Page 4 of The Christmas Star

I didn’t have to ask what she was referring to. Envisaging the Maple Manor brochure, Mum had made her feelings clear. Our conversation had been a non-starter, and I could still see the disdain that had flashed across her face. I supposed I should be grateful. Mum might not be saying what I’d hoped to hear but after three days of talking about anything and everything else, we’d at least made progress. Even if the fact that I only wanted what was best for her hadn’t yet entered her head.

‘Those places are for old people.’

‘Mum, you’re seventy-nine.’

‘Exactly! I’ve got years left.’

‘That’s what Dad used to say.’

Mum huffed. ‘It’s not my fault he lied.’

I had hoped that after thinking about it, she’d have welcomed the idea of community living. I mean who wouldn’t want their own maintenance-free suite, opportunities galore for social engagement, and never having to cook their own meals? Mum living like a queen would have certainly given me peace of mind. ‘Have you even read the brochure?’ I asked.

‘I didn’t have to. Old folks homes are all the same. They’re far too regimented. I’d rather choose my own bedtime, thank you very much.’

At a stalemate, it was obvious we weren’t going to resolve the matter in a single phone call.

‘Can we talk about this later, Mum?’ I asked. ‘It’s just I’m about to start work.’ With an important day ahead, nothing said I mean business like bright red lipstick, and rooting in my bag, I found mine. Using the rear-view mirror, I applied the scarlet lippy.

‘What else is there to say,’ Mum replied.

I smoothed down my dark shoulder-length hair and assessed my efforts, determined to look my best when Callum put on a brave face and congratulated me on my promotion. I felt a tinge of excitement, my naughty side hoping my new role would make me his new boss.

‘I’ve made my decision and that’s that.’

Mum’s dismissal didn’t faze me. She could be as stubborn as she wanted. We both knew I’d inherited her obstinacy and whether she liked it or not, the Maple Manor conversation wasn’t over. I popped my lipstick back in my bag. ‘You might’ve forgotten about the other night’s garden incident,’ I said. ‘But I haven’t.’ I pulled out a bottle of perfume and sprayed behind my ears.

Mum let out a laugh. ‘Like I keep telling you, you need to stop fussing.’

I pictured her blue lips and shaking hands. The woman had been one step away from hypothermia. ‘I’ve already lost one parent, Mum. I’m not about to lose another.’

‘Erin, please don’t exaggerate.’

I wished I could say I was, but when Dad passed away, whether Mum admitted it or not, it was as if her life had ended too. Aside of nipping out for essentials, the furthest she ventured was the garden and finding her sat out in the dark, on the bench Dad had made, couldn’t go ignored. ‘Mum, you were talking to the winter heather as if it was Dad reincarnated.’ I squirted perfume on my wrists and rubbed them together.

‘You’d prefer it if I talked to myself, would you?’

At first, I excused her self-confinement. Home was the place Mum understandably felt closest to Dad and naturally that was where she’d want to be. But the longer it went on, the more I worried, and not only did Mum refuse to help herself, any encouragement I gave was met with derision.

‘Why would I spend time with a group of old biddies?’ she’d asked when I mentioned the local senior citizens club.

‘I don’t have an artistic bone in my body,’ she’d said when I recommended art classes.

‘Erin, I’m as blind as a bat,’ she’d claimed when I put forward the book club at Spine and Leaf. ‘How am I supposed to read?’

Much to my frustration, not only did Mum have an answer for everything, she didn’t seem to care that her world had shrunk to almost nothing.

‘Anyway, why shouldn’t I talk to your dad? You’ll be telling me I need to see a doctor next,’ she said, proving my point about her having an answer for everything.

The last thing I wanted to do was argue. However, as much as I wished they did, my garden-related concerns didn’t stop at the bench.

Dad’s pride and joy, he’d created not only an oasis for him and Mum, in summer, bees and butterflies swarmed over his nectar-rich dahlias, begonias and gladioli. Thanks to Dad’s nurturing, an abundance of witch hazel, camellia and winter-flowering clematis meant the garden thrived in the colder months too. Admittedly, not quite as well without Dad’s capable green fingers. I pictured his Helleborus ‘Christmas Carol’ which now bore the dreaded black markings of leaf spot. It was enough to make my father turn in his grave.

Unlike Dad, Mum had never been a natural gardener, which was why I’d offered to pay someone to come in and manage the space for her. But as with everything else I suggested, she wouldn’t hear a word of it. I bristled. Rebuffing my assistance hadn’t stopped Mum accepting help from Jackson. A boy she’d only known for two minutes. Of course, it wasn’t long before he was tinkering with another of Dad’s treasures – his old Volvo estate Violet. I hated to say it, but since Dad’s death Mum had become way too trusting.

I frowned, wondering if I was being overprotective. It wasn’t as if I had proof that Jackson was a wrong ’un, and Mum had always been a good judge of character. But there had to be a reason this lad with light brown hair and overgrown fringe that hid half his face had attached himself to an old woman; a reason why he more often than not scarpered within minutes of me arriving on scene.

I zipped my bag shut and checking my watch, suddenly panicked. The last thing I needed that morning was to be late. ‘Sorry, Mum. It’s almost nine. I’ve got to go. We’ll discuss it more tonight…’