engine stilled. I wanted to check with my sister after my earlier call.
Ringing.
'C'mon, Claire … pick up.'
More ringing.
Then the answer phone picked up my call.
'Hello, Claire … it's Doug again, just checking you got my last message. I really think we need to have a chat about the old girl.' I toyed with the idea of hanging up, the moment passed. 'So, look, give me a call when you have a chance, eh?'
I hung up. I hoped I hadn't sounded too harsh; it was easy for someone like me — with no ties, no immediate family — to forget that Claire had a life of her own now. Could I judge her for not looking out for my mother? I doubted it.
The front door was open as I walked in; a familiar musty smell greeted me. I turned, closed the door. I noticed condensation clinging to the windowpanes. I ran a desultory finger down the layer of moisture: the place was going to ruin. Maintenance had always been my father's job.
I called out, 'Hello … anybody home?'
No answer.
I walked the length of the hall to the kitchen. As I pushed the door there seemed to be something blocking the way. I eased back, heard a shuffle of old bones and knew Ben was lying in the way. I gave the dog a moment to right himself, tried the handle once more.
He greeted me with his tail wagging, 'Hello, boy …'
I reached down to pat his head, then I noticed the state of the kitchen. He'd relieved himself, defecated on the floor. By the looks of things he hadn't been out for days. He seemed to sense my discovery, slunk back from me, ears pinned down. The look of shame on the old dog's face was heartbreaking.
'It's all right, fella …' I took him by the collar to the back door, led him out to the garden. He lolled down the steps and released his bladder, his arthritic legs shaking as he tried to hold himself up.
'God Almighty …' I looked back indoors. 'What have you been playing at woman?'
I left Ben to sniff around the lawn's edges. The sight of him dug at me; reminded me of an old reel I'd seen of pit ponies being led out to grass for the first time in their sorry lives. I turned for the door.
'Mam … Mam … Where are you?'
I stood still, waited for a reply but none came. My first reaction had been anger; hurt at the sight of the dog and the house, but now I was struck by worry. Where was she? What had happened?
I raced through to the living room: empty. I turned for the dining room, likewise no-one in sight. I bolted up the stairs and knocked on my mother's bedroom door. There was no reply. I battered louder, called out: 'Mam! Mam!'
Silence.
I turned the handle and went inside. A thick foetid air greeted me. The bed hadn't been made, probably hadn't been touched in days, weeks maybe. The curtains were shut tight, blocking out the daylight. I moved towards the window, flooded the room with light. Dust particles danced. I flipped the latch and let the breeze come inside. I stood staring at the carnage of a life in ruins. The room was a mess. Dinner plates piled by the bed. Chocolate bar wrappers on the floor. Empty bottles. Was this really the way my mother was living?
I kicked out at the mattress, walked back through the door. In the hallway I stood for a moment wondering what had gone on, where she could be. For a second I felt defeated, I rushed into the spare room; it was empty. Then I made for my sister's room. My late father had turned it into a study. A place to go and pretend to read, follow his few interests; in reality, it was a place to nap and hide from the world.
Something stirred in the corner of the room as I entered. At once I recognised the huddle of bones on the floor.
'Mam … what the?'
I leant over, touched the sleeve of her dressing gown. She stirred some more, muttered. The smell of drink was thick in the air. I tried to get her upright; she was almost lifeless in my arms. As I sat her against the wall a bottle of Grouse was evacuated from the folds of her gown. It rolled away from us, barely a drop of liquid
Ringing.
'C'mon, Claire … pick up.'
More ringing.
Then the answer phone picked up my call.
'Hello, Claire … it's Doug again, just checking you got my last message. I really think we need to have a chat about the old girl.' I toyed with the idea of hanging up, the moment passed. 'So, look, give me a call when you have a chance, eh?'
I hung up. I hoped I hadn't sounded too harsh; it was easy for someone like me — with no ties, no immediate family — to forget that Claire had a life of her own now. Could I judge her for not looking out for my mother? I doubted it.
The front door was open as I walked in; a familiar musty smell greeted me. I turned, closed the door. I noticed condensation clinging to the windowpanes. I ran a desultory finger down the layer of moisture: the place was going to ruin. Maintenance had always been my father's job.
I called out, 'Hello … anybody home?'
No answer.
I walked the length of the hall to the kitchen. As I pushed the door there seemed to be something blocking the way. I eased back, heard a shuffle of old bones and knew Ben was lying in the way. I gave the dog a moment to right himself, tried the handle once more.
He greeted me with his tail wagging, 'Hello, boy …'
I reached down to pat his head, then I noticed the state of the kitchen. He'd relieved himself, defecated on the floor. By the looks of things he hadn't been out for days. He seemed to sense my discovery, slunk back from me, ears pinned down. The look of shame on the old dog's face was heartbreaking.
'It's all right, fella …' I took him by the collar to the back door, led him out to the garden. He lolled down the steps and released his bladder, his arthritic legs shaking as he tried to hold himself up.
'God Almighty …' I looked back indoors. 'What have you been playing at woman?'
I left Ben to sniff around the lawn's edges. The sight of him dug at me; reminded me of an old reel I'd seen of pit ponies being led out to grass for the first time in their sorry lives. I turned for the door.
'Mam … Mam … Where are you?'
I stood still, waited for a reply but none came. My first reaction had been anger; hurt at the sight of the dog and the house, but now I was struck by worry. Where was she? What had happened?
I raced through to the living room: empty. I turned for the dining room, likewise no-one in sight. I bolted up the stairs and knocked on my mother's bedroom door. There was no reply. I battered louder, called out: 'Mam! Mam!'
Silence.
I turned the handle and went inside. A thick foetid air greeted me. The bed hadn't been made, probably hadn't been touched in days, weeks maybe. The curtains were shut tight, blocking out the daylight. I moved towards the window, flooded the room with light. Dust particles danced. I flipped the latch and let the breeze come inside. I stood staring at the carnage of a life in ruins. The room was a mess. Dinner plates piled by the bed. Chocolate bar wrappers on the floor. Empty bottles. Was this really the way my mother was living?
I kicked out at the mattress, walked back through the door. In the hallway I stood for a moment wondering what had gone on, where she could be. For a second I felt defeated, I rushed into the spare room; it was empty. Then I made for my sister's room. My late father had turned it into a study. A place to go and pretend to read, follow his few interests; in reality, it was a place to nap and hide from the world.
Something stirred in the corner of the room as I entered. At once I recognised the huddle of bones on the floor.
'Mam … what the?'
I leant over, touched the sleeve of her dressing gown. She stirred some more, muttered. The smell of drink was thick in the air. I tried to get her upright; she was almost lifeless in my arms. As I sat her against the wall a bottle of Grouse was evacuated from the folds of her gown. It rolled away from us, barely a drop of liquid
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