Page 5 of The Pieces of Us

It’s the first time we’ve been alone together for days.

Her after-school routine has consisted of a quick hello, the usual rummaging in the kitchen cupboards, then several hours behind barriers of different shapes and sizes: her headphones, her duvet, her closed bedroom door.

She’s emerged only when I’ve insisted she eat dinner.

I’m fighting my natural instincts and giving her space to deal with her grandmother moving in on top of the standard teenage girl emotional load: relationships, school, adult life on the horizon.

I know the absence of her father often occupies her thoughts; for someone who’s never here, Tomás certainly manages to take up a lot of space.

I fill three cardboard boxes with Argos catalogues.

Minnie calls them her books, which may be her way of acknowledging that over the last couple of years, her ability to read actual books has vanished.

I work methodically until Ruby comes back and puts a cup of tea in front of me.

It’s too full and some of it sloshes on to the carpet, but I don’t say anything.

I take a sip. No sugar, but now is not the time to point this out. ‘Thanks.’

‘No worries,’ she mumbles.

We fill boxes in silence for a few minutes.

‘Is everything OK, love? You’ve been quiet this week.’

She walks to Minnie’s chest of drawers and upends the contents, spilling conventional garments like socks and knickers interspersed with slightly more unpredictable accessories – a yellow plastic trowel, a cracked leather purse, an empty shampoo bottle – on to the floor. ‘Not now, Mum.’

I hear the quiver in her voice. ‘Oh, sweetheart.’ I put my tea on the nearest stack of catalogues and go to her, stepping over the trowel, kicking the shampoo bottle out of the way. I hug her tightly, breathing in Marc Jacobs Daisy, then pull away and lift her chin up to force her to look at me.

‘I know this is a huge change. But we’ll cope with it the same way we cope with everything else.

’ I don’t let myself think about my overdraft, about my role as Minnie’s carer on top of my twelve hours a week in Pete’s flower shop, about my constant fear that I’ve been getting too much in benefits and that I’ll need to pay it back.

‘Everything will be fine,’ I tell Ruby firmly, pushing away the niggling thought that there’s still more going on with her.

‘We’d better get on.’ She sniffs. ‘Get home to Gran.’

‘Lena is there,’ I remind her. But I relax my arms and let her move away from me.

‘What’s in here?’ She pulls at the handles of a tall wooden cabinet.

‘The doors stick,’ I tell her. ‘Pull harder.’

The last time I checked, the cabinet was filled with bedding and towels. But now, when the doors finally open, it discharges a deluge of Argos catalogues.

When Charlie’s not using his white van for work, it comes in handy for IKEA trips and house clearances and giving Lisa a lift home from the pub on a Saturday night.

Charlie’s the rarest breed of Scotsman – he doesn’t drink, and it’s not because he’s a recovering alcoholic.

He just prefers lime and soda and being in control of his faculties.

Lisa jokes that she’s saved a fortune on taxis in the six months they’ve been together, but I know how she feels about him.

I’ve seen the way she looks at him when she thinks nobody’s watching.

It’s emotional watching my best friend’s boyfriend load my mother’s worldly goods out of the house and into his transit van.

Most of her furniture is staying here until the house is sold, then will be picked up by the Salvation Army.

But the high-backed red-velvet chair that belonged to Nana is going into Charlie’s van.

Minnie likes to sit on it and look through her collection of catalogues.

I’m hoping I can squeeze it in front of her bedroom window so she can watch people come and go on the busy street outside.

I sit on the chair before it leaves its long-term spot.

It’s not as comfortable as it used to be, but I could stay here for hours with my memories of Nana.

I can smell the lentils soaking in the mixing bowl in her kitchen, hear the click-clack of her knitting needles as she worked on a baby blanket for the street’s latest arrival.

Everyone got a blanket, whether she knew them or not.

When she died I was twenty, paralysed by postpartum shockwaves.

I insisted on taking Ruby to the funeral with me, a decision I quickly regretted when she wailed and rooted at my breast throughout the whole service.

By the time we got to the final hymn, Ruby was distraught and the front of my blouse was saturated with milk.

I reluctantly admitted defeat when we left the church, handing her to Lisa before I shuffled with the rest of the party to Nana’s final resting place.

The minister raised his voice to commit Nana’s body to the ground as the whip of the uncompromising December wind carried Ruby’s frantic screams graveside.

I allow myself a few more minutes on the velvet chair, just long enough to relive childhood birthday parties, Hogmanay sing-songs, tears of elation and frustration and sorrow.

Baby Ruby crawling across this floor. When my mind catches up with more recent times, marked by too many close calls and late-night visits to make sure my mother was safe, I know it’s time to stand up.

I hug Lisa at the front door, holding on to her for longer than I normally would, while Charlie carefully makes space for Nana’s velvet chair in his van.

‘I’ll meet you at my place as soon as I’ve finished with the estate agent,’ I say.

‘Take your time.’ Lisa squeezes my arm.

Then they drive away, Ruby sitting up front beside them, just as a tall man carrying a briefcase approaches the house.

‘Hello. I’m Asim Khan.’ A large hand appears at the end of a pinstriped arm.

He has a wide smile; in fact – as Minnie would say – he smiles with his whole face, his eyes crinkled at the corners.

My next thought – that he’s handsome, and I wish I’d at least put some tinted moisturizer on this morning, maybe mascara to make my eyes look a little more awake – takes me by surprise.

It’s been a long time since I’ve noticed a man’s wide smile or crinkly eyes.

‘Cat McAllister,’ I say. ‘Minnie’s daughter.’

‘Nice to meet you, Cat,’ he says, following me into the house. ‘Thanks for using Lombardi and Greene to sell your mother’s property.’

‘Sure. I just want a quick sale.’

‘Well, I’ll do my very best for you.’

‘Sounds good.’ I hover in the hall as he goes into every room, doing whatever it is that estate agents do.

Asim tells me that the house will go on the market as soon as I’ve signed the paperwork. ‘You have power of attorney, right?’ he asks, and I nod. Minnie was savvy enough to get all the legal stuff in place while she still had the capacity to make big life decisions.

‘My mother has Alzheimer’s.’ The lump in my throat takes me by surprise.

I hold it there for a moment to stop myself saying anything else.

I don’t often speak those words out loud.

And it’s too late to take them back, so I hold the lump and hope Asim can’t see the birth of a tear in the corner of my left eye.

‘Ah. I’m sorry.’

I look away from his kind eyes, which I initially thought were brown but are, in fact, so dark and inky they’re practically black, and slide my finger under the edge of a strip of paper curling away from the wall.

My mum and I redecorated the whole house ourselves when Ruby was a baby.

Minnie chose the rose-patterned wallpaper because it reminded her of summer days and Ruby watched us from her playpen as we taught ourselves how to apply the strips to the walls.

‘Well, if it helps at all … I can tell you that this type of property tends to go fast. No guarantees, obviously. But your mum’s place is in a great location and will definitely appeal to the buy-to-let market.’

‘That’s good.’ I look back at him now that I’ve got my emotions under control again.

He hands me a pile of forms from his briefcase. ‘All the details are in there. I’ll get our photographer round this week. What’s your availability for viewings?’

‘It might be tricky,’ I admit. ‘Minnie has just moved in and I’m looking after her when I’m not working.’

‘Hands full then.’

‘I’ll make sure I get the windows cleaned. Oh, and I also need to come back and touch up the paintwork in the kitchen,’ I tell him. ‘Minnie … well, there was an incident with a frying pan.’

He waves away my explanation. ‘Don’t worry about it. If you have a spare key, I’ll take care of the viewings.’

I dig the key out of my pocket. ‘Thank you.’

‘I’ll be in touch, Cat.’ With his hand on the front door handle, he turns back. ‘My grandfather has Alzheimer’s. I watched my mother care for him until he moved into the nursing home a few years ago. I saw how hard it was. She used to say, piece by piece . Like, one day at a time. If that helps.’

‘ Piece by piece ,’ I repeat, nodding.

‘My mobile number is on the brochure. Call me if you have any questions. About the house … or having a loved one with Alzheimer’s. I know it can be a lonely place, Cat.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, trying to keep my voice strong. I keep the front door open until he’s out of sight.

Asim’s words ring in my ears on my drive home. Piece by piece . What’s the next piece? Finding somewhere in my already cramped flat for my mother’s life in sixteen large boxes. A piece is something of manageable size – a piece of jewellery, a jigsaw piece, a piece of toast.

I pull up on my street behind Charlie’s van and join Lisa, who’s hauling a box on to the pavement.

‘Bloody hell,’ she groans. ‘What’s in here?’

‘Books and magazines. Random stuff Min won’t get rid of. God knows. I’m picking my battles carefully right now.’

‘Hey.’ She grabs my hand. ‘This is a lot to deal with. We’re all here for you.’