Diva. Carrie Duffy

two-down, just one of many on an estate with identical rows of red-brick terraces, built at the turn of the century for Oldham’s millworkers. Each opened directly onto the street in front, with a small yard out back and a narrow lane running behind. Beyond lay the rugged moorland, stretching for miles, but currently invisible in the blackness of the night.

      Alyson slipped the key into the lock and opened the front door, surprised to find that the house was dark. Her mother was usually waiting up for her, watching TV or dozing in an armchair. With a strange sense of foreboding, Alyson flicked on the light and hurried through to the kitchen.

      The first thing she saw was her mother’s red and white pills, scattered across the old, cracked lino. Her eyes followed the trail, refusing to take in what she was seeing. Lynn Wakefield lay slumped on the floor, her eyes closed and the pill bottle clutched in her hand.

      The neon striplights at the hospital were harsh and draining, making it impossible to know whether it was night or day. Her mother was comfortable, they told her. Critical but stable. As yet, Alyson hadn’t been allowed to see her.

      She’d been asked question after question, filled out form after form.

      ‘Who’s her next of kin?’ asked the young, male nurse, who’d introduced himself as Martin.

      ‘I am,’ Alyson answered clearly.

      ‘Is she married? We notice she’s wearing a wedding ring …’

      ‘He’s gone,’ Alyson said, and her voice was hard. ‘I don’t know where he is.’

      The nurse looked at her sceptically. ‘Well, if you manage to think of anything, let us know. A contact number for your father would be very helpful.’

      Alyson remained mute. Her father had been out of their lives for so long and she wasn’t about to invite him back again. I’m the one who looks after her, Alyson thought fiercely. I’m the one who’s cared for her every day for the past eight years. He doesn’t deserve any part of this.

      Martin left, and for the next few hours she remained ignored, seated on a hard plastic chair in an endless white corridor, her head in her hands. She had no idea how long she kept up the vigil. She was on the verge of dozing off, her exhausted body finally running out of energy, when she heard a voice that made her think she was hallucinating.

      ‘Ally?’

      Her head shot up. There was only one person who’d ever called her that.

      Terry Wakefield stood in front of her, and he had the good grace to look embarrassed. Alyson stared at him in disbelief. He looked older than she remembered; his hair had grown thinner, the lines on his face etched deeper. Beside him was a tall, lanky guy that Alyson barely recognized – her brother, Scott. She hadn’t seen him since he was six years old, and he’d altered almost beyond recognition, becoming a sulky, sullen teenager with pale-blond hair and a bored expression. He looked as though he’d rather be anywhere but there – in the hospital, visiting the sick mother who was a stranger to him.

      ‘How … What the hell are you doing here?’ Alyson burst out. Her voice was anguished, a strangled cry.

      Her father’s forehead creased anxiously. ‘They contacted me … The doctors. How is she?’

      ‘Like you even care,’ Alyson spat. ‘How did they get your number? I never gave them it.’

      ‘They found it …’ Terry began awkwardly. ‘In your mother’s things.’

      Alyson felt a slow, heavy, sinking feeling in her stomach, as though she’d just eaten a pile of lead.

      ‘We kept in touch, now and again,’ her father continued. ‘Sometimes I sent her some money … when she was struggling.’

      Alyson felt sick. Her mother and father were still in contact, yet her father had never once asked to see her, her mother keeping silent about the clandestine meetings. And all the time she’d been slaving away, working until she dropped, her mother had failed to mention the extra money Terry Wakefield had given her. She’d probably spent it on alcohol, or something ridiculous from QVC, Alyson thought furiously.

      ‘Why didn’t you help me?’ Alyson demanded. Her voice was growing louder, more hysterical. ‘Why didn’t you want to see me?’ The room was spinning.

      ‘Ally …’

      Her father stepped towards her, but at that moment a white-coated figure appeared from her mother’s room.

      ‘I’m Dr Chaudhry,’ he introduced himself, shaking hands with the three of them. ‘Would you like to come in now?’

      They followed him through; Alyson went first, shocked to see her mother looking so small and fragile in the hospital bed. She was hooked up to all manner of machines, an IV tube attached to the back of her hand. She was sleeping right now, the machines around her beeping at regular intervals.

      ‘Please, take a seat, all of you,’ suggested Dr Chaudhry. They sat down, her brother rolling his eyes and sighing like this was all a big inconvenience.

      ‘I understand you’re her primary carer,’ he said, turning to Alyson. He looked tired but patient, and his dark-brown eyes were kind.

      ‘Yes, that’s correct,’ she said determinedly.

      ‘It’s a lot of responsibility for someone so young.’

      ‘I didn’t have a choice,’ she retorted, with a pointed glance at her father.

      The doctor nodded, understanding. ‘Well, now you do.’

      Alyson stared at him, her brow furrowing in incomprehension.

      ‘We think it might be better if your mother went somewhere she could get the help that she needs. Her condition is obviously serious, and Lynn might be better served in a place where they have the specialization to really look after her. Now, there are a number of care homes in the area—’

      ‘I look after her,’ Alyson burst out. ‘We’ve managed fine all these years.’

      ‘Ally, you’re clearly not coping,’ her father cut in.

      ‘We’ll be fine,’ Alyson insisted, her voice small and tight. She stared hard at the motionless figure in the bed, fighting back tears. ‘We don’t need you.’

      ‘Perhaps I’ll give you some time to talk this through,’ Dr Chaudhry suggested tactfully, sensing the atmosphere. ‘They have all the details you need at reception, and I’ll be back after my rounds if you have any questions.’

      ‘Listen, Ally,’ her father began after the doctor had left. ‘Think about it. And I mean seriously. You can’t spend the rest of your life looking after your mother – it’s just not fair on you. Now the doctor thinks this is the best option, and maybe he’s right. You’ve got to think about her too, not just what you want.’

      ‘Why not? That’s what you did, isn’t it?’ Alyson retorted. She was lashing out, all the anger that she’d bottled up over the past decade finally finding an outlet.

      ‘You need some time for yourself, sweetheart,’ Terry said adamantly. ‘And maybe it’s best for both of you. It could be that Lynn’s become too reliant on you …’

      Alyson felt a swathe of guilt and hated her father for making her feel like that. Was he right? Was this somehow her fault, for encouraging her mother to become too dependent on her?

      ‘Look, love, I can give you a few hundred pounds, maybe more. You can do what you want, go where you want.’

      ‘I don’t need your money,’ Alyson spat, her eyes flashing dangerously. She couldn’t believe that her father thought he could just walk back into her life and pay her off.

      Terry Wakefield leaned forward and caught her hand. His hold was strong, a little painful even. He stared straight into her eyes, the pressure on her palm getting stronger. When he spoke again, his voice was cold,