Comfortable Grandmas
Margaret Smith wakes up to laughter, and not just a quiet giggle or a stifled chuckle, but loud, explosive laughter that fills the hospital warda kind shes never been able to stand. The sound is coming from her bed neighbour, whos clutching a mobile to her ear and gesticulating with her free hand as if the person on the other end can see her.
No, honestly, Ginny! He actually said that? In front of everyone?
Margaret glances at the clock. Quarter to seven in the morning. Fifteen more minutes before the lights go on and the real day startsfifteen quiet minutes shed hoped to use collecting her thoughts before her operation.
Last night, when she arrived, her ward-mate was already in place, tapping away furiously on her phone. Their greetings had been brief, perfunctory. Good evening. Hello. And that was it; each woman receded into her own silence. Margaret had appreciated that quiet. Now, though, it feels like the circus has come to town.
Excuse me, she says, her tone soft but clear. Would you mind keeping it down, please?
Her neighbour turns with a bright face, cropped grey hair, and a shockingly bold spotty pyjama set, all red polka dotshardly the typical hospital attire.
Oh, Ginny, Ill call you back, looks like Im getting a ticking-off! The other woman hangs up, then beams at Margaret. Sorry! Im Patricia Clarke. Did you sleep alright? I never do the day before surgery. Thats why I phone everyone under the sun.
Margaret Smith. Just because you cant sleep doesnt mean no one else wants to, Margaret replies.
Youre awake now, arent you? Patricia winks. Alright, Ill whisper, promise.
She never whispers. Before breakfast, she squeezes in two more calls, and if anything, her voice only gets louder. Margaret turns away, tugging the covers over her head. No luck; the noise cuts right through.
Later, over a breakfast neither of them touches, Patricia explains, My daughter just rang. Shes worried sick, poor thing. I try to calm her down, you know how it is.
Margaret says nothing. Her own son hasnt called, not that she expected him tohed warned her he had an important meeting first thing. Shed taught him to take work seriously, after all.
Patricia is taken off to theatre first. Goodbye waves, shouting back at the nurse and making her laugh as they go down the corridor. Margaret finds herself silently wishing that, after surgery, she might be moved to a bed elsewhere.
An hour later, it’s her turn. Shes always been bad with anaesthetic. She comes round feeling nauseous, with a dull, insistent pain in her side. The nurse says everythings gone well and that patience is needed. Patience, Margaret knows, is her forte.
By evening, shes wheeled back in to find Patricia already there, colourless and silent, her eyes closed, a drip in her arm. The silence is unfamiliarand a touch unnerving.
How are you? Margaret finds herself asking, though she hadnt meant to start a conversation.
Patricia opens her eyes and gives a faint smile. Still breathing. And you?
The same.
They lapse into companionable quiet. Dusk falls outside. The drip gives off a quiet, metallic tick.
Sorry about this morning, Patricia says suddenly. I do know Im a bit much when Im on edge. Cant help myself. Drives people mad, I know.
Margaret wants to retort, but she can’t bring herself to. Shes just too tired. Dont worry about it, is all she manages.
Neither of them sleeps that nightthe pain keeps them up. Patricia doesnt make any more calls; she just lies there fidgeting, sighing from time to time. Once, Margaret is sure she hears her crying quietly into her pillow.
The doctor breezes in the next morning, checks their stitches, takes temperatures and declares, Well done, ladies, coming along nicely. Patricia immediately snatches up her phone.
Ginny, hi love! Im fine, I promise, no need to fret. How are the children? What, Pauls got a fever? Why didnt you say sooner? Oh, its cleared up? See, no big deal, I told you.
Margaret cant help listening in. The children must be her grandchildren; her daughters reporting in.
Her own phone remains silent. She checks ittwo texts from her son, sent the previous evening while she was still dizzy. Mum, how are you? and Let me know when you can. She replies: Im alright. Adds a smiley face, because hes always said her messages are too cold without one.
It takes him three hours to reply: Great! Love you.
Any visits for you? Patricia asks that afternoon.
My sons at work. Lives a long way off. I dont really need anyone fussing over me.
Thats it, Patricia nods. My daughter says the same: Mum, youre a grown-up, youll cope. Why visit if everythings fine, right?
Theres something in Patricias voice that makes Margaret study her more closely. Patricia smiles again, but her eyes are far from bright.
How many grandchildren do you have? Margaret asks.
Three. Pauls the eldesthes eight. Then theres Sophie and George, three and four. Want to see some photos?
Patricia digs out her phone, and for the next twenty minutes, she scrolls through pictureskids at the seaside, kids in wellies, birthday cakes. Patricias in every shot, hugging and joking with the kids. Her daughterMargaret noticesisnt in any of them.
Shes taking the pictures, Patricia explains. She hates being in photos.
Do you see a lot of them?
I pretty much live there! My daughter works, my son-in-law does too, so I do the school runs, homework, dinner, all that.
Margaret nods. Shes done much the same. For years after her grandsons birth, she visited every day. Then less oftenhe grew up, got busy. Now, once a month, on a Sunday. When it suited.
And you? Patricia asks.
Just the one. Hes nine. Bright boy, plenty of clubs.
Do you see him much?
Sometimes, Sundays. Theyre very busy. Which is fine.
Patricia turns to the window. Busy, she echoes.
Evening brings a soft rain.
That night, Patricia says, I dont want to go home.
Margaret looks up. Patricia is huging her knees, staring at the floor.
I really dont. Thought about it, and I just dont.
Why not?
Whats the point? Ill turn up and Paul wont have done his homework, Sophie will have a cold again, George will have ripped his trousers. My daughters at work till late, her husbands away as usual. Ill cook, clean, fix, babysit, help out. And they dont even her voice catches, dont even say thank you. Because Im grandmaits just what you do.
Margaret holds back tears.
Sorry, Patricia wipes her eyes. Ignore me, Im just feeling sorry for myself.
Dont apologise, Margaret says gently. Five years ago, when I retired, I thoughtfinally, I can live my own life. Go to the theatre, visit exhibitions. I even signed up for French classes. Lasted two weeks.
What happened?
My daughter-in-law went on maternity leave, needed help. Who else but grandma? I said yes, of course I did.
And how was it?
Every day for three years. Then every other day. Then, when he started school, once a week. Now now theyve a nanny and hardly need me at all. I sit at home, just waiting for a call. If they remember.
Patricia nods.
My daughter said shed visit last November, Patricia says. I cleaned the house top to bottom, baked scones. Then she called: Sorry, Pauls got clubso she didnt come. I gave the scones to the neighbours.
Silence. Rain patters against the windows.
Do you know what really hurts? Patricia says. Not that they dont visit. Its that I still wait. I hold onto the phone thinking, maybe, this time, theyll call just to say they miss me. Not to ask for help.
Margarets throat tightens.
I wait too. Every time the phone rings, I hope its my son just wanting to talk. But its always about something.
And we always help, Patricia sighs. Because thats what mums do.
Yes.
The next day, dressing changespainful for both women. Afterwards they lie in silence, until Patricia suddenly says:
I always thought I had a happy family. Lovely daughter, good son-in-law, sweet grandchildren. I thought I was needed. That things would fall apart without me.
And? Margaret asks.
And lying here, I realise theyre managing absolutely fine without me. My daughter hasnt complained onceif anything, she sounds more relaxed! Guess its just convenient, isnt it, a free live-in nanny?
Margaret props herself up.
You know what Ive realised? she says. This is all my fault, in a way. I taught my son his mother would always be there, always help, always drop everything. My plans didnt matter. His did.
I did the same, Patricia admits. If my daughter needed me, I ran.
We taught them we werent people, Margaret says slowly. That we dont have our own lives.
Patricia nods, thinking. So what now?
I dont know, Margaret sighs.
By the fifth day, Margaret gets out of bed without help. On the sixth, she walks the length of the corridor and back. Patricias a day behind, but making progress. They shuffle down the corridor together, bracing themselves against the wall.
After my husband died, I lost my bearings, Patricia says. My daughter said: Youve got a fresh purpose, mumthe grandkids. So I lived for them. But its all one-sided. Im there for them whenever they want me. Theyre only there for me when it suits them.
Margaret tells her about her divorce thirty years ago, bringing up her son alone, studying at night, working two jobs.
I thought if I were the perfect mother, hed be the perfect son. That if I gave everything, hed always be grateful.
But he grew up, got on with his life, Patricia finishes.
Yes. And thats probably natural. I just didnt think Id feel this alone.
Me neither, Patricia admits.
On day seven, Margarets son suddenly appears, unannounced, as she reads on her beda tall man in a smart coat, holding a bag of fruit.
Hi, Mum! he beams, kisses her forehead. You feeling any better?
Much better.
Glad to hear it. The doctor says youll be out in three days. Thought you might like to come and stay with us? Rachel says the spare room is all yours.
Thank you, love, but Id rather be at home.
Whatever you want. Just let me knowwell pick you up.
He stays for twenty minutes, talks about work, the car, her grandson, offers cash. Promises to call next week, then makes a surprisingly hasty exit.
Patricia lies with her eyes shut, but opens them as the door closes.
Your son?
Mine.
Handsome.
Yes.
And cold as a fish.
Margaret cant reply; her throat is tight.
You know, Patricia says in a small voice, maybe we need to stop expecting love from them. Just let go, accept theyve grown up. We need to find our own lives.
Easy to say.
Harder to do. But whats the alternative? We could sit around forever waiting for them to remember us.
What did you say to your daughter? Margaret asks, surprising herself by suddenly switching to you.
Told her Id need a proper rest for a couple of weeksdoctors orders. No minding the grandkids.
And she?
She was annoyed at first. But I said: Youre a grown woman, sort it out yourself. I cant right now.
She took it badly?
Of course! Butyou know? I felt better. Like a huge weight had lifted.
Margaret closes her eyes.
Im scared. If I say no, if I refuse to help, they might never call again.
Do they call often now?
Silence.
Exactly. Things can only get better.
On the eighth day, they are both discharged at the same time. They pack in silence, aware this might be goodbye.
Lets swap numbers, Patricia says.
Margaret nods; they enter one anothers details into their phones. For a moment they linger.
Thank you, Margaret says. For being here.
Thank you, too. I havent talked like this with anyone for thirty years. Not really talked.
Me neither.
They hug, gingerly, mindful of stitches. The nurse brings in the discharge letters and calls them taxis. Margaret leaves first.
Home is quiet and empty. She unpacks, showers, lies on her sofa. Checks her phone: three messages from her son. Mum, are you out yet? Let me know when youre home. Dont forget your tablets.
She messages back: Home. All fine. Sets her phone aside.
She stands by the wardrobe, pulls out a folder untouched for five years: a brochure for French lessons, and a printout of the upcoming Philharmonics concerts. She studies the brochure, thinking.
Her phone rings. Patricia.
Hello. Sorry for ringing so soonit just felt right.
Im glad you did. Really.
Listen, shall we meet up? Once were back on our feet. Maybe for coffee or a walk? If youre up for it, I mean.
Margaret looks at the brochure, then at her phone. Then at the brochure again.
Id love that, actually. And you know what? Lets not wait two weeks. Lets meet Saturday. Im tired of lying about at home.
Saturday? Wont your doctor mind?
Ive spent thirty years looking after everyone else. Time I did something for myself.
Right. Saturday it is.
They say their goodbyes. Margaret picks up the brochure again. French classes start in a month and registrations still open.
She fires up her laptop and fills in the form, fingers trembling but determined.
Outside, the rain is falling. But behind the clouds, the sun is breaking throughpale and autumnal, yet unmistakably there.
And Margaret thinks, for the first time in years, that perhaps her life is just beginning. And she sends off the application.
