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Maybe it’s the righteous anger pushing me on, but it doesn’t seem long before I reach the museum. All shut up dead just as before. Maybe it’s all a front for a high-quality skunk farm. Ha! If only.
I stumble across the yard towards the caravan. Feeling a sudden desire for a bit more Dutch courage, though obviously not the Dirk and Else variety. I should have brought them with me – Hi Don, meet some more distant rellies?
My stomach takes a leap at the sight of his bike parked up. Fuck Dutch courage, I’m fuelled enough.
The caravan’s not exactly showing much sign of life, curtains drawn on the little windows. Fuck it, I know you’re there. I bang on the door.
Nothing. I bang again. Put my ear to the door. Not a peep.
I take a step back. Maybe he’s gone out without the bike? But I see his pick-up parked behind the museum. Unless he’s gone for a drink?
I’m about to give up and then I notice smoke coming out of the tiny metal chimney. He is in there, too chicken to let me in. What the fuck does he think I’m going to do to him?
Back to the door, walloping it with my fist.
‘Don, it’s Gethin. Let me in for Christ’s sake!’
Nothing. ‘Fucking hell, I just want to talk. You can’t actually shut me out for no reason.’ I bang again. ‘What the hell have I done? Did I even ask you to write me a letter?’ Bang bang. ‘Fucking tossing bastard. Fucking let me in!’
Nothing. I step back, my head spinning. My fist hurts and my leg aches. Do not believe he could do this to me, feel a great sob convulse through my body. I stagger across the yard and out onto the road.
Home Visit – Pat
Judith the social worker perches on the edge of the lumpy chaise longue, weight poised on the balls of her feet, as if ready for a quick escape. My parents, stiff in their formal clothes, sit either side of the hearth. In between her tick-box questions Judith peers over half-moon glasses, her snub nose wrinkling as she takes in the threadbare Wilton carpet inadequately covered by the Poundstretcher rug; the marble fire surround with the grate filled with toffee wrappers; the cobwebs hanging from the candelabra light fitting.
OK, I want to say, this place has seen better days. But you’re a social worker, for God’s sake. And it’s not as if she’s so immaculate herself, wearing creased draw-string trousers and scuffed Mary-Janes.
‘So, how are we for personal care?’ She tosses her greying bobbed head from side to side at my parents in their winged chairs. Dad frowns and pulls his arms over his chest while Mum’s lips tighten.
Judith taps her clipboard with her pen. ‘No worries with bathing? Paying a visit? Come on, David, no need to be shy.’
Dad takes a sharp breath, straining in his tight shirt. ‘I manage my own ablutions, thank you.’ He pulls at his old Magdalen College tie. Mum said it was pretentious to wear the tie, but he said he didn’t want to be taken for a fool or let his Welsh accent give the wrong impression. Now he tugs it away from his red raw neck, his face puffy with the simple effort of breathing this stuffy air.
‘And would that be your assessment, Clarissa?’ Judith turns to Mum. ‘Is it Clarissa, or do we call you Clari?’ she adds, as if to a toddler.
Now it’s Mum’s turn to flinch before pulling herself upright and glaring her disapproval at the upstart.
‘I’d rather be addressed as Mrs Williams,’ is her haughty reply, and for once I’m with her.
Not that it cuts any ice with Judith. ‘Ah, we like to be more informal nowadays.’
Mum purses her mouth, exaggerating the cracks in her orange lipstick. She has made an effort too, in her pale pink pleated skirt with matching short sleeved jacket. She has lost so much weight lately that her clothes swamp her and the amethyst brooch on her jacket, one of her family heirlooms, is missing a couple of stones. Her dry bare legs are covered in liver spots. I am still not used to seeing her look so vulnerable; haven’t adjusted to the shift in my role with them. Back in the days, when I saw the family as a tool of patriarchal oppression, I kept contact with my parents to the minimum my engrained guilt would allow. Now I can’t imagine abandoning them, however problematic our relationship.
‘My husband is very proud,’ Mum says eventually. ‘He will manage as long as he is able.’
‘Proud, that’s a fine one, Clari, coming from you.’ Dad grips the arms of his chair, his face turning a terrible purple.
‘Dad,’ I lean forward. ‘I know this is hard for you, but your health isn’t good now, you are both going to need some help.’
‘We’ll say OK for personal care.’ Judith ticks her boxes, studiously ignoring me. ‘What about preparing meals?’
Mum fidgets with her rings, loose on her bony fingers. ‘My husband is quite particular about his food, he’s a meat and two veg man, you could say.’ She tosses this statement with a little laugh.
‘None of your foreign muck,’ Dad says, in his liltiest Welsh accent.
‘But Dad’s on a low-fat diet now. You said you need help with this, Mum.’
Mum pushes her rings, wobbling the slack skin of her arms.
