Vic o’Bradford

“Hi, Mum!”

“Oh….. hello, John. I’m planting a tree.”

“Really? Sure you should be digging?”

“Yes, in short doses,” she replied, “old Mrs. Hennessy brought it for me.”

“‘Here you are, Agnes’, she said, ‘this’ll keep you busy.’”

“Isn’t it time you gave all this up, Mother?”

‘Oh, not again. I know what he’s after,’ she thought.

“Oh, not yet, Dear. It’ll take ten years for this to mature.”

John adopted his executive tone:

“Yes, but I do find it difficult to visit you twice a week.”

She smiled benignly at him.

“You’re so good, John. I always love to see you.”

“But I mean the expense, really,” he continued, more firmly.

Her eyebrows were raised:

“You’re not short of money, Son?”

“Not exactly, but it is thirty miles, you know.”

“Well, once a week would do, John.”

He adopted his executive tone:

“Yes Mum, but we love you and I worry about your health.”

“Oh, a bit of arthritis, that’s all.”

“You need someone to look after you….. permanently.”

“Nurses you mean? Wouldn’t they tie me down?”

In softer tones now, he went on:

“Not exactly. There are nice places for older people.”

Concealed horror crossed her face as she visualised the prison.

‘He won’t really say it, will he? It’s unbelievable’, she thought, ‘but he might….. ‘

‘”What places, Dear?”

“Well….. rest homes, Mother.”

‘My God, he did say it. Ugh! Dismal houses full of crusty old biddies.’

Regaining her sweet smile, she continued to humour him:

“But what about this house, John?”

She’d had to ask, even though she knew the answer.

“Oh, it won’t leave the family. Joan and I will take it over.”

Her eyes narrowed, calculatingly.

“You’d have spare money if you did. Yours is much bigger.”

“Yes. I never thought, but perhaps we could do with that.”

She turned quickly away and picked up the spade.

“Now, John….. I must tamp this soil down.”

He drove home, to be confronted at the door by his

wife, eager to learn the result of his mission.

“How did you get on?”

“No chance, Joan….. she won’t budge….. damn her!”

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