Dad was a mortuary technician. He died fifteen years ago, and wanted his ashes scattered in France. Nobody knew why. He was buried at sea in the end because Mum dropped him overboard when the captain of the ferry blasted the horn and made her jump. I thought I spotted him on the way back, but it was just a plastic bottle.
Dad was an enigma. I remember that he liked three Yorkshire puddings on his plate, but not much else, whereas I know Mum’s every like and dislike. Or do memories change, like the stairs in Harry Potter? I also remember that Dad was always shielded by the tent of The Times, like a mini murder scene in the corner of the living room. The pathologist used to give it to him to take home at the end of the day. I could tell the pathologist had lingered on the articles about murder, as his bloody fingerprints were like footprints circling a crime scene. I suspect he was bored of heart attacks and strokes and wanted to write the words ‘blunt force trauma’, ‘exit wound’, and ‘petechial haemorrhage’, the preserve of the Home Office pathologists.
Dad died instantly of a heart attack. Mum is taking a more circuitous route: Alzheimer’s.
Mum wants to visit dad’s grave (the English Channel). It’s quite a road trip from
Northumberland, especially since Mum has just had to go into a home because she wasn’t managing on her own. I’m finally selling dad’s Mazda MX5 convertible, so a last road trip for Mum and for the car might be nice. I take a week off work and book the ferry.
It starts well enough. The sun is out, the roof is down, and Mum is ready, although she’s forgotten where we are going. It’s a long drive to Dover on boring motorways, so I change my mind and head for memories of happy holidays in Scotland instead.
We stop at Carter Bar to see the bagpiper. I can never tell if a bagpiper is any good. I watch Mum inch out of the car, unfurl her body and wince into a stretch. I’m shocked by how old she has become. Mum hasn’t aged gradually – it’s as if she walked to a cliff edge and jumped. She spots the Werther’s Originals in the centre console and leans into the car to reach for them. She overbalances, falling headfirst into the footwell. Her legs shoot up into the air and, since the top is down, they stick up for all to see. For some reason, she’s gone commando. Her skirt is upside down, along with the rest of her. I try and haul her out, but she’s not moving. ‘Christ,’ says the bagpiper as his bag deflates and his pipes slowly go flaccid. ‘Christ,’ says a coach driver, looking down. Before the rest of the passengers in the coach can damn themselves with further blasphemies, I drive away.
‘It’s awfully draughty,’ Mum complains, and asks me to hand her a Werther’s. I pass her down a sweet in the hope it will stop the knicker-less synchronised swimming display she’s performing in the passenger seat. I pull onto a gravel track and manage to free her. She seems unconcerned by the experience.
When we arrive at the hotel in Edinburgh, I unpack Mum’s suitcase. It’s full of melted Magnums, so I drag her out to go shopping for clothes. A man is making balloon animals on the Royal Mile. I ask for a kangaroo, and it does look exactly like a kangaroo. Mum wants a snake. I point out that a snake is just a single long balloon, but that’s what she wants. And her snake looks just like a balloon. And my kangaroo now looks like a tennis racquet because Mum sat on it.
In the middle of the night, Mum decides she wants an anteater and not a snake. I’ve booked us separate but connected rooms, so I don’t realise she’s missing until the police bring her back. They tell me that Mum witnessed a murder outside the hotel. In the morning, Mum is asked to provide elimination samples. She also gives a description of the murderer and the police artist draws an impression. I suspect the detective and artist are both too young to realise they are looking for Des O’Connor.
The police allow us to continue our road trip, so we head for the Highlands. I’ve put the roof up, to prevent any repeats of yesterday’s gymnastics, and I’ve made sure she has knickers on. Mum asks if we are going to see Des O’Connor. I have learnt it’s easier to say ‘yes’.
‘I shall throw my knickers at him,’ she proclaims.
‘Tom Jones,’ I say, ‘knickers were Tom Jones.’
‘I thought you said they were M&S,’ she huffs, and promptly removes her new knickers and throws them out the car window. They land on a cyclist and I’m too embarrassed to stop and retrieve them.
I used to love going up to Loch Awe. It was the one week of the year Dad was present, the place where he listened to all my hopes and dreams. None of which came true in the end. But it is where my happy childhood memories come from.
Mum doesn’t like the bed-and-breakfast place I’ve booked. I know it’s the Alzheimer’s that’s refusing to stay there, not her. Mum was never fussy before. I remember the caravan we holidayed in: the door fell off and it leaked when it rained, which was usually all week. The owner’s repair consisted of leaning a house door against where the caravan door should be, but not actually attaching the house door to anything. Every time Dad went in or out, he complained how stupid it was and that we should just go home. Every time Mum went in or out, she got the giggles for ten minutes.
There’s nothing for it but to find somewhere else to stay, but everywhere I call is booked. I realise someone has left a message on my answering service. It’s the detective. He says there’s a problem with Mum’s DNA. He wants me to call him urgently, as they are now officially looking for a serial killer.
Mum is a serial killer! I turn off my phone.
I’ve never been on the run before. I’ve never broken the law before. Apart from when Mrs Carr’s bird table mysteriously disappeared from her garden and starred in the school nativity play. Gold, frankincense, and a bird table. Miss Grant, the teacher, said myrrh was gifted by the Magi to foretell Jesus’s crucifixion. I thought he’d prefer something less morbid, like a bird table. Then I panicked in case Jesus thought the bird table was supposed to be the cross.
I remember Mum on her feet clapping furiously as I lugged the bird table back and forth across the stage, trying to find Jesus, my Tupperware crown covering my eyes. Janet, who was Mary and a bit of a bitch, said I’d ruined her acting debut and had a tantrum that resulted in the doll baby Jesus ending up in the fifth row. Robin Hood, played by William, then shot the donkey with his bow and arrow. Robin Hood was attending the birth of Christ because his mother had mixed up her Wise Men with her Merry Men. The donkey, who was real and playing himself, bolted, knocking the vicar over and out. An ambulance arrived and Mum was still clapping furiously.
Mum loved David Essex’s eyes. She worried about Mad Cow Disease and radioactive carrots from the fall-out from Chernobyl. She cut the crusts off my Marmite sandwiches, often filled the car up with diesel instead of petrol, and always bought the wrong size gym knickers. She didn’t murder people. But DNA doesn’t lie.
Where do you go on the run in Scotland? My only inspiration is Bonnie Prince Charlie. Skye it is, then. I’m too scared to turn my phone back on, worried the police will be able to track it. I’m not a hundred percent sure exactly where Skye is, so we need to go old-school and buy a map. But no one sells maps anymore. All I can find is an illustrated tea towel. We need to head north, past the man playing golf, the bottle of whiskey and the stag, then turn left at the haggis and look for some Scottish dancers.
Somewhere near the bottle of whiskey, I decide to give up for the night when I come across a sign for eco-woodland holiday cabins. The sign under the sign at the end of the drive says ‘vacancies’. I need to disguise Mum, but all I have are balloons and a tea towel. I stuff the balloons down her blouse. The drive is a bumpy five miles, through lines of waiting conifers, ready to battle for Middle Earth.
The reception is a Portaloo. It’s open between 9am and 10am. There’s a number pinned to the door to call out of hours. Do I risk turning my phone back on? There’s a light in a distant cabin. It’s probably safer to pretend my phone is out of charge and ask to borrow their phone to ring the out-of-hours number. The road ends at reception, so I stumble towards the light, Mum in tow, and knock on the door. It’s answered by a man. He looks a bit familiar. His face can’t decide what he’s thinking – it’s like watching a Polaroid photo slowly develop. I’m fascinated and find myself staring at him. Mum goes pop. His face solidifies on what seems to be the conviction that aliens have landed on Earth and it’s unclear whether they are friendly or here to kill him, or worse, need to enter through his nose and take over his body. Perhaps he knows Mum is a serial killer. Perhaps she’s been on the news.
Tentatively, he hands me his phone. The lady on the other end says to let myself into the cabin called Polecat. I give him his phone back, and he snatches it from my hand. I hear the door lock, the latch get pulled across, and something being dragged behind the door. I turn around. Mum has lost her skirt and blouse and is doing a balloon dance. That probably explains his facial expression. I wasn’t far off.
We set off towards the reception Portaloo, but the light from the cabin goes out and it’s pitch black. I must turn my phone on or return to the cabin and ask to borrow a torch. I knock on the door again and shout. The something is moved, the latch is slid back, the lock is turned, and a torch is quickly passed out.
I pick out our car in the torchlight and head for it. Little wooden signs in the shape of squirrels have names carved into them and point down paths through the forest. I search out Polecat and we head along the path with our suitcases. WTF is a polecat?
We walk for what seems far too long to me. The torchlight starts to dim, then the torch dies and we are back in darkness. I’ve had enough, so I risk my phone. There’s another message which I listen to with trepidation. It’s the detective. He says there’s no need to contact him anymore as he has resolved the problem. I listen to the original message again. In the words of Del Boy, I feel like a right plonker. Mum is not a serial killer.
‘Shall we just find a nice hotel, Mum?’‘But what about Des?’
The moon rises from behind black mountains, suffusing everything with silver. A cabin roof shines bright on the loch shore, and I persuade Mum towards it. We’ve found Polecat.
I unpack Mum’s suitcase. It now contains a complete set of stolen hotel bedding and nothing else. Never mind, we can be on the run for that instead. Polecat is going to be the perfect hideout for our week.
There are two tins of soup in the cupboards. I make us both a mug of tomato soup.
‘Thank you for bringing me here,’ says Mum.
‘I love you, Mum,’ I say.
I wake up with a start in the middle of the night. I know who the man in the cabin reminds me of.
Karen has been writing for just over two years, having taken it up in retirement. Encouraged by her local creative writing group, she has started to submit a few pieces here and there. She has discovered that she can only be serious for short amounts of time, both in writing and in life, and hopes that she will be able to put a smile on people’s faces. Other than writing, her passions are basketball and travel.