The Last Day of January E-Book

Greer Decker

• Herausgeber: epubli
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 348

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

It's August 2019 and Sarah, a 50-year-old divorcee, takes up a one-year teaching position in her home county of Suffolk, after teaching in London for thirty years. She moves back to her mother's house as Joan, 83, has growing dementia. Being a carer is tougher than she had anticipated. Added to this, Sarah, a staunch Remainer, is still fuming over Brexit and a lack of political responsibility as she sees it. She loved cosmopolitan London and is unsure about living and working in a Brexit strong environment. Sarah's sister Rachel and family live in Berlin and they compare UK and German mentalities, cultures and lifestyles. There are tensions between them, however, as they come to terms with their mother's condition. On the upside, Sarah enjoys the new school and develops feelings for a fellow teacher, James, whose own mother has recently passed away. He also has issues at school, e.g. being wrongly accused of being too pally towards a boy in his class, with social media escalating the situation. Additionally, Sarah becomes involved when the sister - Izabela - of a young pupil - Zofia - runs away from home to London and then to her native Poland. Following investigation, much of it through Zofia and with another colleague, Sarah is able to find out, ironically with Joan's help, who has aggravated Izabela's troubles. Over the five months leading up to Brexit Day, Sarah's life increases in complexity with issues from the minute to the global: relationships; interactions; belonging; acceptance; cyberbullying, homophobia and politics. This climaxes when she and James clash over Brexit, leading her to take positive actions to reconcile her feelings.

Leseprobe

Text:  © Copyright by Greer Decker

Cover:  © Copyright by Greer Decker

Published by:  

     1

In my ideal life, I was taller, in a loving, lasting relationship and had children. And mankind had a good chance of saving the planet. I’d still moved from rural Suffolk to London at the first opportunity, like the rest of my schoolmates. I’d never regretted that decision, nor the one to become a teacher. My affection for London was soon so great that I never once thought of leaving.

It had made such an impression on me as a ten-year-old. That early summer day in 1979, my family and I had taken the two-hour journey by train into a vast, scintillating world. My nose pressed up against the window, I gazed at the rows of brick houses that lined the rail tracks for those last miles of the journey to Liverpool Street Station, some seemed virtually within my reach. I remember the dirt but also the colour, and sighting a small playground, bursting with life. A rainbow roundabout was spinning the children giddy. Later at Covent Garden, I stared at street artists and punks, one gave me a peace sign. After seeing some of the sights, we ate out at a proper Italian restaurant in the West End. London captured me that day and I wanted to be part of it.

Twelve years later, in a tiny shared flat, it became my home. Once I’d survived my first two years of teaching, I told my hairdresser I was staying for good. Then, aged fifty, I left.

It was a Sunday afternoon, the twenty-fifth of August 2019. With London behind me, the rural landscape from the A12 was showing the first signs of late summer. The mellow scenery matched my mood. I changed the music to something more upbeat and felt cheerier for a while, but heavier thoughts soon returned. What was I leaving and what lay ahead?

I passed a billboard for Colchester Zoo and thought of the billboard that had shocked me over three years ago now, in May 2016. On the forever busy M40. The xenophobia then should have warned me of where we were heading only a month later with the Brexit referendum. The board was taken down shortly afterwards, following the public outrage. I’d looked out for the next exit sign that day, wanting to know where I was, so I could harbour a grudge forever.

It was at around that same point on the M40 in late May this year, on my way to my friend Dorothy’s birthday again, that I made up my mind to accept the offer in Suffolk. I felt only a marginal attachment, sadly, to my home county, but I was pleased that I would be with my eighty-three-year-old mum. That’s another thing: in my ideal life, mum would not have got dementia and dad would not have passed away a long time ago.

Telling myself that a change of environment would do me good, a certain curiosity was also drawing me back to my roots, to remind myself of the reasons I’d left so abruptly and see if they were still valid. And then there was Brexit. After meeting only two people in London who openly proclaimed to have voted differently to me, in Suffolk, I would presumably meet many more Brexit supporters.

There was a military vehicle in front of me. I thought of the army man at Nigel’s christening in late August, three years ago to the day in fact. Our encounter had left me angry, perplexed and sad.

‘What have we ever got out of the bloody EU anyway? It’s been our downfall quite frankly and high time we showed them once and for all,’ he’d said loudly as we stood at the buffet, filling our plates with Mediterranean starters.

‘How can you say that? Our downfall?’ I’d pulled a funny face. ‘This is a community working for peace and prosperity.’

‘Community?! You’re taking the piss, aren’t you! They’re just pocketing our money and pissing us off with all their shitty rules and regulations.’

‘You do know that the UK worked on those regulations just as much as any other member and also benefits from the single market, don’t you?’ He was clearly one of those people who’d been taken in by the pro-Brexit press and the blatant lies on the UKIP posters, I’d thought to myself.

I couldn’t remember how the conversation had progressed, just that his arguments had been crude, and it had got personal, much to the embarrassment of the other guests around us, especially his wife. She hadn’t leapt to his defence but hadn’t disagreed with him either. Perhaps she’d grown tired of this topic. I caught myself thinking that he was as unrefined as his arguments, but what troubled me more was how badly I tackled him. He was having his own private war and I charged straight in. His aggression repulsed me and still made me angry today. The confrontation had spoilt the mood at our table and I was still ruminating about it three years later. And it created a stereotype Brexiteer in my mind which was dangerously simplified.

The sign for the A120 to Stansted Airport brought my thoughts to Rachel, my sister, and her husband Peter. I’d flown from there to Berlin to visit her and her family for two and a half weeks at the end of July. I’d found a tenant for my flat in Wandsworth, got the repairs done and had the rooms painted throughout. With everything packed in boxes, I could relax now, knowing it was sorted.

My holiday with Rachel, Peter and the children, Anna and Tim, had been very relaxing as always. Our time together was rare and precious. It was a slower pace of life to London.

We always did lots of cycling, mainly to Wannsee or Schlachtensee. There were none of those signs forbidding you to swim. Of course, you could argue whether that was a good thing or not, but for me, jumping into the cool water on a hot day was one of the joys of summer. We usually called in at Venezia for an ice cream on the way home and would sit out on the patio chatting and drinking wine until late. I loved trying out my rusty German on Anna and she loved teaching me cool new phrases and correcting all my horrible grammar.

This time, we’d also managed a trip to Prague and Vienna. I’d enjoyed the rocky landscape of Saxon Switzerland, south-east of Dresden, before entering the Czech Republic and crossing the lonely countryside to Prague. The magnificent medieval old town was touristy yes, but not totally spoilt yet, as some had warned. Perhaps because I was used to London. We’d continued onto Vienna as Anna and Tim wanted to go there. They’d just watched a Netflix series that had been shot in the city. In between the cafes, we saw the Schönbrunn palace and took a walk around the St. Marx cemetery.

Back in Berlin, Rachel and Peter invited friends over most evenings. Their conversations were interesting and quite deep, something I felt was more difficult in the UK, where witty banter was more the thing. Most of their friends were interested in Brexit.

‘Do you think it goes ahead? I can’t imagine this.’

‘I think it probably will now, sadly.’

‘But the Brits are normally so pragmatic, no? It’s crazy.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why do they do this?’

‘I think there are many reasons. Political, historical, geographical, economic. Clever campaigning too. People were misled. Big sums of money were quoted as the price of being in the EU, but it wasn’t true.’

‘Yes. I heard this too.’

‘I just don’t want to believe that xenophobia was a major factor.’

‘Maybe in the countryside? London is so multicultural, no?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who voted for Brexit? Is it like the AfD voters here? Have you heard of the AfD? It’s a far-right party. It is terrible. Was it more the people that live in the north?’

‘No, there were many factors: social class, education, age.’

Someone at the other side of the table said something funny and caught everyone’s attention. The conversation took a different course, and I was relieved. The moment to try and give a better answer had passed. If I’d have started, I wouldn’t have stopped, and he would have regretted asking at some point.

While glad that mum had some company, Rachel struggled to see how I could swap London for this existence.

‘How you can leave one of the world’s most vibrant cities for this little village, I just don’t know. Especially now with Brexit.’

‘Yeah, but what about mum?’

‘I know. It’s good that you’ll be there for her. And if things get really bad, you’ll just have to come here more often. You know you’re always welcome. Berlin is hardly heaven on earth, but it definitely has more to offer you than post-Brexit England.’

I laughed, but she was probably right. What would it be like to live in Suffolk again? At least the position was limited to a year. I would use the time to find suitable care for mum and check my prejudices against the country folk here. Maybe I would even find a partner. I’d been on my own for close to twelve years after two relationships had ended. In London, my mission to find the right person had become a bit of an obsession for a while, then I resolved to rely more on fate. It was too late for children but the idea of a soulmate to grow old with had its appeal.

After a two-hour drive from London, I arrived at mum’s. She was surprised by my arrival, despite our telephone conversation the day before. I left the six boxes, two suitcases and five shopping bags in the car and gave her a hug. She’d shrunk again in the few weeks I hadn’t seen her, her clothes were much baggier. She told me that ‘new people’ had moved into the close, though that was old news. A middle-aged couple with three children and two dogs, quiet ones fortunately. In retrospect, she’d quite liked the elderly couple who’d lived in the house before, Gwyneth and Alfred, although contact had been barely more than a wave and a Christmas card. I expected that level of intimacy to continue with this family. Mum had been a little upset when Alfred got killed in a head-on collision one day last winter. He had been at the wheel. Gwyneth had survived with some nasty injuries. She’d moved into a home shortly afterwards and I’d intended to visit her one day with mum.

The new family had refreshed the exterior of the house and made a friendly impression on me from a distance. I’d seen them a couple of times on my short visits in the spring, but it had never seemed like the right moment to introduce myself. Mum was curious but too shy to go up to them. She thought they’d said hello to her one day in the summer, but she couldn’t remember their names. Something beginning with H, Helen or Heather perhaps. Then they’d annoyed her by replacing the hedge with a higher and far less attractive fence in her view, presumably because of the dogs. It spoilt the character of the close, she argued. There was a time when she would have given everyone the benefit of the doubt, but I’d detected a harsher judgement of others in her recently.

Like with the new neighbours, mum’s response to my moving in was also quite muted. You could even say slightly suspicious. There was confusion about what was happening and no apparent pleasure at the prospect of company. Why all the boxes? She withdrew to the living room as I brought them in. I noticed that she kept having a peep through the door though, clearly concerned that I would mess up the house and disrupt her routine. That was not my intention. I swiftly stacked the boxes against the back wall in the big bedroom that was reserved for guests.

In the first few days, I was too occupied with unpacking and preparing for my start at the new school to cause much disruption to mum’s routine and it was soon clear that she didn’t have much of one in any case. Besides mealtimes, her days were virtually empty. Most of the activities she used to enjoy had become impossible. That was a gut-wrenching recognition for me. Previously ignorant of the extent of her struggles, it now soon became clear to me that leaving her on her own for more than a few hours at a time wasn’t ideal at all.

Mum’s reaction when I tentatively broached the subject was irritation at my impertinence.

‘Of course I can manage. What do you mean? I’ve always lived on my own. How do you think I’ve coped for all these years? I’m not stupid you know.’

I’d never thought of mum as stupid, quite the opposite. It was a good question though. How had she coped all these years? And who would check now that the oven was off and that she could get out of the house if she had to. There’d been a time after the burglary when she had religiously kept all the windows and doors locked, even during the day. And she would be forever looking for the right keys. An alarm system was out of the question. The very mention of alarms threw her into a panic. She was terrified by all things loud and electrical, including the telephone, which had been struck by lightning many years ago as she’d sat by the window and telephoned with a friend one day during a thunderstorm. That memory had resurfaced, and the telephone was now to be avoided at all costs.

By Wednesday evening, so four days later, I was having serious doubts that I’d done the right thing. In London, I’d never felt alone, someone was always up for a drink and a laugh and there was so much going on. The news of the day here was a hedgepig sighting on the front lawn.

I told myself I’d feel better once school had begun. And there were some aspects of Suffolk I was looking forward to. The pretty countryside and vastness of the skies, the space, the sea breeze, long walks, the slower pace of life in general. Once school started, a kind of normality would return.

On the Thursday, we went to Hearty’s, the farm shop, for lunch. It was mum’s favourite place these days as you always got a table and there were plenty of toilets. And the food was her kind of thing. I liked it there too. They had a nice selection of cheeses and local produce and a corner with gifts and birthday cards. I recognised the manageress from last time and also the young girl who worked in the café. She’d spoken to us back in June. The girl, Izabela, must have been about nineteen and had unusual features, in fact she was stunningly beautiful. I’d guessed from her accent and look that she was from Poland and she’d told us she came from a small town, Terespol, very close to the border with Belarus, only a few miles from Brest. Mum and I had looked it up in the atlas when we’d got home that afternoon. By comparison, my move had been a small one.

Izabela had been in England for a little over three years and lived with her parents and younger sister. When mum enquired if she liked it here, she nodded, but I sensed she was being polite. Her dad was a builder, had become a Norwich fan and loved the pubs, she told us with a smile. Her mum worked at Norwich hospital and loved shopping in the city. Izabela had those teenager characteristics; she was charming and passionate, but a little insecure. She kept touching her hair and occasionally stopped to think about her words. She’d also listened patiently when mum had told her about her recent stay in Norwich hospital. Mum couldn’t remember why she’d been there.

That day, a young and broad-chested man had brought our food. Mum had chosen the pork chops; I had the fish. On his way back to the kitchen, he spoke to Izabela, who was wiping the tables on the other side of the restaurant. The looks indicated that the mood between them was not particularly good. The chips were delicious. I asked mum if she remembered the Polish girl from the last time we’d spoken to her in June. She said yes, she used to do her hair. She was probably mistaking her with Dorota, who used to do mum’s hair at the salon on the market square in town some years back and also came from Poland.

Mum struggled to eat her meal and didn’t want any afters. There’d been a time when she’d managed a huge portion of dessert. As she put her knife and fork down – I’d long finished – a couple walked past our table. I didn’t see the man but the tall and glamorous looking lady in an outfit rather too fancy for a farm shop caught my attention. Mum noticed them too, as they sat down two tables along. I had my back to them. Mum had the better view. Izabela reappeared to clear our plates away and glanced towards them, froze and went pale. She turned quickly and rushed back towards the kitchen with our plates, then out of a side door into the garden. Another waitress, also relatively young, followed her out. I could see them through the window, talking.

I didn’t say anything to mum, who was suddenly in a hurry to leave. ‘Where are the toilets?’ she asked.

As we stood up, I tried to get a look at the couple again, who seemed to be in the middle of an argument. The man was still out of sight behind the lady, who was getting louder. Mum ordered me to hurry up, thrust her bag into my hand and rushed out of the restaurant, wobbling to the side as she did. I hastily abandoned all else and chased after her. She charged past the entrance to the toilets, heading straight for the exit.

I caught up and redirected her to the toilets, then returned to the restaurant to get two pieces of cake for later. I was hoping to see the couple again, but they’d gone, obviously through the other door to the garden.

In the queue to pay for the cake, Izabela brought out some more pastries. She smiled at me, her beautiful eyes still slightly red from crying. It upset me to see her sad, although she was composed again now.

At the main till, with mum at my side and a basket full of shopping, the broad-chested man was serving. A glance at the team photo on the wall behind him indicated that he was the son of the family who owned the place. As he handed me my receipt with a wide smile, a pile of Brexit Party flyers next to the till caught my eye.

In the car mum remarked on the couple.

‘Did you hear that woman? Terrible. Making a scene like that.’

‘Yes. And she was possibly a little overdressed for a farm shop, don’t you think?’

‘Yes, that’s true. The man had beautiful red hair, just like my father’s. He reminded me of my father. And she was argumentative like my mother. Poor sod.’

I couldn’t help smiling. I’d never known her parents.

     2

Whenever I’d talked to my friends in London about mum and tried to paint a picture, I’d always said she was like the Queen in many ways. In stature, mannerisms and dress sense, although her budget was obviously smaller.

She never left the house without a hat and had fine leather driving gloves, though I’d never seen her wear them. She had firm views on skirt lengths and a strong aversion to slang, bad table manners and drinking straight from the bottle. She was a teenager of the fifties, had endured a strict upbringing and been inspired by one classy aunt in particular. From her, mum had acquired a lifetime love of classic-style shoes and handbags to go with beautiful dresses and pencil skirt suits. She’d never possessed a pair of trousers or a T-shirt and she’d always kept her habit of categorising clothes into those for best and those for every day. Her every-day suits would be worn to the post office or supermarket, the dresses and best suits to weddings, dinner dances and christenings. Sadly, there had not been many of those festive occasions for mum for some years now.

Mum was born in Blackpool, a town for which she harboured mixed feelings. She called it a dump, without a single tree, but talked fondly and with great pride of its heyday in the fifties. In black and white photos, mum in her twenties had looked like Deborah Kerr, who’d spent the last years of her life in a Suffolk village only a few miles away from here. Mum had seen Frank Sinatra at the Blackpool Opera House in 1953 as well as Vera Lynn and the Beverley Sisters.

After John Lennon’s death, she’d casually mentioned to me that she’d seen the Beatles at the same venue in 1964. Just as impressive was her recollection of Freddie Frinton’s very first Dinner for One performance at Blackpool’s Winter Gardens show in 1954. Rachel had told me that millions of Germans religiously watched this sketch every New Year’s Eve since its first broadcast there in 1972. As far as I knew, most Brits have never heard of it.

From our long conversations I learnt more about my parents’ families in that last week of August 2019 than in the fifty years before. The challenge was to listen and not get irritated by the frequent repetitions.

Living with mum was tougher than I’d anticipated. In between the times when we would sit, relaxed, at the dining table or sofa and chat about the past, I noticed how overwhelmed she was by every-day activities. Keeping track of time and her personal possessions had become a major task. She would ask whether we’d had breakfast yet and let every cup of tea go cold. Her appetite was tiny in any case.

Mum’s longer-term memory was still in order, while her ability to process and store new information was gone. She spent half the day making sure items were in the place she thought they would be. When we’d decided on the plan for the day, she would not have known it two minutes later. For millions of people with experience in dementia, this was perfectly normal. For me, having little experience of dementia, it was tough.

Mum kept asking me if Rachel was okay; she hadn’t heard from her for months. And how long I was staying and why I kept taking things. Where were her slippers and her favourite pen and her books? At the table she would empty her handbag, take out her three glasses cases, then the glasses inside them and study them as if she’d never seen them before. Then she would sigh, put them back into their cases, then the cases into the handbag, only to start all over again a few minutes later.

Little scraps of paper with her handwriting were everywhere, in every drawer, in a box by the telephone, bundled in rubber bands in pots in the kitchen and lodged between ornaments and vases on the bureau and windowsills. Numbers, names and scribbles, shopping lists and other random notes. Her bank pin code was the item I came across most. It was written everywhere.

Once my shock at these circumstances had passed, mum’s insinuations, accusations and changed stories suddenly became more bearable. Now I understood why mum made those reproachful comments and any defence was futile. It was not meant critically.

If I’d comprehended that earlier, it would have saved much personal hurt. No, I hadn’t written all over the walls when I was three (it was one pencil mark). No, I hadn’t run off with mum’s watch without asking her and subsequently lost it. No, I hadn’t mislaid her address book, preventing her from sending her friends a birthday card for the last five years. Parts of mum’s brain were disintegrating – a friend who was a nurse had shown me the pictures from the Dementia Society – and there was nothing we could do. Or was there?

We hadn’t really tried, and I felt guilty for that. I’d been here so seldom. I could have come more often, talked to her much more, found out more about dementia, insisted on talking to the doctors. It was too late now.

On the positive side, mum presently believed she’d been to many more places than she actually had and conjured up all sorts of memories of wonderful trips and holidays with my father. She felt she’d had a full life and was content.

With mum’s humour and delightful personality most of the time, we had some good times too. My mood during the day was generally good, especially when we pottered about in the garden together. Mum was at her best here, she could still reel off all the names of plants and flowers and did some deadheading as we went. Later in the evenings, this would often give way to moments of despair as I saw how confused she was. My thoughts grew even darker at night, when the whole thing felt like a huge mistake, and I felt guilty for thinking so.

Rachel and I had discussed the option of a care home several times over the summer. We needed to do so again now that I had a better picture. Mum had a lovely house and garden. It had been perfect for her. In recent months on the phone, she had complained of how much of a burden the garden was becoming. But the idea of her leaving her home made me feel awful. I had huge respect for people who cared for their elderly or sick family at home for years.

I would look for a lovely home for mum. Assuming there was such a thing. Mum had already looked at a few residences herself years ago and had shown Rachel and me brochures of the one she liked most. Nobody had taken her very seriously at the time. If the truth be known, no one had taken her very seriously about a lot of things for a long time. I’d only wondered why she was looking at homes when she was still so fit.

On Thursday evening, the phone rang.

‘Hello. Sarah Wills speaking.’

‘Hi. It’s Alison, just checking it’s alright to come and do Joan’s hair tomorrow.’

‘Yes, great, thanks. What time do you usually come?’

‘At two. Is that alright?’

‘Perfect.’

I told mum that Alison was coming tomorrow. I’d noticed she called her Alice.

‘Her name’s Alison, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, I think so. Or Alice. Maybe she can do your hair sometime. It’s a mess.’

It was always black and white in our family, but maybe that was normal in those days. There was that small, popular Labour PM who failed at everything in their eyes, because he came from Yorkshire, not Lancashire, and he was from the wrong party as well. Then there was the one from Portsmouth, also Labour and therefore also doomed to failure. Then the tough one whom my father had admired, for which I was ashamed, and it still made me sad today to think I was ashamed of that detail about my father, who was such a wonderful person in my eyes. It was similar with colleagues, neighbours, teachers, acquaintances. That was perhaps the reason why I still found it pleasant today when I came across someone who was less quick to judge.

On Saturday morning the doorbell rang. It was the Avon lady. Surely she wasn’t the same lady from years ago? She looked as though she might have been, bearing testimony to the quality of her care products. No, I think she was a different lady. Mum chatted to her for ages. She was convinced she hadn’t paid her for her last purchases. The Avon lady insisted that she had.

When she left, we got ready to go shopping. Mum said she’d fetch some money. I suggested I’d pay with my card. She started rummaging through one of the bottom cup-boards in the kitchen all the same. She wanted to show me where she’d hidden some notes, but they weren’t there. Suddenly she got annoyed by all the Tupperware boxes and bashed one of them to the back of the cupboard. Staggering to get up, she rushed into the dining room and began rooting in the sideboard.

‘I had a thousand pounds in here.’

I looked at her.

‘Only I can’t find it now. Have you taken it?’

‘No.’

The door to the little cupboard to my right flew open. A travel book fell to the floor.

‘Here it is. In this envelope, right at the bottom. Count it and see.’

I took the notes and counted them on the table. Ten fifties.

‘There’s five hundred here, Mum.’

‘That can’t be. It was a thousand. Someone must have taken it.’

I sighed.

‘Are you sure? Perhaps it was five hundred.’

‘No. I’m sure. That was for a rainy day. My running-away money. That’s why I kept it in there with the maps.’

‘Well, let’s take it with us for now. I don’t like the thought of all that cash lying there. We’ll pay it into the bank as soon as we get a chance.’

‘I like to have some cash at home.’

‘Yes, but five hundred is too much.’

‘It’s a thousand there. Count it.’

I counted again.

‘It’s definitely five hundred.’

‘No, it’s a thousand.’ Mum frowned.

I forced myself to forget the money. I would have a look through the sideboard later when mum was in bed.

The next issue was what to wear. Mum wanted to change into her best suit, which was fair enough. I helped her put it on and the skirt was far too long, but she was happy. Next, she got out her big navy woollen coat.

‘Mum, it’s actually quite warm out there today. I wouldn’t bother with the coat.’

‘Okay. I’ll put it in the car.’

I didn’t see the point of that but didn’t argue. She was already getting ratty.

The supermarket shopping also proved laborious, although the sour mood had passed by the time we entered the shop. Mum put a few items in the trolley that I knew we had en masse at home or that she didn’t like. She seemed happy for me to make suggestions and agreed to everything, clearly relieved that someone was taking charge. I slipped two things back when she wasn’t looking.

At home, we had a piece of the fruit cake we’d just bought. Mum told me again about the time Patsy and Michael had come for the afternoon and eaten three pieces of her fruit cake each. Patsy had pocketed her little fruit knife too, presumably by mistake. It was good that we were having it now then, I told her.

‘Yes. Do you know, I used to make fruit cake every year for the village fete, only that lady on the committee used to snatch it up before the fete had even opened! She loved my fruit cake.’

‘Really? That was sneaky!’

‘Yes, and I don’t think she ever paid for it. She probably saw it as her prerogative after all her hard work. She was a right snob to be honest.’

I put a film on in the evening that looked just like mum’s thing. The Ladies in Black from 2018. I loved it and mum seemed to be following it.

At the end, I asked, ‘Did you like the film, Mum?’

‘Yes, I did. I’ve seen it before loads of times. So have you by the way. It’s an old one.’

I’d been hoping that mum would still be watching lots of telly. Never in the day though, as that wasn’t socially accept-able in her book. I noticed with concern that when mum wasn’t looking for personal items or telling me something about her childhood, she would often just stare into space.

In the afternoon, I only just managed to persuade her to go for a short walk to the duck pond in the village.

‘You’re always on the go. I’m tired and just want to relax.’

‘Let’s just stretch our legs and feed the ducks.’

She sighed, left the room and came back in her slippers. I barely dared to suggest the sandals instead but there was no way round it. I fetched them and helped her change. Then I filled a little paper bag with oats and handed them to mum.

By the end of Sunday, I’d changed a few things. To minimise the risks, I turned the oven switch off at the back and hid the iron. In bed that night, I started to read up on dementia. Mum appeared to be somewhere between mild and moderate symptoms. She was often confused or disorientated, but you could still have good conversations with her, and she was perceptive and articulate.

In another article I read why people with dementia generally no longer liked watching TV. They couldn’t follow the plot anymore and found the moving screen irritating. When mum maintained she’d seen all the series and films before, she was justifying why she didn’t want to watch television. She was crafty like that. The fact that reading had become impossible was a great shame. Mum had always loved reading. To hide this fact from me, she’d mention every day that she was really enjoying the book she was currently reading.

My better understanding of her symptoms released a lot of the tension that had once existed between us. I felt ready to give her time, patience and love.

In that first week I avoided thoughts of London. Suffolk was nice but most striking was the much older population on average and the tortoise pace of life. I’d loved rushing around London. The drivers were slower here, except for the youngsters who liked to take chances at every bend in the lanes. If I could survive the two nasty corners on my short car journey home from school each day, I could consider myself lucky. I liked the peacefulness and the pretty villages with their pink cottages and duck ponds. I missed the grandeur of the buildings in London and the mix of people on the streets, in fact anyone on the streets. Suffolk was empty.

     3

Monday was the first day back for the staff at Middleton High, my new school. The kids started on Wednesday. It was a twenty-minute drive away. Arriving far too early, I sat in the car park, waiting for it to fill up, trying to ignore the tightness in my stomach. I was not good at meeting new people. The school was familiar to me at least. I’d been to it many times before to play hockey for my school team. They’d been one of our toughest rivals and I remembered everything about those matches, from the spacious changing rooms to the immaculate pitches, their delicious teas after the match, the air of confidence of the team players and that mean right-wing who’d scored so many goals against us, against me personally in fact, as I was the left-back. I used to dislike the school for that, now I’d chosen it. I was swapping sides.

One of three new teachers that school year, I was made to feel welcome. The staff I met were friendly. Of course, there would be issues and tensions, that was normal. The head seemed approachable, and I liked her welcome-back speech. I wasn’t so sure about the deputy. We did our safeguarding refresher courses straight after that and the departments got together in the afternoon to discuss the curriculum.

On Tuesday, I learnt the head had already annoyed people by announcing a new-style parents’ evening right at the beginning of the school year, organised in classes, where parents could get to know the class teacher. It was scheduled for next Tuesday. Not everyone saw the need and thought that the individual five-minute subject meetings later on in the year were far more important.

The kids arrived on Wednesday and livened the place up. I was pleased I had the lower years. By Friday, I already felt settled at the school and confident that I’d like it.

I’d just sunk into the sofa after tea on Friday evening when my mobile rang.

‘Hello.’

‘Hi Sarah, it’s Malcolm, from school. I was just talking to Jill, my wife, and we were wondering if you’d be up for a few drinks at the pub tomorrow evening? Some of us meet up at The Three Horseshoes about once a month on Saturdays. Mary gave me your mobile number. She’s coming as well.’

Malcolm was the head of science. It was sweet of him to invite me. I said I’d love to join them.

Come Saturday evening, I wasn’t so sure anymore. I felt bad leaving mum.

The Three Horseshoes was a pretty-looking country pub on the edge of the town, with a massive car park. The space was one huge advantage over London. Inside, the pub was quite empty. There were horseshoes on the wall, the carpet and soft furnishings looked shabby, and it lacked the atmosphere I was used to in the West End. On the upside, we could hear ourselves talk. Two elderly men were sitting apart from each other at the bar, both silent and staring into their beers.

‘Sarah! How nice of you to join us!’

Malcolm stood up to greet me and I recognised quite a few of my new colleagues. There were eight at the large table, all teachers, except for Jill. The conversation was already lively. I felt more nervous than in front of thirty teenagers. Given the chance, I would have turned around, but it was too late, and I switched into sociable mode. I needn’t have felt uneasy. They were a friendly bunch who just wanted to relax after the first week back. I already knew Mary as she was head of history. James introduced himself to me. He was probably in his early fifties. Then there was Aidan, young, good-looking in my view, probably an NQT, and Alex, another muscular guy in his late thirties I’d guess. I’d seen him at school in his sports gear a few times during the week. Two others, whose names I didn’t know, sat at the other side of the table. We introduced ourselves. Barbara and Daniel were from the English department.

‘So, what made you leave London, Sarah?’ ‘Do you miss it?’ ‘Ah, I love going to London, it’s amazing!’ ‘The teaching must be pretty tough though.’ ‘Whereabouts did you live?’ ‘How could you afford London on a teacher’s salary?’

Daniel said that he had lived in London for three years and he missed it, but his wife Julie said it was better for the kids here.

‘Are you going back to London at the end of the year?’ ‘Where are you living now?’ 

They were happy with short answers. Then came more disgruntlement about the new-style parents evening. I sat back and started to relax and enjoy myself.

Sitting between James and Mary, I wondered what sort of a life James led. I liked his jumper and he had a nice smile.

‘What do you teach?’ I asked.

‘Physics. You must be history if you’re with Mary.’

‘Yes! Are you from this area?’

‘Yes, I was born in Norwich, my dad too, my mum was from Leicester. What about you?’

‘I was born in Aldeby, near Beccles. Do you know it? It’s quite small.’

‘I do. I used to know someone from there.’

‘How long have you been at Middleton High?’

‘Ten years now.’

‘That’s a long time. Are you happy there?’

James thought for a moment. ‘Yes, on the whole.’ Another nice smile. ‘Where were you before exactly?’

‘Battersea. At quite a good academy. I’ve been resisting independent schools all my life, which is not easy in London.’

‘That’s quite a contrast to here. How long were you in London?’

‘Almost twenty-eight years. I wanted to be closer to my mum. She’s eighty-three and starting to need a little help.’

‘I see. That’s good. She’ll be pleased.’

‘I’m not so sure about that, coming here and stirring things up!’

James laughed.

‘Do you have parents close by?’

‘Yes, my dad. My mum passed away in June. She’d been ill for a while. My dad is now in a home. He’s ninety.’

‘Gosh, that’s a fine age. I’m sorry about your mum.’

Mary had finished her conversation on the other side and we started to chat too. She was in her mid-fifties and had a pleasant manner. I’d already gained that impression during the week when we’d discussed the curricula and other matters. She was my immediate boss within the department and I liked her.