The moment my grandmother hobbles into the house my mother mutates into least loved, angry third child, circa 1980. I decided to get out of York for a few days, escape the depression vortex of finals and a year group that has MASS PANIC emblazed in their expressions, and enter into Real People World. In this brighter space, where people pay for central heating and can afford meat, the worst thing that can happen to you is being asked about next year… (I will be panicking, panicking, failing to be employed, and turning into a less successful version of my mum, thanks for asking). This morning however, I was working on an essay, (I was actually thinking about Call the Midwife and wondering if I should become a nun so I can avoid living at home), when my mum morphed temporarily, refused to help my Grandmother get dressed, and decided it was my turn to do it.
Getting semi-immobile people dressed is unbelievably complicated. Every limb needs a different number of supporting tourniquet/bandage/strappy lace up thingy bobs, to be raised above the head, supported by arms and fingers you don’t have, and eased over swellings with these weird blue bags the NHS give you, that smell like fisherman’s waders. Half an hour later she was dressed and happily explaining how her failed lymph nodes and leaky cellulose dissolve various parts of her body. We had some lovely elderly-relative-bonding when suddenly she turned.
“How’s the boy Helena?” I told her he was fine, employed (the bastard) and generally fine. Fine. Please don’t ask me any more questions. “I’ve been thinking”, she continued, “if you get married, I’ll buy your wedding dress. And if you don’t get married, I’ll buy you a horse.”
“You’ll buy me a horse?”
“Yes. A horse. Or a leg of a horse. I don’t know if I can afford a whole horse. I don’t want to put you under any pressure to be married you see.”
“Oh right, I see. Thanks Gran. That’s really nice.”
“Because you see, I’ve been thinking, what are you going to do next year?”
“I’m not sure nan. Try to get internships. Make a lot of coffee. Panic, panic, turn into my mother.”
There’s a small silence. My grandmother looks disappointed, “because, Helena, I have a friend whose daughter didn’t get employed OR married when she left University. I think she could really do with a horse. I could set the two of you up. You could have horses together.”
“Yes. Thanks Gran. I don’t really want to get married for some time…” at this point, I began sweating. I didn’t really know what to say, so in the end I finished the conversation with, “I have to tell you Gran. I’ve decided, I’m going to become a nun.” And left for York.