Choose: Your Mother or Me

Choose: Your Mother or Me

The telephone rang at half past ten in the evening, back when people still expected calls to mean real news. Eleanor was already tucked up in bed with her novel. Richard sat across the hall in his favourite armchair, the dim drone of a financial commentator wafting from his laptop.

The number was unfamiliar, but the code was clearly from her home village in Somerton.

“Hello,” Eleanor answered, immediately feeling a cold knot tighten beneath her ribs.

“Good evenin. Its Mrs GoodwinMargaret Goodwin. I live across the lane from your mother. Doubt youd know me, really. Theres a bit of a problem Your mum, Mrs Edith Arkwright, she had a fall this morning. I went in this evening, found her on the floor. She couldnt speak properly, side of her face all drooped”

Eleanor was already halfway out of bed, fumbling for her slippers.

“Is she at the hospital?”

“Taken her in about an hour ago. The ambulance came, they think its a stroke. I got your number from her phone, took me a while to dig it out…”

“Thank you, Mrs Goodwin. Thank you.”

She ended the call and for a few moments simply stood there, holding the phone in both hands. Then she went to Richard.

He was ensconced in his special chair, dressed in his expensive loungewear, a glass of sparkling water on the side table. Richard was fifty-six, well-groomed, salt-and-pepper at the temples, and gave off an air of unfettered success amid the quiet luxury of their flat.

“Richard, Mums unwell. A stroke. Theyve taken her to Somerton Hospital.”

He turned, reduced the volume slightly, half his mind still on his screen.

“When?”

“Today. Mrs Goodwin found her. Shed been lying there all day, alone”

Richard placed his glass firmly on the table.

“Right. So, what now?”

Eleanor stared at him.

“I have to go. First thing in the morning.”

“Go, then. Im not stopping you.”

“Richard, we need to talk, properly. Mums seventy-eight. If its a real stroke, she cant stay in that cottage alone. We need we need to decide what to do.”

Richard pressed the volume up again, just a fraction, as if to underscore his disinterest.

“Eleanor, weve discussed this. More than once.”

“We talked about it in theory. Now its happened.”

“And nothings changed. Ive told youI cant have her here. Were not set up for that.”

Eleanor sank onto the settee opposite him.

“Richard. We have four bedrooms.”

“Four rooms, two of which Ive plans to renovate. Weve gone over this endlessly. I want a proper study, you wanted a dressing room. Where dyou suppose she would goin the hallway?”

“We can put it off. Give one room to Mum. The renovations can wait.”

“They cant wait. The builders are set for March. Deposits already paid. You know that.”

“Richard, were talking about a sick person. My mother.”

“Eleanor,” he said finally, meeting her eye, “I am sorry. I truly am. But do you understand what youre really asking? Someone old and infirm living in our house, with God knows what care needs, perhaps unable to speak, incontinence pads and all. I cant do it. Cant I be honest?”

“Shes not a stranger. Shes my mother.”

“Shes nearly a stranger to me. Weve met four times in ten years. She never tried to get close.”

“Because you”

“No, lets not. No blame game. Just reality. I work. I need peace at home, not to live in a care home. Its my flat too, after all.”

Eleanor said nothing for a while. The city outside hummed with its indifferent night-time thrum.

“What about hiring a carer?” she finally asked. “Someone good, for Mum, in Somerton. We can afford it.”

“We can. Go ahead.”

“But Ill need to be there often. All the time, actually. Its three hours drive.”

“I understand. Drive over as much as you like. Nobodys stopping you.”

That “nobodys stopping you” was so accustomed, so easysomething inside her shifted. Not a blow, exactly, but the slow unsettling of ground you thought solid.

She got up, went back to the bedroom, and stared up at the ceiling until two in the morning.

Next day, she drove out to Somerton alone.

The district hospital greeted her with the scent of disinfectant and government-issue paint. Her mother, Edith, lay in a six-bed ward by the window. One side of her face was drooping, her right hand unmoving atop the blanket. She watched her daughter enter, wordless, the left corner of her mouth twitching faintly.

“Mum,” Eleanor said, clasping the cold, papery hand. “Im here, its alright.”

Her mother tried to speak, but the words were lost.

“Dont try. Im not going anywhere. Im here.”

The doctorolder, worn, briskspelled it out simply. Significant ischaemic stroke. Paralysed down the right, speech affected. Prognosis cautious. Some recovery possible, but how much, nobody could say. At least six months of proper care, exercises, speech work, constant supervision.

“She cant live alone now. Are you her only child?”

“The only one.”

That particular look passed between them, the doctors gaze layered with too many memories of families at moments like this. Not unkind, not pitying. Just knowing how things go.

Eleanor spent all day by her mothers side. She fed her thin porridge by spoon, talked at her, wittered onit hardly mattered whather mother watching intently, unable to reply, but full of understanding.

By evening, Eleanor went outside and phoned Richard.

“How is she?” he asked.

“Badly. Paralysed, speech gone. She wont manage alone.”

Silence.

“I see.”

“Im staying here.”

“For how long?”

“As long as it takes. I cant leave her.”

His voice tensed.

“Eleanor, youve got your job. Your life here.”

“Ill sort it outdo what I can from here. Remote, whatever. Mum cant be alone.”

“You said about a carer.”

“A carers not the same as a daughter. You know that.”

He paused.

“You realise this could drag on?”

“I do.”

“And youre willing to live in that house?”

“I am.”

A longer silence.

“Alright,” he said, flatly. “Ring if you need anything.”

She put her phone away and looked at the darkening street of little houses. Every other streetlight glowed. An old lady with a shopper tottered past the hedge. Someones garden fire scented the air with woodsmoke.

Her mothers cottage stood at the far end of Orchard Lanea wooden place gone grey with age, the porch sagging, small leaded windows picked out in faded paint. Eleanor opened the door with her own key, a key shed rarely used but always carried.

Inside was cold. Mum hadnt lit the fire for two days. Eleanor found the logs in the porch, fumbled with the old grate, swore softly as the kindling collapsedher hands vague on the rituals shed learned as a child. Shed spent her first eighteen years here.

She walked the housetiny kitchen with cracked tiles, thin passageway, two rooms, her mothers bed in one, her own childhood sofa-bed in the other. Everything was tidy, sparse, clean in that country way where each thing is precious simply because there are so few. Family photos on the wallherself at twenty, her late father, distant relatives in black and white.

Eleanor texted Richard: “Im living here now. Will collect things from London as needed.”

He replied after twenty minutes: “Got it. As you wish.”

That was the extent of it. That was, she realised, perhaps the extent of their marriage.

The next days melted into an endless practical blur. Morning to night in the hospital: turning her mother to prevent sores, doing careful arm exercises, slow spoon-feeding, masking her own exhaustion. The speech therapist began to coax speech from Editha proud maths teacher humbled by struggling for every word.

One morning, Edith managed, clear as ever, “Eleanor. Go home.”

“I am home, Mum.”

“No,” she moved her good hand, uncertainly, “home, to your husband.”

“Mum, dont worry.”

“Richard… not happy?”

“Its fine, Mum. Dont think on it.”

Her mother watched her closely, and in that look was something that made Eleanor turn away to the window.

Three and a half weeks later, the hospital sent Edith home: a clutch of pills, sheets of exercises, an appointment with the local speech lady. A lad from the lane helped carry her in, Eleanor set her up, made soup, filled the firebox.

And so began a different world.

Caring for someone bedbound wasnt something talked about in polite company. Turn every two hours, empty the commode, clean the sheets, daily stretches with stubborn limbs, feed three timestiny spoonfuls, lest she choke. Pills at seven in the morning, five for bed. The speech therapist, Mrs White, visited three days a week, Edith meeting the challenge with the iron will that had always defined her.

Eleanor worked part-time from home as an accountant, her boss understanding, cutting her hours. Money shrank; Richard sent lump sums now and then, enough, without explanation. She didnt ask.

Their phone calls dried up.

One raw, grey November morning, Eleanor was trying to mend the rickety step out front, hands frozen, as she readied for her mothers first attempts with a walker. From next door, a man approached.

Shed seen him sometimesa stocky, workmanlike man, fifty-five or so, broad face, big hands, shy smile.

“Youll want to drive the nail in at an angle,” he said, “Stay put better.”

She glanced up.

“Jack Weller, from Mill Cottage,” he said, nodding back down the lane. “Youre Ediths girl?”

“I am. Eleanor.”

“And hows your mum?”

“Better. A bit.”

He knelt, took the hammer, and in five minutes did what Eleanor had struggled with for half an hour.

“If you need a hand round the place, just ask,” he said as he stood up. “Im always about.”

“Thank youhonestly, I hate to bother you…”

“Not bothering. Edith once helped my mum years back. I remember, still.”

And off he went.

Eleanor watched him go, and thought that “bother” was the last thing she honestly worried about now. Living in a large flat in London while her mother lay alone in a creaking bedthat was what was truly “uncomfortable.”

November grew chillier. The fire drew poorly, filling the cottage with smoke one night. Eleanor, out of ideas, knocked shamefaced at Jacks, and he didnt complain or sigh, just clambered up with his torch, sorted the problem, explained how to do it yearly. Refused any money so quietly she didnt insist.

“Cup of tea?” she offered.

“Not if its a nuisance.”

They sat in the kitchen, drinking tea and shop-bought biscuits. Her mother slept behind the wall. Outside, wind rattled the old apple tree.

“You lived here long?” she asked.

“All my life, except five years in London. Factory work. Came back.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Its just yours. Londons fine, for some. Not for me.”

Eleanor wrapped her hands round her mug. The kitchen was properly warm, the fire murmuring.

“I lived in London twenty years,” she said. “Always dreamed of the city. Now, I wonder why I ever left here so long.”

Jack didnt try to comfort her, didnt spout platitudes. Just nodded.

“Youre here now. Thats the main thing.”

In December, Edith managed to sit up. Small triumph, vast victory. Mrs White said so enthusiastically that Edith managed a lopsided smile for her.

Speech returned, haltingly. Simple sentences began to stick.

“Youve gone thin, love,” Edith murmured one day.

“Dont think so, Mum.”

“You have. Richard ring?”

“Sometimes.”

“Will he visit?”

“I dont know, Mum.”

Long silence.

“He wont,” said Edith. Not bitter, simply with the knowledge of someone whos lived long and lost most illusions.

Richard did not visit. He called once a week”How are things?”listened briefly, urged her to hang in there. Once he remarked that the renovations were going smoothly. Once, that hed been to a very good business dinner. Eleanor heard an invisible distance stretching between themgrowing, gentle, but absolute. Two people living in different worlds, and no longer pretending otherwise.

In January, a friend from London, Caroline, visited, tray-bake in hand and ready to help. Caroline meant well, and Eleanor was grateful, but the talk fell off at once.

“Eleanor, dont you think this is too much now?” Caroline urged at the scrubbed kitchen table. “One month is one thingbut how longs this to go on? Youll run yourself into the ground.”

“What do you think I should do then, Caroline?”

“Find a proper carer, full-time. Or a care home. There are decent private places these days.”

“Mums always dreaded going into a home.”

“She never saw shed have to, did she? She has no idea what youre putting yourself through”

“She knows,” Eleanor said quietly. “Shes not lost her mind. She knows everything.”

Caroline was silent.

“And Richard isnt coming, then?”

“No.”

“So what now?”

“I dont know.”

“Eleanor, youre a clever woman. Married to a good man, lovely flatyou cant just throw that all away over this.”

Eleanor looked levelly at her friend.

“Caroline, Mums seventy-eight. I cant leave her lying alone all day in that state.”

“I understand”

“No,” Eleanor said gently, “you dont. Please, dont tell me about good husbands.”

Caroline left that day, a bit nettled. They made up by letter later, but something shifted, quietly.

Eleanor noticed the older women in the village treated her differently nownot with pity, but a sort of reserved respect. Mrs Goodwin would drop by with a jar of pickles or an apple tart, no words needed. Another neighbour, Mrs Parsons, came once to sit with Edith, simply saying, “Well have a natter. Were nearly the same age,” and minded her contentedly for two hours so Eleanor could get to the chemist.

Her own peersthose whod known her as “Richards wife from the city”regarded her differently. An old classmate met her in the shop, long drawn-out questions about Richard and their life, a wary pleasure in someone elses decline.

“Were getting on,” Eleanord answer, and leave it at that.

Jack continued to help, as if it were nothing. He fixed the gate after a heavy snow brought it down, brought logs on his tractor, stacked them by the shed. When Eleanor took sick herself, he brought food, stoked the fire, even changed Ediths linens without fluster.

“Jack, I dont know how to thank you,” said Eleanor when she was on the mend.

“Dont mention it. Were neighbours.”

“Neighbours arent always this good.”

“True,” he agreed. “Some are better than others.”

Edith dozed; outside, Februarys drizzle blurred the fields.

“You have family, Jack?”

“Did. Wife died eight years ago. Daughters in Leedsrarely calls.” He wasnt sorry, just matter-of-fact. “Only myself now. Got used to it.”

“Is it lonely?”

“Sometimes. Less if youre busy. Work and a bit of companythats enough, most days.”

She thought of Richard in the big flat, leather sofa, giant TV, business news every night. Was he lonely?

She rang him that evening.

“Richard, we need to talk.”

“Whats happened?”

“Nothing. I justwe havent really spoken in months.”

Pause.

“Go on.”

“Hows things?”

“All fine. Just finishing up renovations. Got a new project coming. When will you be back?”

“I think Im not coming back.”

Long, long silence.

“Not at all?”

“Not at all.”

He didnt rage, didnt beg. Just said,

“Is it because of your mother, or me?”

She paused.

“Because of myself, really.”

He breathed slowly.

“Understood,” he said. “Do you want a divorce?”

“Yes.”

“Alright. Divorce it is.”

And that “divorce it is,” delivered in the same tone as a work deadline, settled things with a clarity that words like “goodbye” never could.

In spring, Edith began to walk, first with her walker round the room, then to the kitchen, then out to the porch. It was slow, and she often despaired, once even wepta rarity for herbut she pressed on.

Mrs White delighted in her progress, telling Eleanor, “Its motivationshes got someone to fight for. Thats most of the cure.”

Eleanor wasnt sure if it was that, or simply her mothers will, but it was comforting all the same.

One May evening, warm and still, Eleanor and Jack sat on the garden bench by her gate. Edith now settled herself to bed alone, and Eleanor had an hours peace.

“Are you thinking of leaving?” Jack asked.

“No,” Eleanor replied, after a moment. “I did think, but I dont want to leave. Funny, isnt it? I spent twenty years longing for the city, now I dont want to go anywhere.”

“Its not funny,” Jack said. “Takes folk a long time to find where they belong.”

“It isnt always easy here. Often its very hard.”

“Easy and right arent the same. Right is when things make proper sense.”

She glanced at him. He was just an ordinary manwork-roughened hands, wrinkles at the eyes. Careful with words, but what he said stuck.

“Jack,” she murmured, “You know Richard and I are divorcing?”

“Id heard. News travels faster than the post here.”

“You dont think ill?”

He turned to her.

“Why would I?”

“Because I left my marriage. Walked away.”

“Marriage” He seemed to size the word, carefully. “Marriage is being together. In heart, I mean. Not just two people living under the same roof.”

She said nothing. There was nothing more she needed.

The divorce was handled by solicitors, without drama. Richard kept the flat, offered her a settlement, which she acceptedshed need the money for roof and floor repairs to the old cottage.

In summer, Jack helped fix the place up. Two blokes he knew came over, and in three weekends, they put in new floorboards, patched the roof. Only charged for the timber and supplies, nothing for labour.

“Why?” Eleanor asked.

“Neighbours,” Jack replied.

“Not just that.”

He met her gaze.

“No,” he agreed, “not just that.”

Edith observed it all from her perch on the porch, smiling more as her strength returned, voice mostly recovereddoctor called it a miracle. She watched daughter and neighbour, said nothing more than:

“A good man, Jack is.”

“I know, Mum.”

“You see it?”

“I do.”

Her mother nodded. No more needed saying.

Richard rang in July, for the first time in months.

“How are you both?” His voice differentsofter, less brisk.

“Well. Mums walking on her own, mostly. Weve done up the house.”

“Im glad to hear it,” he said, hesitated. “I I wonder if I did the right thing. Back then. Last autumn.”

Eleanor didnt reassure him; platitudes would be false.

“Perhaps not.”

“Are you angry?”

“No. Not now.”

“Alright then. Are you happy?”

She looked out the window. Her mother sat outside, reading (or trying to), eyes on the orchard, the apples ripening. A starling perched on the fence, singing the dusk in.

“I dont know if thats the word,” Eleanor said, “but Im content here.”

“I see,” Richard replied. And by that, she knew he understood something, at last.

They said goodbye.

Eleanor went to the kitchen.

“Mum, shall we have tea?”

“Yes, lets.”

She put the kettle on. It was old, handle chipped, nothing fancy. The geranium glowed on the sill, just as her mother had grown it for thirty years. Outside, the air was thick with the scent of cut hay and summer-touched wood.

Jack appeared at half past five, tapping gently.

“Good evening, Mrs Arkwright. Ive brought you some raspberriesthe seasons started.”

“Thank you, Jack. Dont stand on the doorstep! Come in,” her mother called.

Eleanor heard their voices, quiet and companionable, and simply paused with the mugs in her hands. Nothing especially grand or dramatic, but something utterly important lived in this cottage, in the warmth and the laughter, the waft of tea and pink geraniumsin the knowledge that somewhere in London, perfect flat and all, someone had chosen the right sofa but the wrong life.

Eleanor had chosen the right life.

Or was still choosingjust a little, every day.

She stepped in with the mugs.

“Jack, join us for tea?”

“Wouldnt say no,” he smiled.

Her mother glanced at her and smiled, real as any.

“Come on, both of yousit down.”

The sun slipped behind the roofs, throwing long shadows across the garden. The starling sang its jumble of borrowed songs. The raspberries were warm and scarlet, redolent of summer.

There was nothing more that needed to be said.