Give me some water, my throat is dry! Ive been calling you for ages, but you can’t hear me over your clattering pans. Are you banging them on purpose, hoping Ill stop asking?
That shrill, cracked voice from the back bedroom made me jump, almost dropping my ladle as I stirred the soup. I took a deep breath, counting to ten a habit born of three years spent in this madhouse. The kitchen smelt of boiled chicken and medicine, a mixture that seemed to seep into the wallpaper and curtains. I switched off the hob, poured some cooled boiled water not hot, not cold into a glass, and headed towards my mother-in-laws room.
Margaret Sutton lay propped on high pillows, resembling a spiteful crow keen to pick at everything. Her watery eyes fixated on me, scrutinising every move. On the bedside table, among a forest of pill bottles and crossword puzzles, I spotted a thick, brown envelope with a corner of official-looking paper sticking out. It hadnt been there yesterday.
Here you are, Margaret, have a drink I kept my voice steady, trying not to sound irritable. Sorry, I didnt hear you. The extractor fan was on. The chicken soups ready, Ill mash up your vegetables in a bit.
She took a few small sips, winced as if it were vinegar, and pushed the glass away.
Always excuses, arent you, Emma? First the extractor fan, then the hoover, or youre nattering on your phone! Husbands mother left here to die of thirst.
Please dont say that, Im always here, I let the complaints wash over me, as usual. As I straightened her blanket, my eyes fell again on that mysterious envelope. A corner of a document and was that a crest?
Whats that? New prescriptions? I nodded at the table. I can pop down to the chemist if you need.
Her hand snapped over the envelope faster than I thought possible from someone whod moaned about not being able to lift a spoon half an hour ago.
Leave it! she barked. Its my private paperwork.
I blinked. Normally, Margaret insisted on involving me with all her medical records, bills and even letters from the pension office. This secrecy was new.
I just asked, I ventured, but the front door slammed and heavy footsteps echoed in the hall.
Toms home! Margarets face transformed, an overly sweet smile appearing. Son, come quickly, save me from this jailor!
Tom Sutton, my husband, entered. He looked exhausted, jacket crumpled and his tie dangling askew. As Head of Sales, he spent every evening late at the office, escaping the sickroom atmosphere and endless complaints at home.
Hello, Mum. Hello, Emma, he mumbled, kissing his mothers cheek without looking at me. What now? Jailor? Emmas doing everything for you.
Doing? Margaret pursed her lips. Shes just waiting for me to free up space. Do you think I dont notice? Shes cold, empty. Theres no love, only duty.
I felt a lump rising in my throat. Three years ago, after Margaret suffered a stroke, Tom and I had to decide: a carer or a care home. We couldnt afford a private carer, and Tom flatly refused the idea of a care home What would people say? Giving away ones mother! So I left my librarian job, moved Margaret into our three-bed flat, and we rented out her two-bed, using the rent to pay for her medicine and therapy.
Ill set the table, I said quietly and left the room.
At dinner, Tom aimlessly poked at his shepherds pie.
Good, isnt it? I asked, hoping for some warmth.
Its fine, his attention remained glued to his phone. By the way, Mum wants you to invite Claire round tomorrow. Says she misses her.
Claire is Margarets niece, daughter of her late sister. Shes about forty, loud, heavily made up and completely useless at housework. She drops in every six months, brings a supermarket cake, chats about failed romances for an hour, then leaves a trail of sticky plates and perfume.
Why? I frowned. Margarets blood pressure is up and down, she needs a calm environment. Claires a tornado shell have her wound up in minutes.
Mum insists. Says shes got some business with her. Youll just have to bear it for an hour.
Next day, Claire arrived right at noon. She breezed in, didnt bother taking off her shoes, and immediately squealed:
Emma, darling! Youve put on weight, havent you? That dressing gown does nothing for you. Wheres Aunt Margaret? I brought her goodies!
A packet of marshmallows, of all things strictly forbidden for Margaret due to her diabetes.
Sighing, I pointed to the bedroom. Claire sashayed inside, and a lively whispering and Margarets sniffles started up at once. I went to the kitchen, busied myself sorting lentils, unsettled by worry that envelope kept nagging in my mind.
An hour later, Claire emerged, beaming, the brown envelope tucked under her arm. She stuffed it in her huge handbag.
Well, Im off, Emma. Busy, you know! Aunt Margarets asleep, dont disturb her. Youre doing a good job lovely and tidy here. Though, honestly, those curtains could do with changing. So last century.
And she vanished as quickly as she arrived.
That evening, as I changed Margarets bedding (always a tough job, since she weighed a fair bit and never made things easy), I finally asked:
Margaret, what papers did you give Claire today? Do you need copies? Or paperwork for social services?
Suddenly Margarets eyes shone with a sly, gloating look.
Oh, Emma, thats my thank you. Claires the only one who loves me truly, not for my flat or inheritance, but simply because were family. Blood is thicker than water.
I felt cold inside.
What do you mean? Your two-beds being rented out the money goes to prescriptions and physio. We agreed that after… well, in future, it goes to Toms and my children.
Margaret laughed, a dry, crowing sound.
You agreed! Counting your chickens before theyre hatched! Well, Ive decided differently. The solicitor came today while you were shopping. I signed it over to Claire. Gift deed.
I froze, sheets in hand. My world spun.
A gift deed? To Claire? The very Claire whos never given you a glass of water? Who doesnt know which tablets you take?
But she never reproaches me! Margaret shrilled. You walk around with that miserable face, acting like youre doing me a favour! Dont think I cant tell youre waiting for me to die, for the flat to land in your lap! Well, tough luck! Claires the new owner. Officially. No backsies.
I sat heavily. My legs went weak. Three years. Three years gone injections, nappies, demands, sleepless nights. My career, abandoned. All for what? To be told Im a gold-digger stranger?
And Tom? Does he know?
He will when the time comes. My property, my choice. Now go reheat the soup Im peckish. And the nappys digging in, fix it, please.
I left the room, ears ringing, grabbed my coat and bag and walked out. I just couldnt stay. I needed air.
For two hours I wandered, freezing, the word betrayal repeating in my mind. Not only by Margaret I never expected love from her but Tom. The solicitor hadnt come alone. Someone had to let him in, provide papers.
When I got back, Tom was already home, eating soup straight from the pot.
Where have you been? he grumbled. Mums yelling, nappys soaked, and youre nowhere. Am I supposed to wash her up? Im a bloke, its disgusting!
I looked at Tom. For the first time in twenty years of marriage, I saw him clearly, with no illusions. Not the loving husband, not a pillar of strength, just a self-centred child.
Tom, I said quietly. Your mum gave Claire the flat. Gift deed. Did you know?
Tom choked on his soup, coughing and going red.
Gift deed? Youre imagining things!
Im not. Margaret said so herself. Claire took the documents away today. The solicitor came while I was out. Who let him in? Youve got a spare key, you couldve popped in at lunch?
Tom looked away, tearing at bread crumbs nervously.
Well I did pop by. Mum asked me. Said she needed some paperwork sorted for her pension or something. I let the chap in he was a lawyer, seemed alright. I didnt ask, Emma! I had to get back to work!
You didnt ask? my voice shook. Your mothers cut your kids out of their inheritance, handed the flat to a near-stranger, and you didnt ask? Wholl pay her bills now? Rents finished, Claire will sell the flat. What money, Tom? On your salary? Or am I supposed to get back to work, funding the woman who spat in my face?
Dont start hysterics! Tom thumped the table. Mums ill, she may not be all there! Well challenge it, claim shes incapacitated, if we must!
Incapacitated? I laughed bitterly. You were the one insisting shes got full faculties when praising you. Do you think the solicitor is stupid? Of course, he checked she was sound. Claires no fool.
A shrill voice erupted from the bedroom:
Oi! Is anybody alive out there? Im soaked! Emma! Come and clean me!
Tom grimaced.
Emma, go sort her out. Well deal with it later. She cant sit in filth.
Something snapped inside me. The last thread holding my patience, duty, selflessness. I stared at my chapped, rough hands reminders of endless cleaning and laundry. When was my last hair appointment? Id dreamt of the seaside, but what would we do with Mum?
No, I said.
What do you mean, no? Tom looked confused.
Im not going. Im not cleaning her anymore. Im done with blending soup, done with taking abuse. Shes got a flat owner now Claire. Under the law, gift deeds are unconditional, but morally if Claire got the asset, she can take the burden. Call her. She can come and do it.
Youre mad! Tom sprang up. Claire wont answer at this hour! Anyway, she doesnt know how! Emma, its my mother!
Exactly. Your mother. Not mine. And she gave the flat to her niece. Im a stranger. Jailor, as she called me.
I walked to our bedroom, not Margarets. I dragged a suitcase from the wardrobe.
What are you doing? Tom stood in the doorway, pale and panicked.
Im leaving. Ill move in with my mum. Its small, just a one-bed, but at least the air is clean.
Emma, stop! It was just a rash decision by the old lady! Well sort everything! Dont abandon us! How will I cope alone? Ive got a job!
Youll hire a carer. Oh, wait, the moneys gone Flats gone. So, youll have to do it yourself. After work, at night, weekends. Welcome to my world, Tom.
I stuffed clothes, books, jumpers anything I could into the suitcase. Tears blurred my eyes, but all I cared about was getting out.
Emma, I wont let you go! he tried to grab my hand. Youre my wife! You took a vow, for better or worse!
Ive seen the worse, Tom. Three years of it. And the better never showed up. Oh, by the way, I zipped up the suitcase, standing tall Im filing for divorce.
Because of the flat?! Youre so materialistic!
Not the flat, idiot! I yelled. Because you let them turn me into a slave! Because you opened the door to the solicitor and betrayed me! Because you arent sorry you just want someone to change the nappy!
I rolled the case into the hall. Cries from Margarets room had become wailing:
Tom! Shes left me! She wants to kill me! Give me water!
Tom dashed between me and his mother.
Emma, please stay just one night!
Ill leave the keys on the table, I said coldly. Goodbye.
I left, pressing the lift button. When the doors closed, I rested my head on the cold mirror and sobbed. They were tears of relief.
The first week at my mums passed in a haze. I slept twelve hours a day, ate properly, strolled in the park. Id ditched my old phone, bought a new SIM just for a handful of close friends. But news reached me.
Through a mutual friend I learnt Tom had tried ringing Claire. She ignored him, then declared a gift is a gift, and caring wasnt part of the deal. She planned to sell the flat for her business expansion and gave two months to evict the tenants. Worse still, she suggested Margaret should be registered for a state care home.
Tom took unpaid leave. Then sick leave. Then started ringing our son and daughter, at university, guilting them to come help with grandma. They called me.
Mum, Dad says youre a traitor, said Ben, our son. But we know how hard you worked. Were not coming. Weve got exams. And grandma made her choice.
I was proud of them. They understood.
A month later, I went back to the library. The pays modest, but the peace and smell of books restored me more than any pills. I filed for divorce. Tom didnt show up for the hearings.
One evening, as I walked home, Tom was waiting outside my block. Hed aged ten years, unshaven, grubby shirt, smelling of stale drink and that sour old-age odour I knew too well.
Emma he stepped forward. Help me. I cant cope. She shrieks all day. Claires already sold the flat, to dodgy buyers for peanuts. The rental moneys gone. I cant afford a carer. I quit my job they let me go
I looked at him and felt nothing but disgust.
And whats that got to do with me, Tom?
You know how to handle her Youre the only one. Come back, please. Ill forgive everything. Well sell Mums flat the one we live in buy somewhere smaller, hire help.
Youll forgive everything? I repeated. Isnt it me who should be forgiving? But I refuse.
Shes crying, Emma. Calls your name. Says you made the best porridge
Too late for reflection. Shouldve thought about that when the solicitor turned up.
But Claires ripped us off! Shes a scammer!
Claire did what she was allowed to do. Margaret tried to buy love with square metres. The deals done. No returns.
Youve turned cruel, whispered Tom.
No, Ive become free, I corrected him. Go, Tom. Dont come again. Our court date is next week. Lets hope for a quick divorce.
I stepped around him and opened the block door.
Emma! he yelled after me. What if I put Mum in a care home? The state one? Theres a waiting list, paperwork I havent a clue! Help me with the forms!
I stopped and turned.
Thats what the internets for, Tom. You were a manager, werent you? Youll figure it out. My shifts over.
I closed the door.
Upstairs, I gazed out the window. Tom was still on the pavement, a small, pathetic figure, crushed by responsibility hed dodged for so long. I drew the curtains.
The kettle whistled in the kitchen. Mum was baking cabbage pies.
Who was at the door, Emma? she said from the kitchen.
Wrong address, Mum. Just the wrong address.
I sat at the table, took a hot pie and bit into it. Delicious. For the first time in three years, food had taste. Life was continuing, and this life belonged to me alone. Margaret had received exactly what she deserved her beloved niece with the money, and a son finally forced to grow up, even at fifty. Justice is a dish sometimes served cold, but its always filling.
