Janet Christie: Mum’s the Word

Youngest Child is ill. Ghost white, she’s shivery then sweating.

Antibiotics are prescribed. By day two they’ve kicked in and she’s perking up, bored and demanding. Juice, snacks, cuddles, Biggie Smalls the cat for squeezing, games (mind/board). But I’ve work to do so she busies herself with “a surprise for you”.

“Can you bring me lentils? Orange. And glue?”

“Please.”

“Please.”

Sigh. Save document, root around, deliver, resume work.

“Can I have those long white gloves?”

“Your grandmother’s silk evening gloves?”

“Yeah.”

“Please.”

“Please.”

Sigh, save, root around. Deliver, resume work.

“Do we have any old chandelier bits?”

“No. The crystal went when the family broke up and we lost the estate, darling.”

“S’ok. Found something.”

Finally alarm bells clang and I storm The Room.

She holds up an interior design treatment. A white silk sofa with fabulous lentil arms, plastic crystal keyring chandelier, leopard print wallpaper.

“That is brilliant!” I trill. It really is. Then, on the coffee table, a long oyster silk glove splays, minus three fingers, mutilated.

“Aw. I was saving those for when my life takes a turn for the better,” I say.

“Yeah. Like that’s ever going to happen, snort.”

She’s better.