And what of Mrs Ratski in all this? She was the most pitiable figure. Within the space of three months she, who had been a vigorous, determined old woman, had been reduced to an invalid. And her mind and character had subtly changed also, Slavek noticed. The strong, wise matriarch whom everyone in the family looked to for guidance had gone, and a whining, querulous old woman he did not recognise had slipped into her place.
Mrs Ratski was turning in on herself more and more each day. Her thoughts seemed to be centred entirely upon her colostomy. She spent hours muttering to herself, picking and poking at the bag. The old lady who had been the strength of her family throughout decades of war, suffering and foreign domination; who had survived a prison camp; with all her strength, all her resolution to get to England; all that she had endured in hospital; everything was reduced to a pinpoint of focused attention – her colostomy.
There was no doubt that her mind was slipping away from her. She could not understand where she was or why she was there. Probably the acute illness, the anaesthetic, and the drugs had affected her mind, however, the cultural isolation must have had something to do with it, too. The language everyone around her was speaking confused and bewildered her. But it may be – in fact it probably was – that her brain cells, together with all the other cells in her body, were growing older day by day, week by week, and dying, as all living things must die.
One can hope that she was losing her mind, because it would have been a merciful release from loneliness. She had lost all that was familiar, her home, her daughter Olga and grandchildren, her friends, her country and the rhythm of her life, her language and her Church. Everyone around her was doing things to her that she could not understand. No one, apart from Slavek, showed her any love, and she loved no one. The hope must be that senile dementia was laying its kindly hand on her mind, inducing confusion and forgetfulness. Awareness and remembrance of loss would have been more cruel.
The year was drawing to its close, and the nurse was behind the screens tending Mrs Ratski when a quarrel erupted between the young couple.
Karen unexpectedly said: ‘I’ve decided to take the girls to my mother’s for Christmas.’
‘Why?’ asked Slavek guardedly, although he already knew the answer.
‘I can’t face Christmas here, with your mother in the room.
How can I put up a Christmas tree and hang paper chains? We can’t have presents under the tree and a nice Christmas dinner in there; I can’t invite people in. No, we’re going to Mum’s this year. I’ve told the girls and they are looking forward to it. You can come, if you like.’
‘But your parents don’t really like me. They won’t want me for Christmas.’
‘Well, you can please yourself. Mum says you’ll be welcome if you want to join us.’
‘But I can’t leave my mother here on her own!’
‘It’s not my responsibility. I’m doing what I think is best for the girls. I want them to have a good Christmas.’
He became angry.
‘How can it be a “good Christmas” if you take them away from their father? That’s not goodness, that’s selfishness.’
‘Don’t you call me selfish! I want—’
He butted in before she could finish the sentence.
‘I remember when I was a boy, my grandfather died in our home. It was Christmas time, and all the family were there. We were children, and we just accepted it. We all played, and had a “good” Christmas.’
‘Don’t you keep reminding me of how you were brought up! Peasants, that’s what you were, peasants. No wonder my mother doesn’t like you! Well, I’m not a peasant, thank you very much. I was properly brought up, and I’m going to see to it that my girls are, too.’
‘I don’t know what your “proper upbringing” means, if it means denying the girls their grandmother. And she is their grandmother. And they are not just your girls. They are my girls too.’
‘She’s not like a grandmother. She doesn’t do things with them. She can’t take them out or play with them like grannies do. She just sits there, muttering and mumbling, and poking that “thing”. I can’t stand it any longer, all the washing and trying to get it dry, in this weather. And the smell! I can’t stand it any more. However much I wash, it’s still there. The nurse says if she didn’t keep poking at that “thing” it wouldn’t leak and the bed wouldn’t get dirty, but she won’t stop. She keeps poking and picking, and I can’t stand it, I tell you, I can’t stand it!’
Karen had worked herself up into a hysterical frenzy and was sobbing. Slavek put his arm around her and she became calmer.
‘Why doesn’t she die, Slav? Why can’t she just die? That’s what she wanted. That’s what she came here for.’
‘I know. I’ve thought about it a lot. She nearly died that morning in August. But we called the doctors, and now she’s alive, and can’t seem to die.’
‘If only I hadn’t gone to the phone box.’
‘You only did what you thought was right. I did worse. I signed the consent for operation form.’
‘Why did you?’
‘Well, there wasn’t really any time to think. There was a sort of pressure to sign. No one said anything, but it was expected of me, so I did.’
He brooded gloomily for a while, and neither of them spoke. Karen could see his unhappiness and felt sorry for her outburst. She squeezed his hand, and saw his manliness crumble into tears that he tried to hide.
‘If I had known what was going to happen,’ he continued, ‘I would never have let them do it to her. But I didn’t know. How could I?’
‘If you had refused to give consent for the operation, would it have made any difference, do you think?’
He thought for a bit, and wiped his eyes and blew his nose.
‘No, I’m not sure that it would. I think they would have operated anyway.’
‘Then you can’t blame yourself.’
‘But I do. I feel guilty all the time. Guilty because I’ve made life hell for her, and guilty because I’ve made life hell for you.’
‘Is it wicked of me to wish that she had died last August, Slavek?’
‘I don’t think so. Death is natural. It comes to us all.’
‘Can she go back to Latvia?’
‘I can’t see how. How could we get her there?’
‘She’ll have to go into a home of some sort.’
‘That’s what I’m beginning to think. I didn’t want it, but I can’t see any alternative.’
Slavek and Karen discussed it with the district nurse who made enquiries. Two local council-run old peoples’ homes were full and agreed to put Mrs Ratski on a waiting list, but warned that it might be a year or two before a place became available. They could enquire about private nursing homes in the area, but were told that Mrs Ratski would upset the other residents.
Christmas came. As soon as the school holidays started, Karen took the girls to her mother’s. Slavek was left alone with his mother. He attended to her physical needs, and the district nurse called as before. Then Karen decided to stay with her mother – Slavek was devastated. He was lonely and missed his little girls most dreadfully. On Christmas Eve he got drunk and slept for two days, with a couple of bottles of vodka by his bed.
He was awakened by repeated banging on the front door. He staggered downstairs, unkempt, unshaven, and wrapped in a blanket. It was the district nurse.
‘What’s been happening? I tried to get in this morning. I saw your bike was here, but you didn’t answer, and I knocked and knocked.’
‘What time is it?’ His voice was slurred.
‘It’s four o’clock. I haven’t seen your mother for days. Has she been away with you?’