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‘Your mother’s not stupid, Pat.’ Dad scowls at me. ‘Oxford educated, same as me, you know?’ He turns to Judith, adjusting his Magdalen tie.
‘No-one’s saying either of you is stupid,’ I snap. For God’s sake, I want to shout, where’s the working-class socialist historian, pulling all this Oxbridge crap?
Judith fixes us with a look of infinite patience. ‘Perhaps some help with the shopping?’
I sink back into the chaise longue. Can’t this idiot woman see the dynamic here? My father with severe heart failure, barely able to move around the house, refusing to admit defeat. Mum, once glamorous faculty wife, anxious and shrivelled to half her size. The way this Judith takes everything they say at face value. Are these the only old people denying their neediness?
The room closes in on us, ivy encroaching on the stuck sash windows. The heavy closeness of the day intensifies in here, the stale air musty, a hint of rotting food. My determination to get them some help is disappearing in a wave of hopelessness and lurking depression. I just want to get out of this house that has been a symbol of my claustrophobic isolation since we moved here from North London when I was twelve.
‘Well, I must say you are managing very well, Clari,’ Judith pauses to smile at them both individually, ‘and David.’
I shrink from the idea of butting in. Have I given up already?
Judith shifts to face me. ‘I think we can look at a home carer, perhaps a couple of sessions a week?’ she says, as if in confidence.
‘I’m sorry,’ Mum still not missing a trick. ‘I didn’t catch that.’
Judith turns back to them. ‘We’ll have one of our support workers call in twice a week. A bit of help with the shopping, advise you on the cooking, that kind of thing.’
The way she puts it, it’s a fait-accompli and I have to admire her skill: neither of my parents say a thing. Perhaps she realises the main thing is to get in, the care can always be increased later.
Judith moves seamlessly to the knotty subject of finance. There will be a visit from the financial assessment team.
‘But, surely it’s free of charge?’ Mum’s impeccably posh voice is incredulous.
Judith explains that it’s means-tested. ‘We don’t, of course, take the value of your home into account.’
She looks around, as if only now taking in the relative grandeur of the shabby room. It’s too much for them, this Georgian pile. But this won’t be the moment to be mentioning downsizing.
‘All those years of paying the rates, do you know what we pay on a house like this?’ Mum barks.
‘It will all be taken into consideration.’ Judith packs her clipboard into her canvas briefcase.
‘And quite right too,’ Dad says. ‘It’s called redistribution, remember, Clari? If we want everything free, we should pay more tax. Can’t have it both ways.’ Only my dad could make a socialist argument forcharging for elderly care and I can’t help but love him for it.
‘I thought you were all for taxing the bankers, not raiding old people’s life savings,’ Mum argues.
‘Bankers. Inherited wealth. The lot.’
‘When you think how I lost all that money,’ Mum whimpers.
Judith stands up, evidently not interested in their argument.
‘I’ll get the OT to come and see about some adaptations. But you might want to consider moving to somewhere smaller.’ Judith looks pointedly around the room. ‘It would make life easier and realise a lot of capital.’
‘For you to get your hands on,’ Mum starts.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ Judith makes for the door.
‘We are not selling the house, whatever shethinks,’ Mum says.
‘While I have breath, I’ll wipe my own arse,’ Dad adds, almost simultaneously.
I set the tray down on the coffee table and pour them both some tea.
‘I don’t think you realise how difficult things are for me and your father,’ Mum says as I pass the plate of Sainsbury’s Basic shortbreads. I get a whiff of BO from Mum and wonder when that suit last went to the cleaners.
‘Why do you think I’m trying to get you some help?’ I complain, setting the knitted cosy back on the pot. ‘You heard what the social worker said, you’re going to have some home-care. Now let’s talk about something else before I have to go back.’
