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Consciousness, Literature and the Arts

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Volume 4 Number 3, December 2003

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A MOTHER'S PERSPECTIVE

ROBIN GRAHAM

145 Blackfriar Court

St Simon Street

Salford M3 7FS

0044-161-831-9385

(c)

January 2003

CHARACTER:

BERYL: English woman, about 60, probably with thin arms and legs.

Also referred to:

JAMES: Her eldest son

LORRAINE: James' wife

SUZY: Daughter of James and Lorraine

ANDREW: Her youngest son

JACK: Her ex-husband

LOCATION:

The spare bedroom in James' house in New Zealand.

In the room, there is likely to be:

a bed

a door

a place to hang a couple of dresses (or a wardrobe)

an area offstage she can go to wash her face (or a sink)

a mirror she can sit at (or dressing table) to do her make-up

two suitcases - one large and one for toiletries and make-up

TIME:

The present, morning, one weekend.

A MOTHER'S PERSPECTIVE

(Note: stage directions are suggested to help the reading of the script).

Note 1: At the start, BERYL may bring her suitcase or vanity case or passport/plane ticket on as she takes her place.

Note 2: As she addresses her thoughts to different characters, sound effects may be introduced to distinguish between the men in her life.

Note 3: She may address her thoughts to individual audience members.

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SUNDAY MORNING. THE SPARE BEDROOM IN JAMES' HOUSE. Suitcases are visible.

A clock is ticking... Maybe sunlight streams in. BERYL is in bed under the covers, untidy from a night's sleep. She sits up, very tired, holding her head in her hands. She is in her night clothes.

BERYL: (To herself:) I should have told him Friday. I wasted Saturday. Sunday. This is the day. It's now or never.

She continues staring into the distance. She brings the bedclothes closer around her, and hugs them.

(To herself:) I may not be able to do it tomorrow. I have nothing to be ashamed of.

She hugs herself.

Look at yourself.

She strokes her arms. Then stops. She looks at the clock.

When did they say they'd have breakfast? When do I have to go downstairs? Soon. Not yet. Then we'll get the paper. James and me. Find out the news. See what's happening in the world.

Beryl yawns.

Another five minutes...

Beryl gets back under the covers. Pause. There's a knock at the door. She peers over the covers. There is another louder knocking.

Don't come in! I'm not decent! You wouldn't like to see your mother not decent! I'll be down soon. Once I've put my face on. (Pause) And James? Let me know when you're going for the paper. I'd like to come with you.

Pause, giving time for the person at the door to leave. Then Beryl keeps talking, addressing her thoughts to James...

(To herself:) Do you remember, James? That first time you brought me tea in bed? You and little Andrew. What a disaster! Your father was scalded. The sheets were ruined. The mattress smelt rancid for a week. You cried your eyes out. Andrew hid under the bed and giggled. Grandma's teapot was smashed. And all because you wanted to say thank you. I'd taken you to Carousel. You James, you were always the one who liked musicals. Your Dad wouldn't go in case he laughed in public. And we cried as they sang "When you walk through a storm". (Maybe singing:) "When you walk through a storm, keep your chin up high". Where to put my chin now?

She moves her head as she speaks...

Up high? Down low? And eyes up? Or eyes down. Nose up. Nose down. Head squashed up. Against a window pane. Like that Halloween. You remember? Me and Andrew. We scared the living daylights out of you. You remember Andrew? Well, how often do you remember him? Did you send him a birthday card? Birthdays were always so important in our family. You know the birthday of yours I think about most? That year we took your friends to see "The Sound of Music" and sat in the expensive seats and spilt popcorn over the balcony. When Julie Andrews came over the brow of the hill, arms wide, eyes wide, smile wide, goodness knows what else wide, and mouth wide, singing "The hills are alive with the sound of music"... That's how a family should be. Alive. With the sound of music. Of course, Julie Andrews is over the hill now. And so is your father. And me. No! Not me.

Pause. Maybe she gets out of bed when describing Andrew's room, and mimes what she's talking about...

Andrew's still with his affair. Has he told you? They're so in love. You should see them together. Maybe one day you will. They'll come to visit you. Would you like that? I would. I'd like you to be closer with your brother. You couldn't be much farther apart. You in New Zealand. Him in Wales. The only thing in common is the sheep. No, I don't believe I said that. You remember when you first went out with your Lorraine. And Andrew was starting A-levels. And was acting coyly. You said maybe he had a girlfriend. And I bet you I'd get him to tell me. So I looked in his room. A mother's prying. You want to know what they're up to. Not getting into any sort of trouble. Looked first in his underwear drawer. Found nothing. Then in his bedside cabinet. Nothing. More or less. Then picked up his dirty washing. Which I hadn't done for a long time. Not that I wanted him to have dirty clothes. But he had to learn sometime. Underneath a mud-stained shirt... Goodness knows how he got a shirt that muddy... There was a page torn from a newspaper. And screwed up pieces of paper that he must have scribbled his replies on. "Dear box .... I think you sound very sexy. My name is Andrew. I am 16, good looking, with a nice body, and a ... " No! No, no, no!... And I checked the page from the newspaper to see who was this box number. I'd never suspected. It had never even crossed my mind. Oh, the shock. Oh I can't tell you what a shock it was. I really had no idea. Of course I said nothing. I waited for him to tell me. And I waited. I'd always brought my children up to know they could come to me with anything. Even if they'd replied to personal ad's. But I couldn't say anything or he'd know I'd been in his room. And he would never trust me again. And nor would you, James, if you'd thought I'd been prying. You always thought I didn't know about those car calendars. Goodness knows what they had to do with cars. And you thought I didn't know about the hand-embroidered silk boxers that girl at school gave you. And those lovely poems you wrote to her and she gave you back. I couldn't have any of you not trust me. We are a family. We can be honest with each other. So I put the dirty washing back. Threw it on the floor like he did. And waited for my moment. He caught me looking at him, on several occasions, and looked away quickly. Then one day, the postman brought the brown envelopes. Andrew was at the door to greet him, then disappeared upstairs via the underwear drawer, and off to school. He had two replies. The first was just embarrassing. Sexual perversions: ice cubes, candles, fromage frais, chocolate sauce and dried apple rings....

Pause while Beryl smiles to herself...

The other letter was from a lovely young man with red hair and freckles. He'd sent a picture taken on holiday. His mum, his dad, his younger sister. Having a wonderful time. All sipping Sangria. In the Sun. He was Andrew's age. And ever so sensible. That night, Andrew came home. "Andrew?" I said. My chin was held a little higher than usual. My eyes looking down at him.

"You and I have got to talk".

"Yes mum".

"Andrew, are you gay?".

"Yes mum".

"I see".

Not that I could.

"Mum, how did you find out?".

"I just guessed. When did you know?"

"When I was 5".

"Five! You've been at it since 5!"

"No. I wrote a letter. I'll show you. Wait here".

All those years of knowing. I wiped my eyes. I did put his letters back in the underwear drawer, didn't I? He came back and showed me just one letter. With the picture of the "Sound of Music" family.

"Mum, I replied to some ad's".

"Just one reply?".

"Yes".

To this day I haven't let on that I saw the other.

"He looks nice. Are you going to write to him?"

"No".

"Why not?"

"He's ugly".

"Ugly?" (Pause) "Ugly!"

Beryl starts laughing. It becomes almost hysterical. It turns into tears. Then sobs... She takes a tissue from the suitcase.

Oh, James. We brought you up the same. You and Andrew. Sent you to the same school. Sent you both to cubs. Went swimming and collected conkers. Dressed you up for halloween and weddings and christenings. Made you both sing to Grandma and kiss her. Andrew was the sporty one. The athletic one. You were the one who liked musicals. I cried so many tears. Don't ask me where all the water came from. For three months I cried.

It wasn't that I had any bad thoughts about homosexuals. I just felt that he was going to have a terrible life, not holding down a job, not having any friends, trouble with neighbours and finding a house. You don't want that for your children. You want the very best for your children. The best that they can possibly have. And you hope one day your son is going to get married, give you grandchildren. I said

"Andrew, I'm scared for you. Scared you'll have such a terrible life".

And he said:

"I've never thought of it like that".

"Andrew, I'm scared you'll get AIDS and die".

"Don't worry, Mum. Mum, I'm so glad you know and it's out in the open".

He was such a shy boy, he wasn't going to sleep with anybody. Certainly not anyone ugly.

I hate secrets. I just wanted to put my arms round him. But until I stopped crying, I couldn't hug him. Because my hands were so full of tissues. But time heals. And James, you hadn't suspected. I'd thought maybe me the mother was blind, and hadn't seen it. You said it was fine. One of your friends was gay. And you would defend him to the bitter end if there was any trouble of any kind. But you didn't tell your Lorraine. We were over for dinner, your father and I, years later, and Lorraine asked you if Andrew was courting... if he had a girlfriend. And I remember I looked at you with raised eyebrows, and you, sitting a little way behind her, shrugged, shook your head. Yes, at the beginning, I'd prayed that we'd wake up one day and that Andrew would have decided he wasn't gay any more. But that doesn't happen, does it. (Affirming:) It was three years before I actually said to someone "I've got a gay son". Now I can say it without thinking. And if they don't like it, "tough".

She washes her face.

Of course, your father hasn't sent Andrew a birthday card since. And birthdays were always so important in our house. Your father just concentrated on dinner parties. And golf. Drinks. Golf. Sun bathing. Golf. You'd think a man's best friend was his golf club. Wanted to be a pro. Hand wasn't steady enough. Always liked a drink, your father. Ice cold eyes. Nerves of steel. Handshake of iron. Hands shaking like blancmange. Do you remember when we went away. Andrew was at University, and you were married, when we swapped you, for Sun and Sangria. Car laden. New home. New start. New beginning. You, Lorraine and Andrew. Waving as we drove away. Your father was too drunk to drive.

Of course, your father wouldn't let Andrew come out to see us. He blamed Andrew for scattering the family. Every year I went to Cardiff. Except once, five years on. And this time your father wasn't going to have his way. Andrew deserved a holiday. For a fortnight he came out to see us. Your father said no more than a phrase each time he saw Andrew. (Slightly slurred:) "Cheers, Andrew!" "Are you on drugs?" "Are you an actor?" "Pass me the whisky". "I suppose you drink sweet cider". "You're not my son". "Keep away from me". "Little bastard". Andrew had grown into quite a man by then. A health worker. For gay men. An HIV support group. Been with the same partner for three years. Another Andrew. Red hair, but dyed red. And I mean bright. Scarlet. We'd always said you can't catch it by contact. But for years, your father wouldn't have Andrew in the house. "In case he's got that damned gay plague", he'd say. Two days Andrew had been with us when they rowed like rottweilers.

Life hadn't been that bad in Spain. Apart from your father's drinking. He wasn't at all well. I thought he might have cirrhosis of the liver. I went with him to the doctor. They did the usual tests. But they couldn't find what was wrong. And I nagged, how I nagged, for him to stop drinking. To give his body a chance. Other people used to say we were such a close and happy couple. At the golf club they'd say "he talks about you all the time". One woman actually said she was frightened to death of meeting me because I was "such a paragon of virtue". He praised me all the time, and bought me presents. Told me that he loved me every day. And I looked after him when he was ill. I thought he was as contented and happy in the marriage as I was. It was only when I left Spain and came to England to put your grandma in a home... 3 months I was away. Slowly and surely things came to light.

Telephoning:

"Jack, I'm coming home on Sunday". (Pause)

"Where are you going?" (Pause)

"That'll be nice. By the sea. I'll see if Mother wants to go to Morecambe, and

we can think about you. I love you".

'Phone down. Pause. New call.

"Jack, I'm getting a later flight". (Pause)

"Never mind. (Pause) Jack, Madrid?" (Pause)

"You said Cadiz when I spoke to you before". (Pause)

"But..." (Pause)

"Don't get angry." (Pause)

"I can't wait to see you, Jack." (Pause)

"We'll talk then." (Pause)

And he slammed down the receiver. Even Andrew said to me "you don't really think that there's any body else" and I said "oh no" and I really meant it. But by the time I was on the plane, I wondered... I was home well before your father. When he came in, and I went towards him to put my arms around him, so glad to see him, he cried and confessed that he'd been away with some woman. He was so besotted with her, he was talking about leaving. And I was begging him to stay. Then telling him to go, not that I'd know what I'd do if he did. But then he realised that this new woman wouldn't fit in at the golf club. And we came to New Zealand for your Suzy's christening, and sort of put it behind us. Then he became sick, with fairly minor things at first. And he tried to cut down on his drinking.

It was three years ago that Andrew came out to see us for that fortnight. Three years ago. Just after a particularly harrowing halloween when your father was the horror show, recalling all the other women he'd met. Some by accident. Some through the personal ad's. Always was up for a trick or treat, you father. Of course by now the symptoms were becoming quite clear. If you knew what to look for. But I didn't know. I always went to the doctors with your father, except for the one time after he'd had that row with Andrew. Your father stopped me going. And we had a row because it was so unusual for me not to go. That must have been the day that he asked for the test. You asked for the test. It wasn't included in a normal blood test. In Spain, you had to pay for it. The awful part was the following week, with Andrew off travelling on his own for a few days, when your father went back to the doctors, he asked:

"Are you coming, Beryl?".

"Am I allowed to this week?" I said.

We just walked into that surgery, with me not suspecting a thing. We sat there together. Our doctor held a piece of paper in his hand, and he said "Jack, this is the problem, this has been the problem all along." And I said "what's that". Jack muttered into the carpet:

"I've had an HIV test. And it's positive".

The ground just opened up. I was falling into a deep black chasm, couldn't see any daylight, just falling. The doctor's nurse, who was also his wife, put her arms round me and said in her squeaky little voice, "Beryl, it isn't so bad, he hasn't got full blown AIDS", and I remember saying:

"You don't understand. That isn't the problem. Where has he got it from?".

He betrayed me. The whole world just fell apart in that instant. Then of course was the suggestion that I should be tested. But I was really well and healthy, so I was convinced it wasn't a problem for me. I paid the doctor and he took my blood. Four days later he told me over the telephone. Because I insisted. "Positivo". "Positivo". This could not be happening to me. I was well, I was healthy. I could not be positive. I rang back the next day. Of course I got the same result. I really thought I'd be dead in a year. I'd die very quickly and very horribly. But three years on I'm here, James. I'm here to tell you. The shock, the horror. Nothing will ever be the same again. Life's changed. I never thought I'd be happy again. Time is a great healer. Life goes on. But this has been inflicted on me. Your father has done this to me. Betrayal. Stupid. I believed in him. That we were good together. Andrew had seen the signs. He recognised them. He'd told your father. That's why they rowed so bitterly. But he was on holiday with us. So of course, I tried to block it out. Have a nice few days with him before he went home. We were out walking. He'd linked his arm with mine. Neither of us had said anything for a while.

"Mum?"

"Yes".

"Is dad HIV positive?"

"Yes".

"Mum, what about you?".

And then I lied. He was on holiday. It was his first holiday in years. He was only there a few days. So I lied to him.

"I've had the test but I don't have the result".

"Mum, when do you get it?"

"Monday".

"I'll ring you. Monday".

How I got through those next few days with Andrew, I don't know. I had to shut it out and pretend it hadn't happened. He certainly knew. He rang me on the Monday. I let it ring a while.

"Hello?"

"Mum, it's Andrew."

"Andrew! How are you?"

"I've not slept, wondering what you're going to say to me".

"I'm sorry Andrew, it's bad news. It is positive".

"Mum, I don't know what to say. If anybody was going to come home with this, it was me. Not you."

Beryl cries.

I cried. And I cried. More tissues. So many boxes, I collected the tokens and could send away for a plastic toreador. Andrew was wonderful. He sent me literature all about the CD4 and the viral load. He sent me letters of encouragement: it wasn't the end, I wasn't going to die there and then. Your father to this day has never read a thing. He keeps his hospital appointments, swallows the tablets they give him. But he doesn't want to know. In his mind he hasn't got it. I came back to England because I didn't like the Spanish hospital, I couldn't understand, and I wanted to understand exactly what was going on. I waited until after Christmas. I couldn't come home and spoil everybody else's Christmas. So I put on a brave face. Went out with your father for New Year. Kept up the appearance that we were all right. With people asking me about him because he was so ill and me wanting to scream at them, "he's done this to me". Nobody knew. People still don't know. I came home in the January with nothing. I lost everything. My marriage, my home, the lifestyle that people envied. They disappeared overnight. And when I said I was coming back to England, your father said:

"Who's going to look after me when you're gone?".

I said:

"Jack, who is going to look after me?"

He'd never had any sympathy for me if I wasn't well. But when it came to this: he wanted to know who was going to look after him. Not "I'm sorry I've done this terrible thing and I'll take care of you"... I said "Jack, we are both paying dearly for your affairs. We've got to talk". But he wouldn't talk. I said "Someone you've been with has given you this virus...", and he turned round and said: "What about you, Beryl?". As if I'd infected him. It was like a physical pain. With that sentence he killed everything that I ever felt for him.

There is a knock at the door. Pause. Another knock.

I'll be out in a minute. I'm changing. (To herself:) I am changing.

Pause.

The day I left him, he just lay there in a drunken stupor. He knew I was leaving. He just lay there naked. With the taxi waiting outside for me. I want to live a life of dignity. At least he could have been honest with me. And told me he was frightened.

Beryl opens her small suitcase and takes out her make-up. Her medication is there. She picks it up and looks at it.

When I came to England, and presented myself at the hospital, they said I'd have to be retested. The immediate thought in my head was "The Spanish have got it wrong. I'm not positive. He's put me through all this for nothing". The counsellor said "you know the result will be the same, but we need to have our own results". In that split second, I thought "They're wrong. The Spanish are wrong". (Pause) You can never forget it. Every day, you're reminded. James, you must have wondered what this medication is for. How much do you know? I hate hiding, lying, inventing stories to say why I have to go to the hospital, why some days I'm tired, pretending to feel better than I am... Saying I've got a blood disorder, something I picked up while I was abroad. You, waiting for answers, me not saying anything, because I don't have enough medical knowledge to lie. I'd trip myself up. (Pause). (Maybe whispering:) This is why I'm here. Not to enjoy myself. To tell. I'm not guilty of anything. I haven't done anything wrong. I shouldn't have this. I shouldn't have to do this. There's nothing to feel guilty about. It just isn't something I can say over the 'phone or in a letter. I can imagine you: "Look, I've got a letter from mum". And you reading it aloud. To your family. I couldn't do that. I have to be with you. It has to be today. I'll tell you when we go for the papers. You and me. You're working tomorrow. I may not get another chance. I may not be strong enough tomorrow. Life changes. I am changing. My spirit is here, but my body is failing me. I am wasting away. My whole world knows I am here. And if you don't like it? What do I do then? Will you make me leave? Should I be ready?

Beryl starts packing everything, apart from one dress which she intends wearing. She starts brushing her hair, quite aggressively, while looking in the mirror. She tries putting on her make-up, but can't look at the reflection of her face.

I look so dreadful without my face. My lipstick. My eyes. My complexion.

There is a long pause, and she does look at herself in the mirror. Then she starts taking dresses from her suitcase and discarding them, until she takes out a beautiful dress.

From my new lover...

She holds it up, and as it unrolls some sexy underwear falls out. She picks it up.

See what your brother bought me. Cheeky bugger.

She holds the dress against her body and dances with it...

Two months we'd been going out with each other when he said he was getting serious and wanted to take me to bed. So I told it how it was. He came across the room and put his arm round me. And all the time he was having an out of body experience, because even though he was there, he was running a mile. He was saying:

"This is a shock. But I've got to know you a little bit and I like you".

He must have thought a nice lady like Beryl doesn't have things like this. I really thought that would have been the end. Not the beginning. And he's stayed with me. I wonder if he thought "you know what's she been up to", like everyone else does. That the blame would come on to me.

She sits and looks in the mirror. James calls up to her. Pause.

(Calling downstairs:) "I'm on my way".

Still listening, James calls up again. Beryl is alarmed.

(Still calling downstairs) Suzy wants to come?

Pause while Beryl has a silent panic. Beryl collapses in dismay.

What now? Put off for another day?

Long pause. Beryl gets up, goes towards the door, eventually opens the door.

No! (Calling out:) James, she can't come. I want to talk to you. I'm sorry Suzy, love. (To herself:) Of course Grandma loves you.

Beryl stays inside the room, and shuts the door. She takes a handful of tissues, and finishes dressing in her new clothes in silence. She sits in silence. She looks at herself in the mirror.

James, it's only just hit your father what's happening. Because he's never been in hospital before. When he had to go in, he came back to England. He's told no-one. No friends. No family. He won't let anyone come to visit. Because of the ward he's in. He was 64 last month. I didn't send him a card. My new lover can't understand how I don't hate him. But I can't live like that. I was visiting one of my friends in the HIV ward. And through a doorway, I saw him. Your father. And he saw me. He held out his hand. He was so gaunt and sick. I didn't recognise him. He'd never said what should have been said. He took his anger out on me. Wanted to put the blame on me. That's the way he coped. They were so unimportant, these little affairs he had, that he couldn't possibly have got anything so serious. It couldn't happen to him. Or me. I didn't recognise him. He told me he still loved me. (Pause) So, lets walk to the newsagent at the brow of the hill. Just you and me, James. I'll say: "You know I've not been well recently". And you'll say "Yes. Do you know what's been the problem?" I'll say: "That's why I'm here. To tell you what's happening. That I'm no danger to Suzy. By hugging or touching or drinking out of the same cup. James? Your mum is HIV positive. I got it from your father who doesn't know where he got it from. And he's dying of AIDS". And you'll tell me that you love me. And you'll put your arms round me. And lift me up. And swing me round. And we will cry together. And walk along the avenue roads. And get the news. And I'll tell you I want Lorraine to know. And you'll say "I don't care who knows". And I'll ask you to come back to England with me. Just for one day. And at the bedside of your father, we'll be a family once again.

Beryl opens the door, takes some tissues, and leaves, closing the door behind her.

END