Now, though, as he explained the technicalities of Maxine’s toy—all Ks and bits and other barbarisms—he did not seem numb. Or perhaps he was merely reflecting the energy of Fiona’s interest and enthusiasm. She leaned across the table, eating without noticing, her eyes brilliant, making piggy grunts of comprehension or wrinkling her snout at something she didn’t follow (another Millett trait, frowning with the nose, Mark used to say). Hauling my stare away from her for about the tenth time I saw Terry watching me. He nodded.
On the strength of that I decided to give it a try. Burroughs were not going to like it, not at all. I would have to get them in to explain the accounting system in detail to the children, and the output from the computer they would need for purposes of tax and audit. I would see how things stood after a month. There’d still be time to go back to the adapted farm-account system. Burroughs would try to make all possible difficulties in their chilly, bureaucratic style. Never mind. For the first time in ages I felt the old tingle of anticipation at the prospect of a fight, of imposing my will on some body of reluctant, hierarchical, narrow-minded males. I was going to enjoy that. Why, all of a sudden, now? Because I would be doing it—though she wouldn’t know—to satisfy Fiona. How extraordinary.
‘When can I visit Gran?’ she asked at breakfast.
‘You don’t have to, my dear. She’ll never know. She hasn’t much idea what’s happening or who anyone is, except me.’
‘But I want to. And, too, I’ll have to tell Mom I did.’
‘Oh, all right. Let me finish my toast and I’ll go and see if she’s still presentable. I cleaned her up before breakfast, so she shouldn’t be too bad.’
‘Don’t you have a nurse for her?’
‘Only part-time. She’s like a baby, you see, wanting its mother and no one else. She throws a tantrum if it’s anyone but me for some things.’
‘Wow, Aunt Mabs, you keep busy!’
‘I’ve already done my two hours’ writing this morning.’
I was ridiculously gratified when she looked impressed. Simon and Terry never get up till ten so I had her to myself and would have preferred not to introduce a third person, let alone my mother, but I was ashamed to make excuses. Obviously the visit would have to be paid. I was going to be busy all day, and by evening my mother would be tired and her company yet more painful.
She was sitting up in bed watching the breakfast television (a real boon to me, in the few months since it started). She ignored my presence as I straightened her coverlet and wiped the spittle from her cheek.
‘You’ve got a visitor, darling,’ I said.
She paid no attention but continued to stare at the screen, making impatient little movements if I got in her line of sight. I was glad to have her so preoccupied, and not whining or snivelling.
Fiona tapped at the door, came in and walked straight across to the bed.
‘Hi, Gran,’ she said, and without any sign of distaste kissed my mother on the mouth, then took her hand and held it.
‘I’m Fiona,’ she said. ‘I’m Jane’s daughter.’
She had slowed her twitter but otherwise might have been talking to any normal person. My mother had begun to make a waving gesture at not being able to see the screen, but slowly turned her head and stared.
‘My dear,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, my dear.’
Tears welled in her rheumy eyes and I thought she was about to begin one of her bouts of silent weeping, but it didn’t happen.
‘Mom sends her love,’ said Fiona.
‘Jane?’ said my mother. She can only have been trying to puzzle out who this girl with the Millett face could be, but Fiona took the question straight.
‘Right,’ she said. ‘Jane’s fine. She’s learnt to fly. Happy as a squirrel all day long.’
She’d speeded up. My mother flicked her hand angrily towards the TV, a much more commanding gesture than her usual feeble fidgetings. I turned the sound down.
‘What did you say, dear?’ she said. ‘I’m getting a little deaf.’
‘Jane’s very happy. She’s learnt to fly. In an aeroplane.’
‘How lovely. And your name is . . .’
‘Fiona.’
‘Fiona. That’s Scottish. My daughter Jane married a Scot. He took her away. They always do.’
‘Well, I’m Jane’s daughter. And I’ve come back to see you, Gran.’
‘Not Gran. That’s ponsy, darling. I don’t want to hear it again.’
Fiona glanced at me.
‘Granny,’ I mouthed.
‘Right, Granny. I’ll remember.’
‘And you’ve come to stay for a long time? How lovely.’
Full of curiosity, astonishment, admiration and absurd wriggling little jealousies I watched and listened to the almost meaningless repetitions and retracings, a slurry of rotted-down memory from which now and then some new phrase would emerge to show that my mother had partially grasped something Fiona had said, perhaps several sentences ago. Fiona coped with this mode of conversation with perfect composure and sympathy, which was no doubt why she was able to elicit more intelligent responses than I would have been able to—or, I have to admit, would have wished to. In the end, though my mother showed little sign of tiring, I had to butt in.
‘I’ve an appointment at nine,’ I said, ‘and I’ll have to settle her down before that. So I’m afraid . . .’
The vague animation on my mother’s face faded at the sound of my voice.
‘I’ll give you a hand, Aunt Mabs.’
‘Oh, you don’t want to. It’s medicines and ointments for bedsores and other little unpleasantnesses.’
‘You just show me how.’
‘Well, if you’re sure . . .’
So I heaved the old carcase around, and emptied the bag and so on, while Fiona watched. My mother hardly grumbled at all and seemed perfectly happy when we left her propped up and staring at an advertisement for cheap jeans.
Fiona took to visiting my mother daily. It was not a formality. I would have sympathised (could have understood better than I did) if these visits after the first few days had consisted of a quick peck on the cheek, a few ritual phrases about health and weather, and then leaving with the catharsis of duty done. But Fiona would stay for an hour on end because she wanted to. They conversed, not usually as coherently as on that first morning, but even on bad days with something being exchanged to and fro. For all her energy the child had a patience I found unbelievable. I had to assume that it came from the Lowland Scots ancestry of my brother-in-law.