permission to take Grace to Sherborne for the day, then drove into the back of a truck, no one screamed at Grace or told her they wished she had never been born.
Grace cooked all the time with Lydia, not because she had to, but because she wanted to. It was a world away from her own home, where cooking, cleaning and self-parenting were expected from Grace because there was no one else to do it; where she shouldered the entire responsibility of running a household she wasn’t old enough to run.
Today, her mother would, should,
could
be given medications to stabilize her, manage her condition, enable her to live a normal life. Had Grace’s mother been alive today, it is entirely possible her life would be manageable. It is entirely possible she and Grace would have discovered how to love each other.
As it is, shortly after Grace left home to go to university, her parents divorced. Her father, by then a shadow of the man he once was, left the house and cut off contact with everyone.
Grace would come home on weekends, attempt to look after her mother, but half the time her mother had disappeared, the house would be filthy, and chaos awaited her in every room.
Grace learned more about manic depression and alcoholism than she would ever have dreamed possible. Back then, however much she recognized that it was the disease talking and not her mother, Sally never lost the ability to hurt, to poison, to wound.
The last time she saw her was six months before she died. Grace was staying at Lydia’s when she got a phone call. It was a cousin she hadn’t spoken to in years, who had somehow tracked her down. He had seen her mother, knew where she was, and thought Grace ought to know.
Lydia had offered to drive her in to London the next day, but in the end it was Patrick who drove her. Patrick to whom she told the whole, sorry story, sharing the hell of her childhood, her fear of anger and volatility, her sense of never having a safe place to call home.
‘You do now,’ he had said quietly, expertly steering the car along the M4, then through the winding London streets, saying little, glancing over at Grace from time to time to check that she was okay.
They had the radio on, Grace grateful that today Patrick wasn’t his irreverent, amusing self, but in a nod to the seriousness of the situation was quiet, reflective; a wonderful listener.
‘Are you sure you want to go in on your own?’ He pulled up outside a dark brick building, bars on the window, weeds sprouting from the base of the walls. It was depressing, even from the outside, and Grace suppressed a flutter of fear.
‘I have to,’ she said, grateful he took her hand and squeezed it before she opened the car door. ‘Will you stay here in the car, though? In case I need to . . . I don’t know. In case.’
‘Of course. Good luck!’ he called as she walked to the front door and rang the bell.
A woman appeared at the door. Middle-aged, although it was hard to determine. She had long white hair pulled tightly back from her face in a bun, a face that was lived-in, sad.
‘Hello,’ said Grace. ‘I’m looking for Sally Patterson.’
‘Yes,’ said the woman whose name tag announced her as ‘Margaret’, appraising Grace coolly. ‘We were wondering if we’d see you.’
‘I’m Grace. Her daughter.’
‘I know.’ Margaret stepped aside, finally, to let her in. ‘Your mother has been wondering where you’ve been.’ She started walking into a large hallway, Grace presuming she was expected to follow.
‘I’ve been trying to find her,’ Grace said, flustered, not expecting to have to explain herself here. ‘Much of what my mum says is . . . fabricated.’
Margaret seemed to consider this for a while, then nodded. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have judged. It’s just that it’s so hard on these women when their families desert them.’
‘I didn’t desert her!’ Frustration took the form of a hot lump in Grace’s throat. ‘I’ve been looking for
Grace cooked all the time with Lydia, not because she had to, but because she wanted to. It was a world away from her own home, where cooking, cleaning and self-parenting were expected from Grace because there was no one else to do it; where she shouldered the entire responsibility of running a household she wasn’t old enough to run.
Today, her mother would, should,
could
be given medications to stabilize her, manage her condition, enable her to live a normal life. Had Grace’s mother been alive today, it is entirely possible her life would be manageable. It is entirely possible she and Grace would have discovered how to love each other.
As it is, shortly after Grace left home to go to university, her parents divorced. Her father, by then a shadow of the man he once was, left the house and cut off contact with everyone.
Grace would come home on weekends, attempt to look after her mother, but half the time her mother had disappeared, the house would be filthy, and chaos awaited her in every room.
Grace learned more about manic depression and alcoholism than she would ever have dreamed possible. Back then, however much she recognized that it was the disease talking and not her mother, Sally never lost the ability to hurt, to poison, to wound.
The last time she saw her was six months before she died. Grace was staying at Lydia’s when she got a phone call. It was a cousin she hadn’t spoken to in years, who had somehow tracked her down. He had seen her mother, knew where she was, and thought Grace ought to know.
Lydia had offered to drive her in to London the next day, but in the end it was Patrick who drove her. Patrick to whom she told the whole, sorry story, sharing the hell of her childhood, her fear of anger and volatility, her sense of never having a safe place to call home.
‘You do now,’ he had said quietly, expertly steering the car along the M4, then through the winding London streets, saying little, glancing over at Grace from time to time to check that she was okay.
They had the radio on, Grace grateful that today Patrick wasn’t his irreverent, amusing self, but in a nod to the seriousness of the situation was quiet, reflective; a wonderful listener.
‘Are you sure you want to go in on your own?’ He pulled up outside a dark brick building, bars on the window, weeds sprouting from the base of the walls. It was depressing, even from the outside, and Grace suppressed a flutter of fear.
‘I have to,’ she said, grateful he took her hand and squeezed it before she opened the car door. ‘Will you stay here in the car, though? In case I need to . . . I don’t know. In case.’
‘Of course. Good luck!’ he called as she walked to the front door and rang the bell.
A woman appeared at the door. Middle-aged, although it was hard to determine. She had long white hair pulled tightly back from her face in a bun, a face that was lived-in, sad.
‘Hello,’ said Grace. ‘I’m looking for Sally Patterson.’
‘Yes,’ said the woman whose name tag announced her as ‘Margaret’, appraising Grace coolly. ‘We were wondering if we’d see you.’
‘I’m Grace. Her daughter.’
‘I know.’ Margaret stepped aside, finally, to let her in. ‘Your mother has been wondering where you’ve been.’ She started walking into a large hallway, Grace presuming she was expected to follow.
‘I’ve been trying to find her,’ Grace said, flustered, not expecting to have to explain herself here. ‘Much of what my mum says is . . . fabricated.’
Margaret seemed to consider this for a while, then nodded. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have judged. It’s just that it’s so hard on these women when their families desert them.’
‘I didn’t desert her!’ Frustration took the form of a hot lump in Grace’s throat. ‘I’ve been looking for
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