Six Days

Six days left, and I wish there was more time to stop and think, but it’s so busy. I’ve just ironed for two hours without stopping, while trying to work out a budget with my son; now my back hurts, and we’re both a bit frazzled. Halfway through our discussions he asks me how much his big brother was given when he started university, and I have to admit that it was a lot more “…but, you know…” He sighs, “yes, I know”. He’s very good - he has been all along. Despite the jokes, despite annoying the crap out of me quite a lot of the time, he’s a really nice person.

It was actually him, not me, who got the postcard: a confused, rambling message that began “ I just wanted to say thanks for knowing me”. Mainly he was worried that it was a suicide note, and I think, considering how awful it was here, in the months leading up to the big dramatic departure and divorce last year, that’s quite nice of him.

The money questions came afterwards , and I’ve tried so hard to reassure them both. I say “don’t worry either of you – we will get through this” and I sat them down and explained about mental illness, and how there’s nothing we can do – how he’s far away, and how we tried to help in the past – but we might never know, so we will just have to get on with things. And we have.

There’s enough in the accounts to keep us going for a while. No one will starve. It’s still a bit dicey though – more than I’ve let on. I’ll have to sell this house fast – really fast. No hanging about waiting for the spring now, no new bathrooms to make it look better. James, who does the pool, is going to come over and fix a few things here and there – he’s very kind and he won’t rip me off – he knows all about our situation - that I don’t have the funds to be ripped off. Anyway, as I keep telling everyone - we’re not really poor – we’re a million times better off than loads of people. I’m trying to keep the worrying to a minimum until everyone’s gone.

The key thing will be if I can sell the house – it costs a fortune to run because it’s quite big. I’ll be okay once I’ve done that. Then I don’t really know – I’ll buy a house for my sons, so they’ll always have somewhere whatever happens, and I don’t quite know what else – that’s as far as I’ve got for the moment.

I’ll have quite a bit left over. I want to give some to Marnie; she’s very poor, and even worse with money than I am. She told me, when David died, that she nearly lost the cottage, but friends stepped in. She said they formed a group and called themselves the consortium, like some bad seventies TV serial – but I think mostly that’s all gone now, and they must be getting on themselves too. I hope she’ll accept help – I mean I hope she won’t feel I’m pitying her or anything, because I’m not, I just don’t think it’s fair that she has no one to do things like that for her. It’s not what was supposed to happen.

I have no idea where I’ll go – none at all. I did think … I thought we would perhaps.. but it doesn’t seem as if that’s going to happen now. Marnie thinks if I go over there and just put my foot down, it will. Every time she phones me she says I must go, and then everything will be all right. I keep telling her I will, but I don’t know – sometimes I think – sometimes I’m not sure – sometimes, like today, I think perhaps I won’t go. I don’t think I’m in quite the right mood to go there, where I feel so good, where it’s so comfortable, where I’m so at home – and then have to look him in the eye while he slowly shakes his head and says he doesn’t think so. I’m not sure I want to go through that.

Anyway – I have twelve days after my son’s left to decide. Today, and next week will be all about more ironing, and packing and money. I’ll work the rest out afterwards.