‘Did you have lunch?’ she asked.
‘For goodness sake, Melanie. I was waiting for you.’
‘It’s past five o’clock.’
‘Well, you’re late, aren’t you? I said I’d be watching Countryfile.’
‘I’ll get something ready.’
In the kitchen she wiped down two unmatched cups and saucers. There was no milk. She remembered her mother liked Earl Grey in the afternoon, preferably with a squeeze of lemon. The only lemon she could find was blue and fuzzy. They would do without. But there was a ready meal defrosting on the side so presumably her mother had something planned for this evening. There were ginger biscuits in a tin. She put them on a plate and carried them through with the tea. Then she sat down opposite her mother in the other wing chair.
‘What have you been doing?’ she asked as she poured the tea.
‘The usual. Reading. Watching TV. I meet my friends in the village for coffee. Sometimes I take a walk. And I’ve been sorting out my old costumes. They’re all over the bed in the spare room.’
‘What are you planning to do with them?’ asked Mel.
‘I haven’t decided yet. I might organise an exhibition.’
Had her mother lost all touch with reality? She couldn’t pick up a duster, and now she was organising an exhibition.
‘Maybe you should just take them to the charity shop.’
‘Charity shop? I’m shocked you entertain such a thought. They’re your inheritance.’
‘Sorry, Mum.’
They would have to go of course, like the rest of the clutter. Her mother needed to downsize to somewhere more sensible. It was ridiculous to have four bedrooms and a garden front and back when she lived alone. Mel had never seen the front look so wild. Though it was doubtful whether her mother would agree to leave the house she had lived in for the last fifty years. There was a pause. Mel broke the silence with the thoughts in her head.
‘You should get a cleaner. You could afford it.’
‘Like the one that stole money from me?’
‘It was never proven. Anyway, that was just one. You didn’t get on. They won’t all be like that. Or you might find a nice lodger. Someone who could give you a bit of help for a reduced rent. People are desperate for accommodation.’
‘Ridiculous. I can’t have a lodger.’
‘Well, you can’t go on like this.’
As soon as she said it she wished it unsaid. Why should it matter if her mother lived in mess? It was not Mel’s job to run her life. Why hadn’t she told her mother she looked nice? It shouldn’t be difficult to pay a simple compliment. Just as she was wondering how to temper the mood, Isabel bit back.
‘I’ll die soon then you’ll be happy.’
‘For Chrissake, Mum. I won’t be happy if you die. Anyway, you’re not even eighty. Eighty’s the new sixty.’
‘Who says?’
Her mother’s face darkened. Mel felt the familiar thump of guilt and exasperation.
‘Forgive me, Mum. I shouldn’t criticise. That’s great about the costumes. Good to have a sort out. I’d love to see them again.’
Better to focus on something her mother enjoyed. She had said the right thing at last. ‘Pop upstairs.’ Isabel gave a thin smile. ‘They’re all set out on the bed.’
Mel swallowed her tea, ran upstairs and opened the door to the largest of the three spare rooms: her room, though she had moved out the last of her possessions twenty years ago. The walls were still the pastel pink of her childhood. The furniture was unchanged, the small armchair, the chest of drawers painted white and blue, the traditional, kidney-shaped dressing table with the glass top. One of the walls was lined with fitted cupboards whose mirrored doors had been thrown open. Costumes were packed tight along the rail. Others were piled up on the single bed. It was years since Mel had seen them. Evening dresses in satin, chiffon and velvet, some swathed in plastic bags, power dressing suits from the 1980s. High heeled shoes, many in patent leather, were set out on a rack.
Looking at the clothes and shoes, touching them, she was transported back thirty years, the evenings in front of the TV, the visits to the set, the parties, the wet kisses of the men, the chattering confidence of the women. She remembered the words of her mothers’ friends, ‘You must be so proud of your lovely mother.’ And she had been. Then. What had happened to that pride? Now the costumes only saddened her. The faded remnants of a once-glittering surface. She ran downstairs.
‘Well done, Mum. It’s wonderful to see them.’
Isabel was seated in a low chair. Mel walked towards her, bent down and clasped her hands. Blue veined, age spotted, the knuckles swollen and arthritic, they were nevertheless perfectly manicured. Her mother might have no time or inclination for housework, but she had time to take herself to the beauty shop in the High Street for a spot of pampering. There was something poignant about those pink varnished fingernails which so few people would see. She wore two rings, both gold, a semi-eternity studded with diamonds and emeralds and a ruby set in a circle of diamonds. The rings had belonged to Isabel’s own mother.
Mel looked up at her mother’s face.
‘Your hair’s nice. I meant to say.’
‘Thank you, darling. I’m making a bit of an effort. In fact there is something I haven’t mentioned.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You know that local theatre group, the South London Thespians or whatever they call themselves?’
‘You said you’d have nothing to do with them.’
Her mother was a pro. Amateur theatre was anathema.
‘Well, this is a bit different.’
A mischievous smile lit up her mother’s face. There was an excited glint in her eyes.
‘Why didn’t you tell me when I arrived?’
‘You were too busy criticising my house.’
‘So, what is it? Have you learnt your part?’ Her mother found memorising difficult. The most recent return to acting, a guest appearance in a pantomime, had been a fiasco, with Isabel calling for a prompt on almost every line.
‘There’s nothing to learn. I won’t be treading the boards. I’ll be sitting on a sofa.’
‘Interesting.’
‘It’s a fundraiser. I’m there as a pro. As myself. They’re doing an evening on soaps.’ Her voice dropped as she repeated the word, ‘soaps’ rolling it around her still agile mouth in her best RADA drawl. ‘Horrible word. Canada Row was pure drama. A reflection of life. For many people, it was their life.’
Isabel was sitting up straight now. She appeared to have grown by several inches.
‘Don’t stop. I need to hear the lot,’ said Mel.
Mel was delighted for her mother, though apprehensive lest everything should go wrong again.
‘It’s in that new Community Hall. Hardly my venue of choice but it’s for charity of course, so needs must. Not far from here. Just the wrong side of Dulwich. They’re sending a taxi to pick me up. They’ll do my hair and make-up, though I’ll be wearing my own clothes. I thought I’d dig out something suitable from the collection. They’ll show a few clips from Canada Row and a couple of other dramas. There’ll be a compère chappie interviewing three of us. I’ve no idea who the others are.’