Mother will live here, declared my husband.
Martin, we need to talk, said Emily, slipping into the bedroom once the children had drifted off. Are you ever going to do something about your mother?
Today, I found raw pork chops in the washing machine. Yesterday, she ran a bath, opened the tap, and wandered away.
If Sophie and I had come home an hour later, wed have flooded the three floors below us!
It happens, Em, Martin mumbled, eyes half-closed. Shes getting on. Bit forgetful. Remember when you lost your keys?
Its not just forgetful, Martin. Its dementia. A real, progressing illness. Your mother is a danger to herself and to us.
There are two small children in this flat. What if she turns on the gas, forgets, and then lights a match?
Emily had discovered the pork chop in the washer as she was about to launder the baby clothes. The meat, sour and pungent, had started to rot.
She straightened up, wincing at the ache in her back, and strained her ears. There it was againa steady, rhythmic tapping emerging from the back room.
A long sigh. Martins mother at it again.
Emily peered in. Mary Jackson was on the bed, clenching a heavy bone-handled brush, tapping it resolutely against the iron radiator.
Mum, please, stop, she pleaded, keeping her voice low. The kids just fell asleep. The neighbours downstairs will be knocking again soon. Enough, please.
Marys washed-out gaze drifted to her. Mary hadnt recognized Emily in months.
Sometimes she called her sister. Sometimes she confused her with a long-dead childhood friend. Often, she only regarded her with suspicion.
Theyre making a din down there, Mary muttered, not ceasing her rhythm. Cutting something up. You hear that? Sawing.
It was all night, and now again. We should ring the police. Incidentallywho are you?
No ones sawing anything, Emily said gently, reaching for the brush. Thats just the water pipes. Come along, have a cuppa. I bought some scones.
Scones Mary paused, then sat bolt upright. Where are my fishcakes? Did you eat them?! I hid three for my tea. Youve stolen my fishcakes!
Emily sighed. She actually had found the fishcakes. The day before, tucked into a filthy pillowcase. Today, the pork chop in the washer.
When will this end?
Nobody stole anything, Mum. Lets go to the kitchen.
The whole day felt like a fairy ring of madness. Five-year-old Jack barely left his room after Grandmother had accused him of being a disguised spy. Little Sophie was fretful, sensing the unease.
Emily bounced from oven to nappy, to mother-in-law, who three times tried to toddle out into the hallway in her slippers, insisting she needed to pop to Tesco for some salt.
When the door lock finally clicked, Emily felt her mood shrivel. Martin was home. A new round of nerves awaited, as always.
Hello, he said, dropping a kiss on her cheek. Alright, chicks? Mum, how are you?
Mary became a different woman: back straight, sudden smile, patting his sleeve. In these moments, she seemed almost herselfjust a bit worn at the edges.
Martin was convinced nothing much was wrong. Hed never caught his mother at the gas hob in the early hours.
Marty, love, she crooned. Theyre so unkind here. Im left starving. She takes everything from my room, wont even let me brush my hair. She took my brush!
Martin flashed Emily a pointed look.
Honestly, Em. Why upset Mum like that? Whats the need?
Emily slipped into the kitchen. There was no sense arguing. She just had to wait until the old woman went to bed.
But as soon as the children were finally down and Emily crept back in, Martin started:
If youre about to bring up care homes again, dont bother. Not happening! Shes family. Shes got a home and her son; as long as I live, she stays.
You want her turned into a vegetable? Never, Emily!
Its not a home for the old, Martin. There are private places with nurses and security. Shed be safe. They stick to a regimen, do activitiesshed be cared for!
Enough! barked Martin suddenly. Im not a traitor. My nan wasnt easy either; my mum cared for her till the end. This is your responsibility. Get used to it.
He turned away, feigning sleep.
***
The following week melted into a confused nightmare. Mary stopped sleeping altogether. Shuffling the halls in her tartan slippers at midnight, she whispered to unseen companions.
Emily sometimes caught her looming over Sophies cot, muttering, Shes not our girl switched at birth. Must return her
Those words made Emilys skin crawl. Martin dismissed her every time.
On Thursday, Mrs Clarke from below popped by, every inch the iron-fisted English widow.
Look, Emily, she began at the threshold. I do understandold age and all that. But last night at 3 a.m. your mother-in-law beat the radiators so hard my paints falling off the wall!
Im hypertensive; I need my rest. And this morning, she started hurling things out the window, nearly brained my grandson below!
What did she throw? Emily felt a chill.
Raw potatoes. Leaning halfway out. You need to keep an eye or Ill have to phone Social Services. This cant go on.
Emily apologised, promising it wouldnt happen again, but she couldnt believe it herself.
That night, another attempt with Martin ended the usual way:
Mrs Clarke just likes to complain. Ignore her. Ill buy some window locks.
Shell just open them, Martin! What good are window locks?
Just watch her, Em. You sit home all day; isnt it your job? I earn the moneyI dont have time for your dramatics.
Again, Emily got nowhere.
***
Saturday morning, Martin had his fishing kit by the doorgone for an entire day.
You cannot leave me alone with her all weekend, Emily blocked his way. Im on the edge, Martin.
I need a break too. Why must I bear it all alone?
Youre exaggerating. Mums calm todaylook, shes watching the telly. Ill be back tomorrow with a bucket of perch. Put your feet up, love!
Martin left. The day was uncannily quiet. Mary sat in her chair, sifting through old birthday cards. The children played, Emily even pressed the laundry. She began to wonder if perhaps she was overreacting.
That evening, she tucked in the kids and collapsed into a heavy, dreamless sleep, only to snap awake, heart pounding, at the choking stench: gas.
She shot out of bed, hurtling to the kitchen in her pyjamas. In the dim streetlight, she saw Mary standing by the ovenall four knobs twisted, but no flame.
Mary clenched a box of matches.
Mum! Emily lunged, grabbing Marys arm just as she struck a matchstick.
It flaredEmily smothered the fire with her palm, searing her fingers.
What are you doing?! she managed, stifling panic as she dashed the gas off.
Mary fixed her with an eerie calm. I was cold. Wanted some warmth. Youre cruel. You took the fire
Emily tore open the window, shaking. Had she slept a minute longer had that match fallen
She hustled Mary off to her room, locked the door, and sat on the hallway floor, pressed against the nursery. She stayed there till dawn, haunted by the whisper of every sound.
***
Martin returned on Sunday, positively beaming.
All well here? Had a smashing trip! Look at these giant perch
Emily came to the hall, still in last nights clothes, ash-grey, sunken eyes.
Now whats wrong? Martin frowned, setting down the fish.
Last night, your mother nearly burned down the flat, Emily whispered. She turned all the gas on and almost lit a match
I got there just in time. One more second, and wed be gone. Youd have come home to ashes, Martin.
He froze.
Come off it Youre being dramatic. Bet the knobs werent turned off fully.
Emily took out her phone.
Ive packed our bagsmine and the childrens. Were going to my mothers. Now.
Em, wait he tried to touch her hand, but she recoiled. Its just a misunderstanding well sort it. Ill put a lock on the kitchen
No, Martin. We arent sorting anything. Your mother is yours to care for now.
Youll spend every hour searching for her false teeth in the loo, scraping raw mince out of your trainers, and listening to spy tales all night.
I want my children to be alive.
Within the hour, her brother arrived. Emily bundled up the children and stepped out, ignoring the drumming noise from Marys room.
Mum! Martin called, as the door swung shut. Mum, stop that!
Theyre making a racket in there came her age-worn voice. Sawing again, Marty. Tell that young lass to goshes pinched my fishcakes…
***
Martin rang for three days, but Emily didnt answer. On the fourth, she got his message:
Please come back. I cant cope.
When she entered the flat, the sour reek nearly felled heracrid, filthy body, and something foul.
Martin sat slumped on the sofa, hair stuck out at angles, deep shadows under his eyesa man who hadnt slept in days.
In the corner, on the Persian rug, Mary sat tearing the morning paper into shreds, whispering to herself.
She doesnt sleep anymore, Em, Martin managed. Not at all. Last night she tried to eat the bar of soap, and when I guided her to bed, she bit me. Look.
He pushed up his jumperblack bruises and bite marks.
I tried working from home, but she yanked out the computer cable and hid it. I hunted for three hours. Found it in the freezer. She burnt Jacks drawing in the ashtray, swore it was dark magic.
You were right. She needs carereal care.
Emily sat, took his hand. At last, he understood
***
Mary went into a private care home outside London. Her son visits every weeknow both Emily and Martin live in peace. Mary seems content there.
The staff are friendly and diligent, meals solid, air clear. She even has new friends her age. She knows her son; for her grandchildren and Emily, there is only the faintest shadow of memoryshe never asks. They simply arent part of her dream anymore.
