Page 7 of The Stranger in Her House

‘Yes you do, Mum, I’m the girl you and Bill had.’

‘Bill who?’

‘Your husband.’

‘I’m not married.’

‘You were for sixty years but now you’re widowed.’ I leave the cup on the arm of her chair, pick up two framed photographs from the console table in the hall and return to her. ‘This is me as a little girl on my bike,’ I say, pointing to one. ‘And this is you and Dad on your wedding day.’

‘I know who she is,’ she says, pointing to her younger self. ‘That’s Meredith.’

‘No, it’s definitely you.’

She shakes her head, adamant that I’m lying.

‘Why don’t you finish your tea and we’ll talk about it later,’ I suggest.

She looks at the cup, and before I can do anything about it, she swipes at it with such gusto that it flies across the room and smashes into the wall, leaving tea and porcelain everywhere.

‘Mum! Why did you do that?’

Leaning forward in her chair, she shakes her finger at me. ‘I don’t know who you are but I want you out of my house now!’

‘I’ll find a tea towel to clean this up.’

‘No!’ she shrieks. ‘Get out! Get out! Get out!’

She’s never lost her temper on this scale before. Her rage moves at such speed I’m surprised neither of us have whiplash. She pulls herself up to her feet but she’s unsteady and I worry she’ll fall. Imove towards her, completely unprepared for the slap she gives me. I clasp my cheek; it stings like hell.

‘Mum!’ I shout, then realise my tone is likely to make the situation worse. I need to calm her, not rile her. ‘Listen to me ...’

‘Stop calling me that,’ she shouts, and this time, she loses her balance and falls to the floor. I scurry over to help her up but, clearly thinking I’m going to hurt her, she launches herself at me again. The palm of her hand misses me but her fingernails connect with my skin as she scratches the cheek she just slapped. And now she’s shouting too. ‘Help me! Help me!’ she screams and covers her face with her hands.

I try and grab her arms to help lift her up but now she’s curling herself into a ball, like a child might, and I can’t get a grip of her. ‘Mum, please,’ I shout but she’s not listening.

‘Can I help?’ a voice comes from behind. I turn quickly; Paul’s at the doorway, putting his phone in his pocket. I’m embarrassed, awkward and frustrated all at once. What will he make of this madness?

She speaks first. ‘She’s been hitting me; she’s trying to kill me. You’ve got to get her out of my house and call the police.’

He looks to her and then me. ‘Why don’t you give us a minute?’ he says. He sounds composed, his demeanour unruffled.

‘No, I’ve got this,’ I reply stubbornly. But it’s clear to us both that I haven’t.

‘You’re bleeding.’

I reach to my face and realise her fingernails went deeper than I thought.

‘Go and clean yourself up and let’s see if she’ll listen to me.’

I swap places with him and hesitate, remaining under the doorway, watching as he approaches her like he would a frightened, wounded animal. ‘Who am I, Gwen?’ he asks.

‘I ... I don’t know,’ she says. The rage has passed and left bewilderment in its wake.

‘I’m Paul, do you remember me? I’ve been tidying your garden. Why don’t you come outside and I’ll show you what I’ve done?’

She offers a succession of small, almost imperceptible nods, and he helps her to her feet. He waits until she’s stable and clinging on to his arm before he walks her through the patio doors and into the rear garden. Then he moves a plastic chair from under the kitchen window and positions it at the end of the garden so that it overlooks the fields. He’s cut down the hedges, so she has a view for miles. He helps her to sit down, then kneels as he rubs her arm and says something. She appears relaxed.

I peer at my red, raw, bleeding cheek in the cloakroom mirror, then splash my face with cold water. I can’t hold back from bursting into tears, and cry into the hand towel I was using to pat my face dry with. I’m failing miserably at being the strong one here. This is so much harder than I ever imagined.

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