started to drone: ‘
Povee veetre na-a Ukrainou
… Is beautiful song of love from my country.
De zalishil yah-ah-ah
…’
The other patients were craning in their beds to see what the racket was. Then the pink-tie doctor came up to the bedside consulting his notes. He looked hardly out of his teens, with tousled hair and long pointed shoes that needed a polish.
‘Are you Mr … er … Lukashenko?’
This was not the time to go into the complexities of Mother’s marital history.
‘No. I’m her son. Berthold Sidebottom.’
For some ignorant people, the name Sidebottom is a cause of mirth. The teen-doctor was one of those. In fact Sidebottom is an ancient Anglo-Saxon location name meaning ‘broad valley’, originating, it is believed, from a village in Cheshire.
The doctor smirked behind his hand, straightened his tie and explained that my mother had atrial fibrillation. ‘I asked her how many she smokes. Her heart isn’t in good shape,’ he said in a low voice.
‘What did she say?’
‘She said first of March, 1932.’
‘That’s her birthday. She was eighty-two recently. I’m not sure how many she smokes, she keeps it secret – doesn’t want to set me a bad example.’
The teen-doctor scratched behind his ear. ‘We’d better keep her in for a few days, Mr … er … Lukashenko.’ He glanced down at his notes.
‘Sidebottom. Lukashenko was her husband.’
‘Mr Sidebottom. Hum. Have you noticed any variation in her behaviour recently? Any forgetfulness, for example?’
‘Variation? Forgetfulness? I couldn’t say.’ I myself have found that a bit of selective amnesia can be helpful in coping
with the vicissitudes of life. ‘Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety,’ I said.
To my embarrassment, my eyes filled with tears. I thought back over the years I’d lived in the flat at the top of Madeley Court with my mother, assorted husbands and lovers, the politics, the sweet sherry, the parrot. In my recollection, she’d rambled a bit at the best of times, but the core of her had been steadfast as a rock. ‘Shakespeare,’ I said. The teen-doctor looked miffed, as if I’d been trying to get one up on him, so I added, ‘When you live with someone, you don’t always notice the changes. They hap-pen so gradually.’
‘You still live with your mother?’
I detected a note of derision in his callow voice. Probably he was too wet behind the ears to understand how suddenly everything you take for granted can fall apart. You can reach half a century in age, you can have some modest success in your profession, you can go through life with all its ups and downs – mainly the latter, in my case – and still end up living with your mother. One day it could even happen to you, clever Dr Pointy-toes. People come and go in your life but your mother’s always there – until one day she isn’t any more. I was filled with regret for all the times I’d been irritated with her or taken her for granted.
‘Yes. We sup-port each other.’ My old stutter was spluttering into life. Must be the stress.
Mum had slipped further down the bed. Her breathing was laboured. A frail filament of saliva glimmered between her open lips like a reminder of the transience of life. She let out a shuddering moan, ‘First of March, 1932!’ The filament snapped.
The doctor dropped his voice to a murmur. ‘Of course we’ll do all we can, but I think she may not be with us very long.’
Panic seized me. Big questions raced into my mind and took
up fisticuffs with each other. How long was very long? Why did this have to happen to her just now? Why did it have to happen to me? Had I been a satisfactory son? How would I manage without her? What would happen to the parrot? What would happen to the flat?
The teen-doctor moved away and the ward sister sailed up, shapely and black, a starched white cap riding like a clipper on the dark sea of her curls. ‘We need to change her catheter now. Can you
Povee veetre na-a Ukrainou
… Is beautiful song of love from my country.
De zalishil yah-ah-ah
…’
The other patients were craning in their beds to see what the racket was. Then the pink-tie doctor came up to the bedside consulting his notes. He looked hardly out of his teens, with tousled hair and long pointed shoes that needed a polish.
‘Are you Mr … er … Lukashenko?’
This was not the time to go into the complexities of Mother’s marital history.
‘No. I’m her son. Berthold Sidebottom.’
For some ignorant people, the name Sidebottom is a cause of mirth. The teen-doctor was one of those. In fact Sidebottom is an ancient Anglo-Saxon location name meaning ‘broad valley’, originating, it is believed, from a village in Cheshire.
The doctor smirked behind his hand, straightened his tie and explained that my mother had atrial fibrillation. ‘I asked her how many she smokes. Her heart isn’t in good shape,’ he said in a low voice.
‘What did she say?’
‘She said first of March, 1932.’
‘That’s her birthday. She was eighty-two recently. I’m not sure how many she smokes, she keeps it secret – doesn’t want to set me a bad example.’
The teen-doctor scratched behind his ear. ‘We’d better keep her in for a few days, Mr … er … Lukashenko.’ He glanced down at his notes.
‘Sidebottom. Lukashenko was her husband.’
‘Mr Sidebottom. Hum. Have you noticed any variation in her behaviour recently? Any forgetfulness, for example?’
‘Variation? Forgetfulness? I couldn’t say.’ I myself have found that a bit of selective amnesia can be helpful in coping
with the vicissitudes of life. ‘Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety,’ I said.
To my embarrassment, my eyes filled with tears. I thought back over the years I’d lived in the flat at the top of Madeley Court with my mother, assorted husbands and lovers, the politics, the sweet sherry, the parrot. In my recollection, she’d rambled a bit at the best of times, but the core of her had been steadfast as a rock. ‘Shakespeare,’ I said. The teen-doctor looked miffed, as if I’d been trying to get one up on him, so I added, ‘When you live with someone, you don’t always notice the changes. They hap-pen so gradually.’
‘You still live with your mother?’
I detected a note of derision in his callow voice. Probably he was too wet behind the ears to understand how suddenly everything you take for granted can fall apart. You can reach half a century in age, you can have some modest success in your profession, you can go through life with all its ups and downs – mainly the latter, in my case – and still end up living with your mother. One day it could even happen to you, clever Dr Pointy-toes. People come and go in your life but your mother’s always there – until one day she isn’t any more. I was filled with regret for all the times I’d been irritated with her or taken her for granted.
‘Yes. We sup-port each other.’ My old stutter was spluttering into life. Must be the stress.
Mum had slipped further down the bed. Her breathing was laboured. A frail filament of saliva glimmered between her open lips like a reminder of the transience of life. She let out a shuddering moan, ‘First of March, 1932!’ The filament snapped.
The doctor dropped his voice to a murmur. ‘Of course we’ll do all we can, but I think she may not be with us very long.’
Panic seized me. Big questions raced into my mind and took
up fisticuffs with each other. How long was very long? Why did this have to happen to her just now? Why did it have to happen to me? Had I been a satisfactory son? How would I manage without her? What would happen to the parrot? What would happen to the flat?
The teen-doctor moved away and the ward sister sailed up, shapely and black, a starched white cap riding like a clipper on the dark sea of her curls. ‘We need to change her catheter now. Can you
Similar Books
Unwelcome Bodies
Jennifer Pelland
Conspiracy Theory
Jane Haddam
Book 03 - Cold Copper Tears
Glen Cook
Rainbow Hill
Alex Carreras
Paige's Warriors (Bondmates Book 3)
Ann Mayburn
The Devil You Know: A Novel
Elisabeth de Mariaffi
Operation Honshu Wolf
Addison Gunn
