Conspiracy of Secrets. Bobbie Neate
mother think? Had he told her that family called? Or was she left to imagine we had all abandoned her?
Each month the difficulties increased. I was slow to realise it was a strategy. He asked me to ring at a certain time but when I did he refused to answer the phone. The following day he would innocently claim that Mum had needed attention when I called.
Every time I redialled the Trumpington telephone number, I was reminded of days when I was much younger. The phone had been a vital weapon in Stepfather’s armoury. The timing of his calls had been the bullet. He loved to make surprise night-time calls when more sensible people were already asleep. For his most seriously manipulative calls he employed his lowest tone of voice.
I decided that, if I could not speak to my mother on the phone, I must visit more often. Each time I made sure I took him a small gift and looked after his needs as well as my mother’s. All went well to begin with and there were times when Louis was pleasant. When he was in a good frame of mind I often stayed with them both until the night nurse arrived at ten o’clock and saw Mum settled down for the night.
But then things became more worrying. I could not get physically close to Mum. At first I just thought it was the awkward arrangement of the bed and his chair, but as things deteriorated I wondered if it was all part of his plan.
I had no option but to share Mum’s ‘good’ side with Louis. As she could not turn her head, sitting on the other side of her bed was not possible. Even giving her a kiss was awkward from this angle. Stepfather’s tub chair was always in the way, so holding hands was impossible, and across the void holding any sensible conversation was hard. He sat there like a large pudding, blocking my way. I had two options: to stand at the bottom of the bed and lean over so she could hear me or to sit on a stool at the foot of her bed. Leaning for long periods soon became very uncomfortable and when I was on the stool my mother had difficulty seeing me. Concentration was difficult, as both of us had to work too hard to hear each other with the TV in the background.
Louis dominated the situation. He sat in the tub chair, his long legs stretched out, obstructing me from pushing my stool any closer. My protestations were unheard. He just smiled or glowered according to his mood as if I had said nothing. He adamantly refused to move his seat. Nor did he ever leave the round chair. When I prepared to leave he would ask, ‘When can you come next? It’s so nice to have you here.’
But when I rang the next day to tell him I could come the following Sunday, he said it was not convenient and that I would have to book further ahead. A month later, weekends were not convenient and he said I would have to visit on a weekday. It began to be very stressful. It was a long drive and the traffic queues were appalling. To my work colleagues I was becoming unreliable and forgetful. I began to feel helpless and sleep eluded me.
Then at other times Louis rang me up to chat. He often sounded like a broken man. My emotions were in tatters. I didn’t know how I felt about this man. At times I wondered why he wanted to talk to me so intimately. Others were beginning to suggest he did not have our mother’s best interests at heart, but I continued to try to support him. I felt sorry for him. I did not realise I was caught in a trap.
I was upset that my mother did not have one regular nurse, as we had originally planned, but I was pleased that Mum had begun to build up some sort of relationship with her three eight-hourly nurses. Of course, she loved the bright character of Bonnie, who was allowed by Stepfather to help the nurses in the mornings, but he did not permit her to sit with Mum and chat.
Five months later, Mum was displaying her determination to rise to the challenge with her physiotherapist. She was struggling to walk again. As Mum could now take teetering steps around her bed with her frame, she would constantly ask when she was going downstairs. However, the more she recovered the more she began to feel trapped in her bedroom. A plan was devised so she could move downstairs. Here she would have the best room in the house, the one my mother had lent to Stepfather’s mother and ‘Auntie’ Mamie, both of whom are by this time, long dead. Once she was downstairs Mum would be able to be move from room to room and go into her beloved garden.
Meanwhile, Stepfather’s behaviour was more outlandish.
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