‘You need anX-ray and stop shouting at me, Eddie. I’m not giving you anything stronger than paracetamol until someone with medical training sees you.’
I’d hold on till I got some Hillbilly Heroin in me,Mildred says.
My mother does not have Oxycontin lying around, Mildred. You are so low rent, I tell her.
And which one of us is using sleeping tablets like sweeties, huh?
Bitch.
Mildred knows how to hurt me. Besides, I’m seriously low in my stash of precious sleeping tablets. I have not been tailing off gently the way I’m supposed to be doing. At this rate, I’ll be coming off them cold turkey and that’s going to be fun – not. I have googled the side effects and they all sound terrible.
With Eddie grousing and his arm in a sling, my mother and Eddie head off.
Dad, Bridget and Delilah, the cat, are all watchingThe Waltons, which is one of Bridget’s favourite programmes.
Poor Dad, I think – he never gets to choose his own telly anymore. Someone always does it for him: Eddie and his WWII shows and Bridget with her 1960s and 1970s classics.
Everything appears to be fine on Walton Mountain and I lean against the door jamb quietly, thinking back to those days when I was a child, whenThe Waltonswas always on TV and everything was fine.
Delilah scrambles off the couch – her days of leaping are long behind her – and makes her way to me, whereupon she weaves her body in between my legs, tail aloft.
‘Freya!’ says Bridget in delight, even though I can see her face is streaked with tears along with themake-up she carefully applies each day.High-emotion crying, I assume, thanks to Eddie’s accident.
‘We were going to have tea and watch some episodes ofThe Love Boat!’
‘I’ll make the tea,’ I say, going over to hug Dad and make sure he hasn’t slipped down in his wheelchair. I kiss his warm forehead and suddenly, I want to cry too.
It’s that damn Waltons theme tune. It whacks me over the head with thoughts of earlier, happier times. Mum loved it. She never appears to watch television anymore – she reads.Non-fiction only. Biographies and autobiographies. Nothing later than the 1930s.
‘I tried that wonderful biography of the Romanovs,’ she told me once, ‘and I cried too much. So I’m beginning to think that 1900 should be mycut-off point. Before that, I can distance myself.’
I make tea and sort out Bridget with some hidden biscuits before feeding Dad some lukewarm tea very carefully. His face never changes even though he’s facing the TV and I’m talking quietly to him. Sometimes, he gets facial tics but that’s all they are: not emotions darting across his face, as we once all hoped. His face is now a mask and I always think how strange it is that we assume our faces are who we are, and yet they’re not. We are the emotions behind the face. Nobody shows this more than Dad.
By six, I’ve made dinner, fed Dad his meal and am waiting for the arrival of Kevin, one of the best of Dad’s carers, who will stay with him and get him into bed by half eight.
Mum has rung at intervals but it seems casualty is jammed with serious cases and Eddie’s wrist is not high on the list of priorities.
‘I think we might be next but that’s only if nothing else serious comes in.’ She sounds exhausted.
‘I’ll get Scarlett to race over here and take over, in case this goes on longer,’ I say decisively. ‘You can’t sit there all night. Mind you, neither can poor Eddie.’
I phone Scarlett and she answers when I’ve almost given up hope.
‘Hello, finally!’ I say and while I don’t mean to sound narky, it comes out that way.
‘Hello,’ she replies, sounding as if she has the worst cold in the world.
‘You’re sick?’ I ask, seeing this plan disintegrate. A sick person cannot help in the house of invalids.
‘No,’ she says.
‘Thank goodness,’ I say, and race through chapter and verse of what has gone wrong and how I need her help.
‘OK,’ she says flatly.
‘Really?’ I ask. ‘You sound – a little off.’
‘Just a bit,’ she says, with a hiccup. ‘Jack’s left. But I’ll be right over.’ And she hangs up.
