In the back of her mind, despite everything, there was just one name. She picked up the phone and dialled. A voice answered after only a couple of rings.
‘Mum?’ Chloe said.
87
By the time Mark got onto the train, it had already been a long day – the court session had dragged on interminably with convoluted legal argument, then as the barrister had summed up the jury had looked at him like he’d just stepped out of a shiny silver spaceship and tried to talk to them in Martian. They had screw-all chance of winning this one. The only consolation was that, deep down, Mark knew his client was a wanker, and deserved what was coming; still, he hated defeat.
His mother was waiting in her car at the station.
‘Ready?’ she asked as he got in and leaned across to kiss her cheek.
‘Yep. What about you?’
‘I don’t know why I let your sister talk me into this,’ she said, pulling out into the heavy traffic.
They undertook most of the hour’s journey in silence. It was after seven when they finally pulled up, and Mark thought his mother looked as tired as he felt. He wasn’t sure exhaustion was the ideal prerequisite for a family showdown, but there was not a lot they could do about that.
No sooner had the engine gone silent than Di’s front door flew open, as though she’d been watching for them. She rushed out and hugged her mother, then Mark, though less enthusiastically.
Di looked nervous. Her face turned from one to the other as she said, ‘He doesn’t know you’re coming.’
Mark couldn’t hide his frustration at such pettiness. ‘Jesus, Di,’ he said, rolling his eyes.
‘Well, I didn’t think he’d hang around if I told him,’ Di shot back, annoyed.
Their mother looked at them both. ‘Stop bickering, you two. Come on, let’s go and get this over with.’
They trooped inside, following Diane down a narrow corridor to the sitting room. Mark briefly glanced at the magnolia walls and the worn beige carpet – he hadn’t been here for over eighteen months, but nothing had changed. It was still as drab and depressing as ever.
They all rounded the doorway to see Henry, dressed casually in cord slacks and a jumper over a buttoned-up checked shirt, watching the news on TV, with Diane’s husband, Sol.
‘What the -?’ Henry said, half-rising out of his chair upon seeing them.
‘We’re here to talk to you,’ Mark’s mother said snippily.
Henry sank back into his chair with a noticeable thump and a muttered ‘Christ’, defeated now he was cornered. Meanwhile, Sol took his cue and left the room without a word.
Diane strolled over to the remote and flicked the TV onto standby. The silence suddenly became apparent, like a fifth person in the room.
Mark and his mother were still standing in the doorway, neither of them making a move. Diane looked at them, shook her head, went over to sit on the sofa near to her dad’s chair and took his hand.
‘Dad, please don’t feel got at,’ she said, trying to look him in the eyes, though he couldn’t hold her gaze. ‘We’re really worried about you. What’s going on?’
Mark watched as Henry struggled between his soft spot for his daughter, which Mark had always found contemptible, and his rage at being outmanoeuvred like this. Diane was looking at Mark and her mother, her eyes imploring them to do their bit. His mother seemed frozen to the spot, so, reluctantly, Mark went and sat down on the sofa next to his sister, noticing the lack of support in it as he was swallowed up by the sagging cushions.
‘We just want to help, Dad,’ he said quietly.
Emily was still statue-like by the door, everyone watching her now. She had folded her arms and pursed her lips, and Mark was trying to quell his rising irritation. They’d driven all this way; she could at least try.
Then Emily began talking and Mark wished she hadn’t. ‘Look at you, Henry, your children fawning over you like you’re an infant. What’s all this nonsense about? Is it retirement, is that the problem? Because no one asked you to retire, you can head back to work if that’s what’s making you behave like a fool.’
Now Henry was riled. He sprang to his feet. ‘I didn’t ask you to come. You can sod off if this is how much you care.’
‘Dad!’ Di interjected, shocked, but now their father was on a roll.
‘So you want to know what’s wrong, eh?’ he said, marching across to his wife and spitting the words right into her face. ‘Well, all right then, I’ll tell you. I’ve got bloody Parkinson’s, that’s what’s wrong. Instead of living a full life of retirement on the golf courses and with my friends, I’m going to be turning into a stuttering, shaking fool. That’s what’s bloody wrong,’ he roared. ‘That and the fact that I’m married to a woman with not a scrap of compassion in her body.’
Emily stood her ground, their faces only inches apart. ‘The compassion drained out of me somewhat after you went out whoring,’ she replied.
Henry threw his hands up. ‘One time, woman,’ he barked, ‘one little dalliance, years ago, and you can’t bloody let it go.’
‘One time I actually caught you with your trousers down, don’t you mean,’ Emily retorted, arms folded, lips pursed.
Mark was gaping at them, lost for words, and a quick glance at Di’s stunned expression told him he wasn’t the only one. The sagging sofa didn’t seem so bad now; in fact, he wondered if he leaned back a little further, whether it might swallow him whole. If they weren’t blocking the doorway, he’d have made a dash for it rather than have to listen to any more of this.
Di recovered first. ‘Mum, Dad, stop it,’ she said firmly, going over and tugging on their arms as they glared at one another. ‘Sit down, both of you, and keep it down, you’ll wake the kids.’ She pushed them in the direction of vacant seats, and then went and shut the living-room door before sitting again.
Now there were three of them in a squashed row on the sofa, like a jury appraising Henry in the adjacent armchair.
‘Parkinson’s, Dad,’ Di said softly, reaching for his hand again, though this time Henry was quicker and moved it out of the way.
‘Well, Claire’s husband has had Parkinson’s for years,’ Emily put in after a pause, though her voice was less strident, ‘and he’s not too bad.’
Mark was still assessing this turn of events, and trying to ignore the revelations he’d just been privy to. Alzheimer’s had been his diagnosis, he realised, surprised that his subconscious had thought this way all along but he hadn’t really acknowledged it. ‘Dad, what’s with all the drinking, and the weird behaviour then?’ he said, before he could stop himself.
Both his father and Di glared at him.
‘I may have been on the sauce rather heavily of late,’ his dad replied huffily, ‘but I have been coming to terms with things.’
‘I see,’ Mark said, not knowing how to follow this up.
‘Typical,’ Emily snorted, still with no apparent sympathy in her voice. ‘Always thinking of yourself – oh, what does it mean for me – never mind what it means for the rest of the family. We’re the ones who’ll end up nursing you and putting up with your moods.’
‘It’s hard to tell that you even care, Emily,’ Henry said sarcastically.
‘Of course I care,’ Emily snapped, sounding anything but sympathetic. ‘Although you make it mighty hard at times. But if you want my support, you have to earn it – if you want to have a little self-pity party, then you’re on your own.’
Henry opened his mouth to reply, then seemed lost for words. This shocked Mark as much as any of the other revelations of the night. He was also reeling from the dawning comprehension that his mother and father didn’t really seem to like one another much. Why hadn’t this registered with him before? Thinking back on it, he’d never seen them being loving. They were merely civil – in fact, the times they seemed most together were when they held court in front of others at dinner parties, or at family gatherings. Then there was a united front, but he hadn’t thought that behind it they were actually miserable. However, judging by what he’d seen tonight, a front was all it really was. Was this the end for them, now things were out in the open? Divorcing parents, at his age. How embarrassing.