 Dust jacket image reproduced by kind permission of Virago Press
More on this storyPart one: sandwich generation living Don't missThe age of the aunt The rise and rise of daughters Looking after grandchildren
Ask the experts
Meet like-minded people at Saga Zone
|
|
Can't get the staff
In Michele Hanson’s bittersweet Guardian column she describes life with her ailing mother. Tragic and comic, the frail yet brave old lady exercises a power over the three generations who share the same home. These extracts from Living with Mother, a collection of her columns, provide poignant glimpses of life in her dysfunctional household Three GenerationsMy friend Anne is in a tricky position. She is stuck between two rather confusing generations: the teenage son in her home and the very elderly other up the road. Which one is a grown-up? She can never tell. Both need dinners and attention. The mother has nappies and tantrums, the son still needs food supplies and supervision. To his mind he is a grown-up but still needs assistance, especially with the mass catering, laundry and bed and breakfast facilities when his friends come to visit.
What luck that her mother lives up the road. In our house my mother and daughter are crammed into the same premises. A teenager is a difficult creature to understand, especially from two generations away, so naturally things have been rather tense here, what with three generations of problems. Exams and romance, finance and household drudgery, arthritis and angina have all taken their toll and our home is now a tinderbox.
We all desperately need a holiday but how? Easy enough for my daughter, free as a bird. She is off to Greece, but my mother's requirements are more complex: no stairs, charming company, full-time attendant, high-quality cuisine and fresh air.
Luckily she is able to escape on a mini holiday and so am I. She visits Ruislip, my childhood home, where my very old friend Jacqueline has her to stay. What a friend! She attends to my mother's every need for five days and provides visitors, delightful garden, home-grown produce and constant chat. My mother has a tremendous holiday. Five days without the rows, shrieking, vile language, tantrums, dribbling barking dog, streams of teenage visitors and layers of mess that makes life in our house a hell on earth. Meanwhile I am off for three days to the country with the dog. Bliss.
No wonder my mother looks tremendously well upon my return, her complexion glowing, her ankles slim, her mood light-hearted and optimistic. But once back in town her decline is rapid. The ankles swell, her strength and vitality go, and she retreats glumly to her bedroom. As night falls, troops of large and hulking visitors tramp past her door on the way to Granddaughter’s room to do God know’s what.
My mother cannot rest. She knows that cigarettes are being smoked, the larder is emptying, the debris piling up and her grandchild hurtling down the road to ruin.
But all is not drear. Sometimes things lighten up in our house. One day Granddaughter behaves perfectly. She tidies, she washes up, she makes tea, she does homework, she bans visitors. But my mother cannot adapt to this sudden change. She cannot praise her grandchild. "About bloody time too," she snaps, stamping into the garden.
Naturally my daughter is disappointed. "Why is Grandma always horrid to me?" she cries and runs weeping to her room. My mother grumps about the garden, my daughter sobs upstairs. I find that on these occasions I tend to play football with the dog.
Staff We now have a huge staff in our house, mainly appointed and needed by my mother: the homecare ladies to help with baths, the cleaning lady, physiotherapist, hairdresser, mobile library lady and last week the builders as well for a mystery damp patch in the kitchen. The house is often mobbed with people. Sometimes my mother is thrilled, but sometimes she is displeased.
Obviously, with so many people in and out, some may not come up to scratch and there are bound to be mistakes made, so my mother keeps a sharp lookout for anyone slacking. She is the Faultfinder General, patrolling the premises: that pan is not gleaming, this person is late, that person's tea break is too long, no one should be having a tea break anyway, that person has tramped mud, this fellow smells of smoke.
This morning I hear a roar of temper from the kitchen. A member of staff has used a two-cup tea bag in one cup and then thrown it away! My mother is incensed and her tea is too strong, and Hairdresser is two hours late! But why should Hairdresser hurry? She is agoraphobic and paid flumpence.
"Why not give her a bonus for arriving on time?" I beg my mother. Not a hope in hell. By her standards, circa 1950, Hairdresser's wages are reasonable. And now we need the windows cleaning. They have not been cleaned for six years and why not? The cleaners are too expensive, bound to be casing the joint and will return to rob us later. But I have found a new one, recommended by Rosemary.
"Only thirty pounds the whole house," I shout. "A bargain!" "Daylight robbery," shouts my mother.
Sometimes, when standards are unbearably low, my mother demands a sacking. And who is to do it? Me. But it's too late. Even if they were trailing filth through by the cartload or throwing tea bags away in handfuls I couldn't sack anyone, because by now I know all about them: the crack-addict son, the wastrel husband, the arthritis, holiday plans, vets' bills, financial struggle, high blood pressure, hopes and terrors.
So when my mother isn't looking I hand out extra wages, tea breaks, praises – anything to make working conditions here more bearable. It can't be too bad. No one has resigned yet. In one corner of north London, jobs are still for life.
Looking for thingsThe other day someone asked Olivia what she did. "I look for things," she said, because that's what she spends most of her life doing. Olivia spent the whole of Saturday looking for £60, which she had stuck down the side of her shoe, which she thought would be more sensible than putting it down somewhere, forgetting where she'd put it, and then having to look for it. She couldn't put it in her purse because she didn't know where her purse was, and didn't have time to find it.
Anyway, the £60 disappeared. It must have fallen out of her shoe. Olivia searched everywhere she thought she'd been with the shoe on and, as she had tidied the front garden, she had to look indoors, outdoors and through all the garden rubbish...but she never found it.
I suspect Olivia has too much on her plate: gruelling job, new grandchild, the house being decorated, the extra shopping in 50-acre furniture warehouses. When one is exhausted, in demand, overworked and over 50, things tend to get lost, then we have to look for them in this room, that room, upstairs, downstairs and under all the piles of crapola that have mushroomed, because there isn't the time to tidy them, because we are spending the bulk of our lives looking for things.
Poor Fielding once spent 36 hours looking for a Van Morrison ticket, which he had placed in a book for safekeeping. He searched every page of every book he owned, hurled his books about, wrecked his house, found long-lost bills, O-level and birth certificates, but no ticket. Three months too late he found it in a Martin Amis.
Last night I lost a letter, my mother's TV guide, the cello resin, my reading glasses and my mind, because there is only so much searching, grovelling and screaming one can do before one is hot and faint with fatigue and rage and ready to crack up.
"This is why retired people live in bungalows," says Rosemary. But even in her flat, she is still forever losing her purse, keys and phone numbers on bits of paper. This week, chez nous we lost the peeler, strainer, bottle opener, Daughter’s glasses, keys, cash card and passport. But at least I found last night's letter. It was stuck under the dinner tray, hiding. With what remained of my mind.
* Living With Mother by Michele Hanson is published by Virago Press at £9.99. Order it now for £8.99 by phoning 0800 904 7216 including free p&p through Saga Books.
This article was created: 18 October 2006.
This article was last edited: 15 February 2007.
 Email  Back to top
|
