Pink Floyd

“I don’t understand how someone can own that many houses and have to live in the one that gives her pneumonia”

My son is shredding a small envelope as he talks, and I watch as he carelessly lets the pieces float gently down to the floor. I try not to sigh, or think about the kitchen floor, which is by now a perfect challenge to any budding archaeologist. Like an old Roman road suddenly exposed from under layers of tarmac, you could easily sift through the layers to pinpoint the time of Marnie’s leaving and his arrival. It would be good practice.

“She can’t live in the London one because the rent is her income, and then the others...”

There’s another bleep – I don’t think five minutes have gone by since he got home without his phone making a noise, and he looks down, all concentration lost. I’ve tried to explain before, how hard it is for her to let go of things so full of memories, how I think to her it would be like giving up, but I don’t blame him for not understanding, because he’s right about it not actually making sense. He is still young enough to think that everything should be logical – black and white, good and bad.

I leave him to whatever he’s plotting by text, push my chair back, pick up my bag and walk to the front door. I try to look straight ahead, ignore the mess. It’s been five days since he got home and the hallway hasn’t yet been cleared. You can just about walk to the front door still, but either side are black bin bags, their contents spilling out in all directions – books, clothes, towels - and there are four pillows, which is a bit of a mystery since he only took two with him when he left. As I put my coat on, I accidentally dislodge the placard leaning there, and its wooden handle, with the black bandana twisted around it, falls against my leg for about the tenth time.

It’s getting cold again – the snow’s meant to be coming back in the next day or two, and with it more sub-zero temperatures. As I go through the park gates I flick my lights on, even though it’s only two o’clock. It’s hard to believe there are another couple of weeks before the days stop getting shorter. It’s still beautiful here – even on this bleak December afternoon. The trees are all bare now and the sheep huddle miserably under what’s left of the shelter they provide. Past the little lakes, the tiny church, the big house, I have to brake to avoid the elderly couple so wrapped up in their Barbours and tweeds it’s impossible to tell which sex they are. Even the black Labrador with them looks cold and miserable.

As I slide down the little path I mentally rehearse what I’m going to say. We’ve done quite a good job between us so far of not interfering with each other – I’ve seen her stop herself mid-sentence from commenting on how much I eat, and she doesn’t mention him anymore – not since she asked if he’d be coming for the holidays. In return I don’t say anything about the drinking – even though she’s told me it makes her even shakier, and the doctor’s told her to cut down.

I’m still not sure about Christmas shopping with pneumonia though. I nearly said something on the phone – about maybe just giving me a list instead – then I thought the shops would probably be warmer than her cottage, so instead I asked what time she wanted me to come and get her.

I go slowly up the steep muddy driveway. On either side the tall bare branches of the hedge scrape against my car. She’s at the door, and she looks like she’s just walked off the film set for Dr Zhivago, in her big fur hat, and the long alpaca coat I gave her last week. She’s done something to the collar so it sweeps up dramatically at the neck - it looks a million times better on her than it ever did on me. Her face is very pale though, and as she reaches for the black lacquered walking stick I can see her hand is shaking. I waver; where am I meant to draw the line? At which point should I question her judgment? I have no idea if I’m doing the right thing. Then she smiles and says she’s been looking forward to our trip and she wants to hear all about the demonstrations and whether my son’s friends have been arrested yet, and she has something very interesting to tell me about Pink Floyd. I follow her as she walks slowly, in a very stately manner to my car. I haven’t the heart – I’ll save it. Perhaps that way she’ll come back with me when the snow returns.