‘Fat lot of good it is out there,’ Marge replied as I turned to head off in search of Ant’s keys.
Her comment caused me to pause in the doorway, but I took a deep breath, and succeeded in controlling my anger. I’d managed to keep my calm around Marge for years, but I sensed that something was changing. A fury was rising within me and I was seriously concerned that this holiday might be the thing to send me over the edge.
I lifted the keys from the pocket of Ant’s jacket and headed out into the drizzle. We’d only brought the basics: bread, butter, Marmite, tea, coffee and milk, but it was enough to last until we could get to the shop in Stoke Fleming.
When I returned, Marge was in the lounge, staring out through the rain-splattered window at the dingy garden. She made no sign of noticing my return, so I carried the bags into the kitchen, distributed the items between cupboards and the fridge, and then, as a peace offering, I made two mugs of tea. I’d decided that ‘losing it’ would provoke a maelstrom that I might not be able to control. I couldn’t face that prospect, and I specifically didn’t want it happening at the beginning of my holiday, here in my perfect place.
When I carried the mugs of tea into the lounge, I found Marge in the same spot as before, still staring out at the wet garden. She looked as if she’d been deactivated by the use of some magical remote control. ‘Here,’ I said, holding out one of the mugs.
She turned her head so slowly and in such a smooth manner that she truly looked like a robot. As her face was devoid of emotion, there was something creepy, something deeply menacing, about her that I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
She looked at me as if she had no idea who I was, and I remember wondering if she’d perhaps had a stroke, or whether this was the beginning of Alzheimer’s. If I’m being honest, I have to admit that by that point, neither possibility exactly filled me with horror. My God, how quickly abuse can destroy what was once a basically charitable nature.
But then Marge blinked, forced a rictus of a smile revealing stained dentures, and reached for the mug. ‘Thanks, you’re a sweetheart,’ she said, reinforcing the impression that she’d momentarily forgotten who I was, or who she was, or perhaps both.
She sipped at her drink, pulled a face, and said, ‘Oh, this ain’t tea, love. This is cat’s pee.’
I think my mouth fell open. I was certainly lost for words.
Muttering, ‘Jesus! How the hell anyone can get to your age without knowing how to make a decent cuppa . . . !’, she left the room.
In a weird, dreamlike mood – perhaps a nightmare mood would be more accurate – I followed her through to the kitchen and watched from the doorway as she tipped the tea I had made down the sink, and filled the kettle to start again from scratch.
‘You don’t like the tea,’ I heard myself say without emotion.
‘No, I don’t,’ Marge replied.
‘You don’t like me very much, do you?’ I added. Wow! I thought. Daring!
She glanced at me, frowned, and worked her wrinkled lips silently for a moment before returning her attention to the kettle. ‘Like you,’ she repeated flatly.
‘Yes . . . you don’t. You really don’t, do you?’ I repeated.
‘Well, I don’t dislike you,’ she said, surprising me.
‘You don’t?’
‘No, not really,’ she said, still addressing the kettle.
‘Well, let’s say that you don’t think much of me, then,’ I said. ‘And I really don’t know why that is.’
‘I don’t think much of you,’ she repeated, sounding thoughtful. Then, ‘No, I wouldn’t say that’s true either, dear.’
Surprised at this, and thinking that maybe we were actually making progress here, that perhaps all that had been needed all along was for me to challenge her, I asked, ‘So what would you say about it, Marge? What would you say is true?’
She shrugged again. ‘I dunno really,’ she said.
‘Really? You don’t know? Or you won’t say?’
‘I suppose,’ she said, ‘if pushed . . . I mean, if you really pushed me to say something, I’d have to admit that I don’t really think about you at all.’
I took a sharp intake of breath and felt myself flush red from the verbal slap.
‘I mean, you did ask,’ Marge said. ‘You sort of insisted, didn’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I whispered.
‘And the thing is, well, it’s just that there’s not much to think about, is there, love? There’s so little to you. So, I suppose, if I was forced, like, to think about it, I’d say that the only real problem I have with you is that.’
Because her comment contained a shadow of truth, because so much of my personality had vanished over the years, it cut me to the bone. So, I didn’t say a word. I simply put my mug of tea down on the counter and turned and went back to the bedroom, where I lay, drowning silently in a mixture of shame and rage. When Lucy came in half an hour later, I feigned sleep until, thankfully, Ant climbed from the bed.
The rain continued and because, when I occasionally did get up for the bathroom or for a drink, the atmosphere in the house felt quite suffocating, I pretended to be ill and basically hid in the bedroom all day.
Finally, at about five, Ant came and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Do we need a doctor?’ he asked, laying the back of his hand across my forehead. ‘Or are you going to get up?’ The message was clear enough: I’d reached the end of my permitted downtime.
That evening we ate in the Green Dragon in Stoke Fleming. The food was basic pub grub, but it was well cooked and tasty: burgers for Ant and his mother, a huge cheese ploughman’s plus some sides for me and
