Looking after Mum: Part II: Chapter 11

Chapter 11
“So, Amelia,” said Susannah with her usual sentence starter. “How’ve you been?”
True to form, I gave her my usual reply. “Uh...fine.” She had been giving me the so-called counselling sessions weekly, since Year Seven and I had no idea why she was still persuading with me. Any normal person would have given up after the first two sessions, as I had without fail refused to tell her anything, constantly staying quiet and letting her do the talking. But then, Susannah wasn’t really a normal person by anyone’s standards.
She tapped her fingers across the immaculate leather arm. What a contrast between the arm and the fingers, I thought, looking at her hands. They were chubby and somehow child-like, the fingernails bitten but painted with Union Jack flags, barely recognisable. It would have made me smile, if I hadn’t been feeling so bitter and self-piteous.
Finally she stopped her unnerving tapping and bent over her stupid pink folder, writing something in the Amelia Harper section. I didn’t honestly know what she had to write about. I imagined my section in her folder, a long line of dates in unruly handwriting, and under each date “Amelia says, Uh...Fine.”

Madwoman.

I hunched over my desk, clenching my body and praying, “Not me, not me, not me.” Mr Fenton, our English teacher, was circling the classroom like a vulture, looking for a pupil to single out to read last night’s assignment. It had been an essay on our feelings and what we associated ourselves with. If I had to read mine out in front of 9A, I would die. Don’t get me wrong, Mr Fenton was not one of those scary teachers who tried to be all sympathetic, like Mr Graves. He was decent. I think he’d always liked my writing; he’d never praised it in front of the class, embarrassing me and giving me a fulltime nerd identity, like my English teacher in Year 8 had. But he always gave me good marks and a kind little appraisals at the end of each piece of work he handed back into me, if he thought it deserved it. Nevertheless, I did NOT want to have to read aloud in front of my class. I wouldn’t, I wouldn’t, I...
“Amelia?” I almost jumped in my skin when I heard that.
“Yes sir?” I replied.
“Would you mind reading your piece out, Miss Harper?”
It was one of those cruel rhetorical questions teachers always love asking, prefixed with a “Would you mind,” but what they really mean is “Do this!”
I sighed heavily, a mournful look on my face and slowly rose from my seat. I surveyed the class with a nervous glance, most of them looked bored, annoyed, or relieved because they hadn’t been picked. I absolutely hated having to read in front of people who really didn’t want to listen to what you were saying.

Suddenly, a split second before I started reading, Douglas caught my eye. He was the only person who was looking on, attentively but calmly, waiting to listen to my piece. If I hadn’t had that look, God knows what I would have read like.
I took a deep breath and started. “It’s called Shadows.” A ripple went through the class and people were already whispering things like ‘emo’ and their usual stereotypical nonsense that they used to judge everything by. Today, I managed to ignore them, keeping my eyes firmly fixed on the paper, aware that Douglas was still watching me.
“Colours do not exist and darkness covers her world, a black tarry sheen. She cannot throw it off, and it muffles her cries. She is set apart and ostracized from the world wear people look so happy, wearing smiles and colourful clothes. She does not know what colour is, when she hears the word a glimpse of the past darts into her mind but then slips out. When she looks at her hand she sees nothing, when she pulls her hair to her face still she sees nothing.” I paused, and noticed that half the class were hushed, captivated, their eyes on my, listening. The other half were still distracted and occupying themselves with drivel but I could tell they were still partially listening.

I continued reading all the way through in an unwavering voice and then paused again, before reading the last paragraph. My audience had not changed.
“These things that she can sense, she is sure, are not in the world that is different but the same. There everything is happy and enveloped in joy and laughter. Warmth swaddles them like babies there, leaving nothing for her. There is no evil, and all is good, for colour can thrive only in such joy and kindness. That is why they eat so many colours, draw so many colours, and wear so many colours. A shadow to the world of colours. She is but a shadow...”
There was a long silence spread across the room after I had finished, and then slowly but steadily, Douglas started clapping. Claire’s group were soon to follow, and after that, a soft and short ripple of applause broke over most of the class members. Mini-K’s, Kirsty, and some others sat stony-faced, occasionally whispering and giggling amongst themselves, looking at me with disdain. But I didn’t care. Trying to control the smile that was twitching the corners of my lips and threatening to break out across me face, I sat down, slightly bashful, looking at the corner of my desk. Mr Fenton beamed at me, and I could see Douglas mouthing things at me and giving me a thumbs up. I continued the rest of the lesson in a happy trance, until when the bell rang, signalling the end, Mr Fenton gestured for me. Picking up my bag and hastily stuffing pencil case and notebook into it, I approached him uncertainly. Once the last of the pupils had gone, namely Kirsty and Mini-K’s, glaring at me, he shut the door and sat on his desk, facing me. I recalled the after-lesson ‘chat’ I’d had with Mr Graves, but chastised myself, knowing that this was a lot more different.
Mr Fenton cleared his throat, running his hands through auburn hair and adjusting his rectangular glasses upon his nose.
“Is it alright if I read through your essay again?” he asked.
I nodded, and fumbled for it in my bag, my fingers searching its depths until I retrieved it, slightly crumpled on one side.
I handed it to him and he scanned through it, making occasional marks on it with a ball point pen and nodding to himself. Eventually, he looked up towards me, peering at me through his frames.
“You’re very passionate about English, aren’t you, Amelia?”
Again, I nodded, not sure whether to feel embarrassed or proud. It wasn’t exactly English I was passionate about but creating stories, weaving a brilliant tapestry of new people and places that no-one had ever invented before. I wasn’t about to explain this to him though, it would seem too much like showing off. Instead, I said, “Why do you think so?”
Mr Fenton smiled, handing the papers back to me.
“You wrote twice as much as the others. And it’s not just that, obviously, I’m for quality as well as quantity. But I have to say, this was one of the most outstanding pieces of work I have encountered in all my years as a teacher, not just for your age but by any pupil.”
I could feel a grin aching my jaw and I tried to control how much my heart was bursting with pride. “Um...thankyou, sir.”
“Not at all.” He shifted on the desk and looked straight at me. “You are one of the most able pupils in English, in your year group, Amelia. You have some real talent to nurture here. You’ve been blessed with ounces more imagination and creativity than the average person has, and I really hope you put it to good use, because you have a hell of a career before you.” He blushed embarrassedly for a second and said, “Excuse my French. But you just have real potential and I hope you keep this up. You will go very far, very far indeed. Of course, you might want to revise English, technically-wise. Your semicolon placement is somewhat erratic, your grammar might need a bit of work, and between you and me, when you’re scribbling away, your paragraphs do go a bit to pot, don’t they?” He winked at me, his eyes twinkling. “But of course, all this can be fixed if you put your mind to it.” He gestured at the essay papers. “It’s things like these that make me want to earn my salary.”
I closed the door behind me as I walked back out into the corridor, a spring in my step. I felt liberated and proud of myself. I could hear the Hallelujah chorus.

I had never planned to go into Arabian Nights. I had never known how it would change my life.
It was all because of the conversation I heard on the second floor.

I was coming home from school on Friday when I heard a conversation at the stairwell. It was on the narrow corridor between two opposite flats on a floor, and this dialogue. I didn’t really want to barge in through their conversation, especially as converse amongst neighbours rarely happened on reserved Drayton Road. So I waited on the step, poked my head up the banister, and eavesdropped without really meaning to.
I saw a pair of Hush Puppies and a pair of dowdy lace-ups; from this I deducted the speakers were probably middle-aged.
"It's that Susan-woman's birthday in two weeks, isn't it?" said a creaky old female voice.
The other gave a disdainful, sneering laugh – it was another woman, a bit younger. "On Wednesday. Ha! Don't expect she'll be getting many birthday presents this year."
"That's a bit hard. You’re so nasty sometimes."
"She has nasty remarks coming to her. Grumpy old bat. Won't speak to anyone, just grumbles. I'm sorry but I just don't have time for people like her."
"Come on... She's not quite right in the head, after it happening. She's clung onto that ground floor flat, and stayed there ever since. Her husband's a bit poorly, and..."
"Oh, it's nothing serious, just a check-up."
"Well, I suppose we can't really make anything of that. But you know. There have been other things."
"Well, I just can't stand her and I'll say it out loud."
"Never mind, never mind. I'd better make dinner now. Katie and Mark are here, and their children. Bit of a family reunion. See you.”
"Yeah, bye."
I heard footsteps and two clicks of doors. I rose up on my tiptoes daringly, just to check whether they were gone for good, and sure enough, they were. I sat down on the steps, and took a minute to collect my thoughts. I was nearly one hundred percent sure that the 'Susan-woman' the two ladies had been talking about was Mrs Brown, because of the ground floor flat and how the younger woman had said how she grumbled. I didn't know the other people who lived on the ground floor though, and I didn't know how to find out. I felt too shy of asking her what her first name was. It should have been easy, but she might think I was being nosy and I so wanted to get into her good books so that I could find out more about her. I suppose I was being a bit nosy by wanting to know her name at all, but it was also because I'd started to like her – maybe just a tiny bit – and I so wanted to know why she was so self-contained, and why she'd made such a bad name for herself on the block. I certainly didn't believe that nonsense about her 'not being quite right in the head'. Those two women were just spiteful.

Later that day, I was in the kitchen helping Miss Alcock make dinner and crying over the bangers and mash because Mum just wouldn't let me anywhere near here, and was yelling and weeping and had managed to ease herself into her wheelchair and lock the door.
Deciding to confront her, I knocked on Mum's door, and tried opening it, much to the protests of Miss Alcock, who kept saying, "Stop it, girl, leave your poor mother alone and come purée these spuds."
The door was still locked. That gave me another pang of sorrow. Why did I have to deal with this? Why couldn't I just walk off to some place where I would be looked after, not the other way round? I wanted care and safety and looking after.
"Mum?" I called. "Mummy, please open the door. Please." I paused. "There's dinner. You need to eat something, Mum."
There was a creak, and slowly the door opened. Mum, in her wheelchair, stared up at me. "I don't know you," she said softly.
I wheeled her slowly back to the bed, and helped her get back in. I gave her a pill, and put the plate on her lap. Then I walked out of the room, closing the door with a click.

***

The next day, Saturday, I got up at seven o’clock, yawning and sleepy. I quickly made a bowl of cereal and went to Mum's room to dress her. I did this whenever I had the chance because I couldn't stand the thought of Miss Alcock's greasy, clumsy hands flapping all over her body.
Mum did not protest when I approached her but she held her limbs stiffly, and it was extremely difficult to get her nightdress off and pull a blouse and trousers on.

I went down to the ground floor at eight o’clock and it was just as I’d calculated – the post woman was on her way.
I smiled at her and said I'd take in the letters for 1A. She looked surprised, but smiled back and said, "Sure, love. But be sure to give them. By the look of them, they're bills. Important things, bills."
I nodded, and waited till she had gone up the stairs till I looked at the envelopes. I thumbed through them, hitching my glasses up.

It was as I'd thought. I'd just needed to make sure.
Susan Brown.