CD onto the small portable player I bought her last Christmas. I press play, wait for the sound of a double bass, overlaid with banjo and the crackling crooning of the male singer to fill the air, then sit down again. A small smile plays on Mum’s lips and her slippered foot tap-tap-taps on the beige care home carpet.
‘I found a million dollar baby,’ she sings softly in her thin, warbling voice, ‘in a five-and-ten-cent store.’
I sit silently beside her, holding my breath as her eyes flick open and she stares up into the corner of the room, her head nodding gently from side to side. It’s a magical moment – seeing her so quietly happy, wrapped in a precious memory. I wonder if she’s in Dad’s arms, her hand on his shoulder as he twirls her around the dance floor. He’s been dead for over thirty years now and I know she still misses him. For Mum, marriage and family were everything. She dedicated her life to Dad and me. She told me once that she’d been dreaming of having a family since she was a little girl.
I was the same and I was overjoyed when I fell pregnant with Charlotte. Brian and I had barely even started trying when I felt a strange pricking sensation just above my pubic bone and a pregnancy test confirmed what I already suspected. Brian was over the moon. He’d always wanted Oli to have a little brother or sister. My pregnancy only increased Brian’s protective side and he wouldn’t let me lift a finger for nine months. I’d never felt so precious or so loved in my life. I was twenty-eight when Charlotte was born and Brian and I loved being parents together so much we tried to conceive again, six months after she was born. But the luck we’d had first time around deserted us and, as the months rolled into years the doctors told us that there was no reason, other than our advancing age, why we shouldn’t conceive again. After countless late-night chats and a lot of soul searching, we decided that what would be would be. If we were only meant to be a family of four then so be it. I ached to be pregnant again, to feel another child tumble turning in my womb but it wasn’t to be. Three miscarriages in two years saw to that.
Neither of us could bear the heartbreak of another failed pregnancy so, the day Charlotte turned five, we took her to the home of a local Golden Retriever breeder and, out of a squirmy mass of soft, yellow fur, we chose Milly. Now our family really was complete.
‘Hello Susan.’
Mum says my name so softly I think I must have dreamed it but no, there she is, sitting beside me, her pale blue eyes fixed on mine, the tin of Turkish Delight on the table beside her, her hands loosely gathered in her lap.
I want to jump off the bed and wrap my arms around her. I want to talk nineteen-to-the-dozen, to fill her in on everything that’s going on in my life, to beg her for her advice, to listen intently, to feel small and safe and protected again. Instead I remain where I am and I take her hand. It’s not fair of me to inflict my fears and worries on her. Mum’s the one that needs to feel safe and protected now, not me.
‘Hello Mum.’ I gently squeeze her hand. Her skin is paper thin and speckled with age spots. ‘How are you feeling today?’
‘Old,’ she says, shifting in her chair and changing position as though checking for aches, pains, clicks and twinges. ‘How’s Charlotte and that handsome husband of yours?’
Mum’s always had a soft spot for Brian. Her fondness for him was part of the reason I took him back after the affair.
‘Brian’s fine,’ I say brightly, reaching for a Turkish Delight even though I’ve never really been a fan. ‘As busy as always. And Charlotte …’
I can’t tell her the truth. I don’t want to upset her and have her disappear on me again. What if she never comes back from the past? What if her last moment with me is a horrible one? I’d never be able to forgive myself.
‘… Charlotte is studying hard for her GCSE exams.’
‘Good girl.’ Mum looks so proud. ‘She’s going to go far. What is it she wants to be now? Psychologist, was it?’