Getting Upset Over Nothing Commended Daniel Murphy
You didn’t mean it. But it happened, didn’t it?
Fool.
Why did you think it was next weekend? Don’t blame your phone. You’re the one punched in the wrong information, the wrong week. Thick thumbs or some other operator error? Not concentrating, trying to do two things at once? Your Mum always said you tried to do too many things at once, didn’t she?
‘It’s our anniversary weekend,’ Jean said. ‘And Aunty Kate is away so you’ll have to look after Mum. It’s just for two nights. Our flight’s at 6. I’ll bring her over to your place at 2, Make sure you’re home!’
You’d not had Mum to stay since the dementia diagnosis. You put the date into your phone.
You even planned time in the diary to straighten out the flat, wash the sheets, check the fold down.
‘Paul,’ Yvonne from reception said, ‘Better get down here.’ Standing there were your sister, your mother and between them a suitcase.
‘Hopeless,’ Jean said, ‘I’ve been trying to get you on the phone. I’m late for the flight already and it’ll be your damn fault if I miss it.’
She turned to Mum. ‘Paul’s going to look after you,’ she said, then snarled, ‘He’d better look after you, hadn’t he?’ She gave her a peck on the cheek, and left.
She thinks you’ve got it easy - no responsibilities - but she’s the one with the big house, isn’t she? Everything taken care of. Carers three times a day for meals. An evening bath.
‘Here’s the key,’ she said, ‘And here’s the phone number of the care team. You can always bring her back to my place if she’s distressed. Or if you can’t cope. Which is probably more likely.’ Prophetic words.
So it’s just you and your Mum. Her brown winter coat, her flat shoes, the suitcase.
You strap her into the car. Just like looking after a baby really, easier to be going
somewhere, easier than being somewhere. You call the care number, flirting downline with the throaty-voiced receptionist. ‘Plans have changed. I need to cancel the cancellation. Yes.
Just the usual visits this weekend. And this evening, yes.’
Minimum disruption to your plans, wasn’t it? Back to Jean’s place in Glasgow for 6.30? A quick stop- en route at for a couple of TV dinners? Some booze for you, some chocolates for your Mum? Thought the shopping centre wouldn’t be busy, didn’t you? Clown. Forgot it was last thing on a Friday. Forgot to ask Jean for the disabled parking permit. Had to park far from the centre, the outer reaches of the car park. It was already after 4. The M8 was already busy. Much quicker without her.
‘Just stay here Mum,’ you say, ‘I’ll put some nice music on. Just a few things from
Sainsbury’s. Won’t take a minute.’ OK. You met Pauline. That held you back. Had to stop and chat. Rude otherwise. Not too long. Twenty minutes? Tops. But when you come back, the
and flat shoes.Running up and down the rows like the clown you are, one entire section of the endless car park. Has she fallen in between two cars? Your face is red. Your shoes are hurting. Leaning against the bike parking rack, deep rasping gulps of air. Panicking, you’re panicking now, aren’t you? Blind bloody panic. Twenty minutes already. She could be on a bus half way to the city centre. No use running around. You could never catch a bus. You should’ve gone to the information desk first, shouldn’t you?
The girl behind the counter is pretty, all red hair and blue eyes. You draw in your stomach.
’This sounds a little silly,’ you say, ‘But I’ve lost my mother.’ She looks you up and down, seeing you for the fool you are, ‘You’re a bit old for that,’ she drawls, ‘Did you let go her hand?’
Ha ha. Very funny.
‘You don’t understand,’ you say, ‘She’s got dementia. She’s not safe on her own.’ Those are the words aren’t they? ‘Not safe on her own.’ You knew that already of course, but you left her in the car. How did you leave her? On her own. Why did you leave her? Cos you’re exactly the irresponsible clown you’re sister thinks you are.
The girl looks you up and down again, straight at you. Repeats your words. ‘Not safe on her own?’ Her words boom out from the shopping centre tannoy:
Special message for Mrs Jean Copthorne. Make yourself known to any member of staff. You’ll be directed to the central information point where your son is waiting. Mrs Jean Copthorne to the information point.
She wants you to wait, but ‘What if she ignores the message?’ you say, ‘What if she doesn’t hear it? What if she’s sitting on a bus heading into the city?’ You’re fit to burst, can’t stay there. She takes your number. ‘Go look,’ she says, ‘I’ll phone you.’
This time you take the car, round the car park, out to the bus stops, along the access road.
Out onto the dual carriageway, heading east. Round the roundabout and back west to the motorway slip road on the far side. Nothing. You thought you were panicking before, but only now do you understand what panic is. There is a dreadful ache in your stomach, the ache of fear.
You accelerate hard to get back to the centre car park. A blue Toyota misjudges your speed and pulls out in front. Emergency stop. Damn lucky you’re not all dead. Until the guy behind rams into you. Thank the lord for seat belts, for head restraints. It’s restraint you need now.
You get out the car and scream abuse at the blue Toyota as it disappears, untouched, down the road. The massive chrome bull bars on the car behind are barely dented but your rear end is crumpled. Two rear wings, the boot lid, one wheel looks trapped. Maybe the rear springs are goosed. The driver uncurls himself and steps down. He’s six six and built like an ox.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ he says, ‘What the fuck were you fuckin doin?’
‘There was a blue Toyota …’ you mumble unconvincingly, ‘ … pulled out in front of me. I had no choice. Look mate …’ He looks at you. You’re not his mate. ‘ … I can’t stop. I’m looking for
‘I’m no givin you fuck all,’ he says. He picks you up and sits you on the roof of your car before returning to his pickup and driving off.
It’s 6.15. Your car’s a mess four hundred metres from the shopping centre car park on the busy dual carriageway. You should phone Jean. Get her help. But maybe you can still work this out. if you do find Mum, she won’t remember what happened anyway. Maybe, once it’s all over, you can erase it from the records, pretend it never happened at all.
You call the police, give a description, send a photo from your phone. They’re ultra helpful, immediate city-wide coverage, all duty officers alerted. ‘Don’t worry,’ the officer says, his avuncular so reassuring voice, ’ Older people sometimes do a runner. They usually turn up.’
A young lad in a beat up red Corsa stops in the layby ahead, walks back to you.
‘Can I help?’ he says.
‘I don’t know if the car will go,’ you say, ‘I had to do an emergency stop cos of an idiot in a blue Toyota and this pickup, a tank really, rammed into the back.’
‘Fire it up,’ he says.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
You turn the key and the engine stutters into life. You sweet talk it along to the layby to the sound of squealing noises from the rear wheel. Metal scraping on expensive metal.
‘That cars not going anywhere,’ he says, ‘Are you in the AA?’
‘No,’ you say, ‘But I’m going to have to leave the car here. The car’s the least of my
problems. My mother went awol from the shopping centre car park about an hour ago. She has dementia. I’ve got to find her.’
‘Man,’ he says, ‘You’re not having a good day.’
You walk to the western entrance to the centre, check the bus queues again. Head back to the information desk. The young redhead’s still there.
‘Find her yet?’ she asks.
‘Does it look like I have?’ you say. Well maybe more than ‘say’. You’re a bit overwrought.
‘Sir,’ she says, ‘I’m just trying to help. There’s no need to take it out on me.’ She sees you for the fool you are.
‘I’ve called the police,’ you say, ‘But I feel like I want to run everywhere, down every street, knock on every door…. I know that would be stupid. I know I need to wait. But doing nothing is difficult.’
‘Why don’t you go and have a seat, get a cup of sweet tea or something,’ she says, more sympathetic now. ‘COSTA is open till 8. I’ll be able to see you from here and you’ll be able to see me. I’ll call for her again.’
‘Thanks,’ you say, ‘I’ll do that.’
shoulder. It’s not your Mum. You apologise, go back into COSTA. And it’s then that you see her, coming out of the toilet door. Wiping her hands.
‘Paul,’ she says, ‘I hope you’ve not been waiting long. This is such a nice centre. Are we here to get a cup of tea?’
You sit her down. ‘Mum, where have you been? I’ve been looking all over for you.’
‘I was just in the toilet,’ she says, ‘There was a tray with some nice cleaning things. I mopped the floor, tidied up the sinks… oh and the windows and mirrors. I did them too. Is this a hotel?’ she says. She sees the expression on your face. ‘Did I do something wrong?’
‘It’s fine, Mum,’ you say, ‘It’s fine. Now wait there. Wait there!’
You go to the counter. ‘My mother has dementia,’ you say, ‘She was lost and I need to tell the information desk she’s been found. I’ll see her through the window but can you keep an eye on her too? Phone me on this number if she moves?’
At the information desk, the girl with the red hair smiles. She has a beautiful smile. ‘I thought I’d lost her,’ you say, and you hear your voice cracking. It’s hard to get the words out. ‘And now I’ve found her,’ you say, and there are tears rolling easily down your cheeks.
Walking back to COSTA, you phone the police, then sit down beside Mum. Somehow she’s got herself a cup of tea. ‘Do you want a cup?’ she asks you, ‘That nice lady over there will get you one.’
‘I’ll need something stronger than a cup of tea Mum,’ you say, ‘And that’ll be after I’ve found a breakdown service I can call, called us a taxi and got you safely home under lock and key.’
She looks at you and smiles. ‘Paul,’ she says, ‘You need to calm down. You’ve always been one for getting yourself upset over nothing.’
(1963 words)
