The Happy Home for Ladies. Michele Gorman

he puts Mum’s favourite spotty mug back in the cabinet, I catch the lost look skittering across his expression. I guess it is there, after all.

      ‘I’m sorry, Dad.’

      He’d rung me just after lunchtime. He never does that during the day unless it’s to tell me I’ve forgotten a birthday or an anniversary or something.

      I’d just managed to wrestle four giant packs of chicken thighs out from the overstuffed freezer at work for the next day’s curry. Care home residents might not seem like they’d appreciate food that’s not bland or pureed, but our residents aren’t what you’d call the norm.

      ‘Who did I forget?’ I answered with my mobile wedged between my cheek and shoulder.

      ‘Hi, Phoebe. This is your father.’

      ‘I know it’s you, Dad. You come up on my phone.’ Every conversation started like this.

      ‘Your mother has gone into hospital.’

      I felt my tummy sink to my knees. I clasped the phone to my ear. ‘What’s happened?’ Horrible scenarios flashed through my mind: she’d been in a crash. No, it was a mugging. She’s always marching around with a big expensive bag dangling off her arm. Or a random acid attack or a knifing or she’d lopped her fingers off chopping onions or confused arsenic for sugar in her tea. Though I’m not sure why there’d be arsenic in the cabinet.

      ‘Heart attack, they think,’ said Dad.

      ‘Is she … okay?’

      ‘Oh, yes, she’s fine,’ he said. ‘She didn’t want me to bother you. I just thought you might like to know.’

      ‘How can she be fine, Dad, when she’s had a heart attack? And, yes, I want to know!’ Only my mother could think that a near-death experience wasn’t even worth a phone call.

      ‘I mean she’s awake and feeling fine, so don’t worry.’ His voice was as calm as always. Unlike mine.

      ‘Have you rung Will already?’ I asked.

      ‘He’ll be busy with work. We don’t want to disturb him.’

      Of course, they’d never dream of giving him anything to worry about at work. Like the entire financial system would collapse if he were ever to take a personal call. I looked around my kitchen. In their eyes, Will was the one with the important job, not me. I’m ‘just’ a cook. ‘I’m leaving now,’ I told him. ‘I can be there in two hours depending on traffic. I’ll see you soon, Dad.’

      ‘I’ll meet you at the hospital in a few hours, then. Text me when you’re off the motorway.’

      ‘But aren’t you at the hospital now?’

      ‘Your mum wants me to stay at the office. The sealed bids are coming in today.’ He gave me the hospital’s address. Then he told me not to use the car park there.

      ‘Parking will be expensive,’ he said. ‘There’ll be spaces further along the main road and you can walk back.’

      Honestly.

      The drive there is a blur, but I do remember the feeling. It was all I could do not to scream and bash the steering wheel every time I had to slow down for traffic or lights. I just knew I wouldn’t get there in time to see Mum one last time.

      I found the closest spot in the car park, sprinted to the critical care unit and blurted my mother’s name to the nurse, who calmly pointed me to her room.

      ‘God, Phoebe,’ said Mum when I skidded through the door. ‘Where’s the fire? You nearly gave me a heart attack. Ha ha.’

      ‘Mum, what happened?!’ She was sitting up in bed with a blue hospital gown draped loosely across her front. Wires trailed from under the covers to the machines that beeped and chirped beside her.

      She had her mobile to her ear. ‘Sorry about that,’ she told the caller. ‘I’ll have to ring you back.’

      She kept her phone clasped in her hand as she waved away my question. ‘It’s a lot of palaver over nothing. The doctors aren’t even sure it was a heart attack. They’re making me go through tests to check. Your father didn’t need to bother you.’ She looked me up and down. Then she sighed. ‘Isn’t there something better that you could wear to work?’

      I glanced down at my black checked chef trousers and short-sleeved white tunic.

      ‘And those clogs. I wouldn’t wear them around the house, let alone out of it. Why can’t you try a bit harder, Phoebe? Don’t you care what people think?’

      I ignored the jibes. Only because she could be dying. ‘Tell me what happened, Mum. Did you have pain?’

      ‘Of course I had pain,’ she snapped. ‘It was a heart attack. Or something like it anyway. I feel fine now, though. I need to get back to the office. The sealed bids are coming in today. I can come back after for the tests if they’re so keen on them.’

      ‘I’m sure the office understands that you’re here.’

      ‘Pah, I didn’t tell them! And don’t you, either. They think your dad gave me a surprise spa day.’ Then she muttered, ‘As if I’d tell them about something like this.’

      What was wrong with my mother? ‘Mum, that’s nuts. You can’t cover up a heart attack with a spa day. You’re ill. You could be here for some time. Everyone at the company cares about you. They’d want to know.’

      ‘I just bet they would,’ she said. ‘Phoebe, how many times have I told you that people will exploit their advantage. I’m not about to give them an excuse.’

      ‘These aren’t just people, Mum, they’re your friends. Your employees. You’ve worked with them for years.’

      She waved away my protest. ‘You’d hope that friends wouldn’t use something against you, but why would I take the chance when I don’t have to? If you’ve learned anything from me, darling, I hope it’s that.’

      Then she pulled off the covers and started to swing her legs to the floor, sending the machines into a meltdown.

      ‘Mum, don’t!’

      A nurse hurried into the room, probably expecting cardiac arrest. What she found was the world’s worst patient peeling off the tape holding the monitors to her chest. ‘What are you doing?’ the nurse demanded. ‘Get back into bed. You’ve got to rest. And keep these on.’ She pulled off another length of tape with a furious tear and stuck it to my mother. ‘If you need the loo, push the button and someone will help you.’ She glared at Mum. ‘Do not leave this bed.’

      ‘I’m sorry,’ I murmured to the nurse as she left. ‘Mum, why can’t you behave?! You need to stay here until they know what’s wrong. These people are trying to help you.’

      ‘I know that, Phoebe, but I’ve got things to do. I’m very busy. We didn’t build our business by sitting around on our bums, you know.’

      How many times had I heard that over the years? Whenever I didn’t do things the way she thought I should. Which was almost always. ‘Being in hospital with a heart attack is not just sitting around on your bum,’ I reminded her. ‘Besides, you’ve got Dad looking after the bids, so you don’t need to worry about anything.’

      She rolled her eyes. Then she zeroed in on my hair which, I remembered too late, was still in its ponytail from work. ‘Couldn’t you have done something with that?’ She patted her own perfectly coiffed gingery head. She looked like she’d had it styled on the way over in the ambulance. ‘You only have one chance to make a first impression. You could look so much better, you know, if you tried at all.’

      Despite my mother being mortified by a hair tie, I actually think it looks all right, thank you very much. It might not be as shimmery and because-I’m-worth-it as Mum’s, but it’s a nice brown, long, straight and thick.