Brenda fixed a large sprig of holly behind ‘The Return after Balaclava’ in the hall. She stood down from the chair as the doctor came down the stairs and stood back to let him into the sitting room and followed, closing over the door. It was getting dark and the lights on the tree looked pathetic in a room that hadn’t been decorated for years, and, now that Brenda was the only one of the family at home, the room was used only at Christmas. She turned on the light and spoke first.
“She’s failing."
“I’m afraid she is," the doctor replied.
“How long do you think?"
“It’s hard to say, but I’d be surprised if it’s more than a week or two, but you know what a strong-willed woman she is. If she decides to hold on it could be longer."
Brenda shut the door.
“Do you think she knows?"
“She must know this will be her last Christmas. She said something about Ted coming."
“That’s my youngest brother. The last time we heard from him was a card from Sydney, Australia, eight years ago. We don’t know if he’s alive or dead, but she’s never given up hope. Every Christmas she expects him to walk in and surprise us."
“How long has be been in Australia?"
“We don’t know if he is in Australia. About six months before the card arrived he had gone to England. After two weeks he ‘phoned and we’ve heard nothing from him since apart from the card. We tried all the usual channels and Frank, my eldest brother, went to Sydney five or six years ago. For ten days he tried everything and could find no trace, but mother still thinks he’ll come home."
Brenda went ahead of the doctor into the hall and let him out. She took the scraps of holly from the hall-table to the kitchen and went upstairs to the bedroom.
“The doctor says that all things considered you’re not so bad."
Her mother whispered out loud, with a break for intake of breath:
“The cheek of him, what does he mean, ‘all things considered’?"
“Well you are eighty-six, and you have had two heart attacks."
“Eighty-five, dear – and one heart attack."
“Two, mother, I’ve told you before; the last turn you had was a heart attack."
Immediately Brenda regretted her tone of voice; directness was a habit she had developed over the years to counter the ‘forgetfulness’ her mother used as a device to get her own way.
A gust of wind drove spatters of rain against the window. Brenda pulled the curtains and turned on the bedside lamp. It dimmed everything else in the room, leaving her mother and the upper half of her bed in a cosy pool of light. Since leaving work three years previously to look after her full-time Brenda oscillated between resentment at having to give up her job and a sense of satisfaction that she was doing her duty. Her resentment was not at having to look after her mother, but rather at the presumption of the others in the family that she was the one who would do it.
Brenda lifted her mother up and settled her pillows. Even that exhausted her and she could feel her laboured breathing.
“Thank you, dear."
She was unfailingly polite, which had always made it harder to resist her constant demands, but now she was not so demanding, using most of her energy to stay alive.
“I’m going to make you some scrambled egg."
“Just a little, please."
The old lady closed her eyes; Brenda was grateful she was not in pain. She straightened the sheet under her chin and went downstairs, hoping she would last until Christmas for the sake of the family. But this year she wouldn’t sit at the head of the table directing everything, as she had done for as long as Brenda could remember.
The scrambled egg and slice of toast looked sparse on the tray, and yet Brenda knew her mother wouldn’t finish it; on principle she always left something. She put the tray on the bed table, pulled it over and took the teapot onto the bedside cabinet.
“When will the doctor be here?" her mother asked.
“He’s already been."
“Oh."
“He says you’re doing fine but you must keep your strength up by eating."
Over the days approaching Christmas, physically her mother seemed to hold her own, but mentally she became more confused.
In the past it was always:
“Ted might surprise us this Christmas," or “If Ted comes this Christmas we’ll have a party for him."
None of them dared say more than:
“You’d never know" or “Good idea."
His siblings didn’t even talk among themselves about the possibility that Ted might have died, which was in fact less difficult for them to accept than that he was out there somewhere and wanted to cut off from them completely. When Frank had gone to Australia their hopes were tempered by the fear that he might trace Ted and find that he didn’t want to know, or maybe discover he was in prison serving a long sentence.
The thing they agonised over most was what it was in Ted’s childhood that might have made him a person who would want to disappear, but they couldn’t come up with anything.
Ted was the ‘afterthought’ of the family and only four when his father died; not only did his mother spoil him, but his brothers and sisters did too. He was bright, but dropped out of school early against everybody’s advice, and after a couple of dead-end jobs he went to England. In the early years they all thought he would turn up but, as the years passed, hope faded. After Frank drew a blank in Australia, apart from his mother, they had only a dim hope that any of them would ever see him again.
Brenda’s mother’s deteriorating condition dampened the run up to Christmas, and at one stage they thought of moving the day to Maura’s house for the sake of the grandchildren, but decided against it. It would have upset the old lady and none of them would have relished having to explain to her that the excitement might not have been good for her. All their lives they had accommodated themselves to what she expected, as the easiest thing to do in the long run. If they did stand up to her or defy her she made life intolerable for days and sometimes even longer, by a combination of sulking, sarcasm and silence.
On the afternoon of the third day before Christmas Brenda brought her mother a piece of steamed plaice for lunch. As she put the tray on her bed table her mother half sat up, turned her head slowly and looked her straight in the eye:
“When Ted arrives tell him to come up immediately, I want to talk to him."
“Mother, Ted won’t be coming home this Christmas."
She squared her jaw.
“Yes he will, I know he will."
“What makes you so sure?"
“He’ll come because I’m not well."
“I hope then you’ll ask him where he’s been," Brenda said, not knowing how compos mentis her mother was, and playing along a little, feeling that feeding her fantasy could do no harm. There was a slight hesitation and then her mother said:
“Australia, of course."
She lay back on the pillow.
“You can ask him too why he hasn’t been in touch for so long?" Brenda said light heartedly. She thought she might hear why her mother thought Ted had disappeared."
“You know why Ted went," she said, “but since none of you will tell me, I’ll ask him. He’ll tell me. Whatever it was that went on between you all, you’ll have to be kind to him."
This was the first intimation Brenda had that her mother believed something had gone on between Ted and the rest of the family that accounted for his not coming home.
Brenda opened her mother’s napkin and tucked it into the neck of her nightdress. As she arranged her pillows and sat her up her mother said matter-of-factly:
“What I really want to tell him is that I’m leaving him the house." Brenda felt a weakness in her knees and sat down.
“What house?"
“This house of course, dear"
Brenda allowed herself to feel what she had sublimated during the previous three years; real anger. It came in waves. She sat and watched her mother lying back on the pillows, chewing slowly. Brenda’s mind became clouded; she was consumed with what she tried to convince herself was anger and not hatred. She watched her sit forward slightly and take a morsel of fish precariously onto her fork. Just before it reached her mouth it fell. She fumbled for it down her front and looked to Brenda for help. Brenda stood up, found it and left it on the side of her plate. Without a word, she secured a piece of fish on the fork and handed it to her mother. Her anger began to subside. She sat down and withdrew into a haze in her mind that partly obscured her mother from her. She could remember her in her prime, in total control managing and manipulating all of them. She had been a good mother, but on her terms, but by the time Ted was born she had mellowed. Although she never lost the ability to get her own way, in recent years many of the habits of a lifetime had become empty and irritating rituals.
The old lady put down her fork, pushed her plate forward on the tray and lay back. Brenda folded her napkin and took away the bed table.
“Will I plump your pillows?"
“No, thank you dear, they’re fine"
She closed her eyes, and Brenda took the tray and went downstairs. She washed the dishes and made tea. Taking a cup upstairs, she found her fast asleep and did not disturb her. In the evening Frank called on his way home from work. His mother said nothing to him about Ted and he didn’t stay long.
During the week before Christmas Brenda’s mother had rambled more often than she was coherent. She mentioned names of people who were long since dead; her husband and Stephen her favourite brother, but there was no further mention of Ted. On Christmas Eve the doctor came and found no deterioration in the old lady since his last visit. His prognosis was much the same: there would be no long term, but it was impossible to say how soon.
The family kept Christmas Day as normal as possible; Frank and his family came for lunch, and the others came during the afternoon. Each of the adults went up in turn to see their mother, but she didn’t mention to any of them her expectation that Ted would come home for Christmas. They kept her informed about what was going on, but most of the time she dozed and wasn’t with them. They observed all of the family rituals, but there was a cloud over everything. They all left early except Maura who stayed to help with the clearing up and she volunteered to stay the night.
When the others had gone Brenda and Maura settled their mother and cleared the debris downstairs. They revived the fire and sat in the half-light of the Christmas tree lights. There was an exaggerated stillness after the activity of the day, and there was a quietness between them.
“I hear she was sure that Ted would come." Maura said.
“Yes, and what’s more she said the rest of us knew all along why he stayed away. So she believed all those years that there was a conspiracy between us."
“And she never said a word."
Maura and Brenda sat in silence gazing into the fire, and through it Brenda looked into the past and searched around for any situation in which her mother was not in control. She could find only one: Ted’s disappearance. Even now the house revolved around her without her saying a word or knowing much about it for they had organised the day as she would have wanted. Totally dependent and not entirely with them, she was still in control, though it couldn’t be for much longer. Brenda pictured her laid out in her bed upstairs and went over the funeral in her mind. Then despite having done it a thousand times before, she thought of all the reasons that Ted might have cut off from them all. She couldn’t believe that if the worst had happened somebody wouldn’t have traced the family and let them know.
The shrill penetration of the door-bell shattered the silence and sent a shock wave through Brenda. Maura jumped. Neither of them spoke but looked at each other for a second. They both got up and went out to the hall. Brenda hesitated and went towards the door.
“Ask who it is."
She stopped.
Through the door she said: “Who is it?"
A man’s voice whispered:
“It’s me."
They looked at each other. Neither of them recognised the voice.
“Who?"
The voice came louder.
“It’s me …Frank."
Maura turned back down the hall while Brenda opened the door.
“Sorry, did I frighten you? Sally left her new teddy behind and she won’t go to bed without it."
They found the teddy and Frank went upstairs to see his mother. Brenda followed shortly in case the bell had wakened her. She met Frank coming out onto the landing. He put out his hands and took her hands in his.
“She’s gone." He drew Brenda to him and held her tightly for a moment before they went downstairs to tell Maura.
The following day, when making the arrangements they asked the undertaker to send a copy of the death notice to the Sydney newspapers.