She had managed one last trip into the world. She was in a wheelchair, which Aunty Anne soon caught the knack of pushing. Aunty Anne was laughing the whole of this period, but if anyone elbowed in to help push their mother’s chair, she would turn ferocious. Cheerfully setting her own weight behind her sister was the one practical thing Aunty Anne could do. She could lend her sister those marvellous legs, for a week or two at least.
Sunday best, walking abreast, the whole family went to visit the waxworks on the Golden Mile. Their mother had a hankering to see the Chamber of Horrors. Timon came with them, and he was the most shaken by the grisly spectacles they took in that afternoon, following the wheelchair’s slow, squeaking progress from tableau to tableau.
“Isn’t it scary!” whispered their mother, and the girls had to agree. Threads hung from the dark ceilings, brushing their faces like cobwebs.
They passed through the Vestibule of Murderers, the Grotto of Stranglers, and the Annexe of Slashers. They watched jerky, animatronic bodysnatchers pulling parts of waxy bodies out of holes in the waxy ground. The parts looked mushy and useless, but the snatchers looked pleased with themselves. Dry ice curled everywhere, sea green and blue. A mad husband was dunking his wife in a frothing and steaming bath of acid. Then came the best part: the Hall of Monsters. Vampires squatting in clock towers, feeding the bats and frightening the hunchback. Those same vampires issuing suavely from behind bedposts and wardrobes. Frankenstein and the Wolfman were in a woodland setting, both cursing their heritage as, behind them, the creature from the black lagoon came dripping up the shore. In a golden tomb the mummy was clutching its bandaged head as it came back to migrainey life. How pleased their mother was to see them in the flesh.
Finally there was the Anatomy Exhibit, which was only for adults. It was full of life-sized dummies, mock-up, simulacra of bits of bodies. Cross sections and amputations, remains and souvenirs. It showed all the things that could go wrong with you.
“It’ll be like a freak show,” tutted Aunty Anne. “I’m not going there. Let’s go and see Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. Now, she had a pair of legs, didn’t she?”
Their mother didn’t want to see the Anatomy Exhibit anyway. “Too much like real life,” she said.
The most sombre room was that full of famous rulers. It was at the end of their trip out. The displays were roped off, as if these really were eminent and important persons that commoners weren’t allowed to touch. It was the least popular room, especially on a hot afternoon.
“Look at all the jewels!” said Aunty Anne. “Imagine they were real!”
Wendy thought her aunty sometimes sounded like someone who had always been poor. And yet there was her husband, apparently a millionaire. They all watched the spotlights glimmer on theatrical jewels.
Their mother took a large orange out of her handbag. She waved it at Mandy. “Here, love. Nip over there. Shove it inside her dress.”
Mandy’s face lit up. She took the orange.
Aunty Anne started to laugh. Linda said, “You can’t...”
But Mandy was over the rail in a flash. No alarms went off. No one noticed. She put the orange where her mother had told her, and gave Maggie Thatcher a third tit.
Their mother had brought a whole carrier bag, full of sick room fruit. “I’m sick of the sight of fruit!” she laughed. “Fruit makes me think I’m ill!”
They progressed into yet another chamber of famous people. These were the real stars. The daughters took their instructions, and the pieces of just-past-their-best fruit that she handed them. Ceremonially, they jumped the braids and trip-wires and put:
A banana down the skin-tight dancing pants of Michael Jackson.
A pear down the back of Arnie Schwarzenegger’s bathing trunks.
A whole pound of clementines down the front of Barbara Cartland.
Grapes in the hands of a supine Liz Taylor, and
an apple, like Magritte, like Wilhelm Tell, on the head of Superman.
SEVEN
They thought our mother was reckless. They thought she was brassy and loud and that made her reckless.
Then, when she became scared of everything, they lost patience with her. Why couldn’t she be brave any more? Why wasn’t she laughing in people’s faces, or hurling herself into the wind? People need other people to be brave.
They thought her life had made her timid. Her husband had walked out and started another family. She became increasingly poor. She brought up three girls alone, and then she became ill. She took a whole load of hard knocks. This eroded her courage, they thought.
But I knew our mother better than anyone. She was always a worrier. She was never as defiant as people thought. I saw her close that front door and cry hard tears. When there had been a stand-up slanging match outside on the walkways, or down in the street, and our mother was involved, she’d give as good as she got, or better. But when she was back in private, those defences would fall away. She’d look shattered.
She had spirit, but not entirely the sort they thought she had. She was quieter than anyone would believe, especially in the years when she was laughing her head off. Even when it seemed she did everything she could to draw attention.
All these things to deal with. Her bits and pieces. Who’d have thought she owned so much? Would anyone want any of this?
Looking at her living room (and it was hers now, not ours, as if her going had pushed us out and the things there were already in the past) I realised that there was a horse motif throughout our mother’s choice of ornaments. I couldn’t say I ever noticed it before. Horse brasses hung dully on their black leather
