“That’s rotting flesh and stinking, moldy cheese to you, darling.” She paused, regained her equanimity.
“I don’t know if he’s alive or dead, Eleanor,” she said. “If he’s alive, he’s probably very rich by dubious, unethical means.
If he’s dead—and I sincerely hope that he is—then I imagine he’s languishing in the outer ring of the seventh circle of hell,
immersed in a river of boiling blood and fire, taunted by centaurs.”
I realized at that point that it probably wasn’t worth asking if she had kept any photos.
It was Wednesday evening. Mummy time. However much I might wish it were otherwise, she always managed to get through to me in the end.
I sighed and turned off the radio, knowing I would have to wait until Sunday’s omnibus now
to find out whether Eddie Grundy’s cider had fermented successfully.
I felt a flash of desperate optimism. What if I didn’t have to talk to her? What if I could talk to someone else, anyone else?
“Hello?” I said. “Oh, hiya, hen, it’s just me. Some weather the day, eh?”
It was hardly surprising that my mother had become institutionalized— that, one assumed, was a given, considering the nature of her crime—
but she had gone far, far further than necessary by occasionally adopting the accent and argot of the places where she has been detained.
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