Your business partner vouched for her as an old acquaintance with an impressive reputation in charitable fundraising – except he couldn't remember her now, either...
Maybe he had early onset Alzheimers'. Weren't you having some kind of breakdown around the time you met? That would account for not remembering much about it.
Sure. Sure, guys.
There were enough of Arthur's kind, for damage limitation. They could move in and clean up if there was a spill. If need be. But often enough humans did their work for them.
So after he'd got Mum back under control, he sat her down on the kitchen couch. (Dog hairs and all –- the middle classes could be pretty disgusting, but the fringe benefits made it worthwhile.). He made her herbal tea, spearmint and apple in her favourite cup, and sat down with her, his arm around her shoulder. By this time Mal was under the impression that she'd had some sudden and rather severe heart palpitations, and he'd come in from college to find her crouched up against the Aga, unable to get up.
Reasonably enough, she was a little shaken up. If not for the reasons she believed.
He patted her hair gently, and got up. "I'll finish up making the dinner," he said firmly. "But look, Mum, don't you think it would be better if we just got in the car and went down to A&E? I know you don't want to over-dramatize it, but I'm a bit worried myself... I mean, just to reassure me and Dad? I know he's going to be worried."
Mum prissed up her lips, generally a sign of stubbornness, a sign to know when to pack up and go home. "No, Arthur. Honestly. I feel fine now – just a bit worked up, perhaps. I'll go in the morning if you like, but for now I just want a quiet sit down and a good meal. I'm so hungry!"
And Arthur gave up the struggle, knowing that Dom -- that Dad would take it up again, when he got in from a meeting at his company HQ in half an hour. Instead he put on some Dinah Washington , one of Mum's favourites, and she relaxed and watched him and chatted, as he chopped peppers and pressed garlic, washed rice and fried chicken. Ten minutes in, and he heard Pip's footsteps on the stairs, then Timmy, accompanied by the heave and pound of their dog Zymo lunging down with them. I hoped they hadn't been letting the unhygienic hound lie on their beds again, but he wasn't going to bring it up now and get Mum aerated. Tim flung himself onto the couch next to Mal, with Zymo landing on him heavily. Pip skipped in, launching herself at the chopped red peppers neatly bunched up in a white china bowl, and scoffing half of them. Arthur slapped her fingers.
"Leave off! Dinner in quarter of an hour."
"Big old meanie!" she observed. Such a lady. She was lucky sometimes to get no more than a finger-slap. Where Tim was cuddling up to Mal on the sofa, he wrinkled up his forehead. "You all right, mum-mum?" he asked.
Arthur didn't think that he'd picked up on any vibe especially. It was just unusual, for Mum to get caught sitting on her arse. Or inactive in any way. She was normally a hub, a dynamo.
"Well, I think -- " Arthur began. But Mal cut him off, with a look.
"Fine, love," she reassured the kid, his brother -- his 'brother'. "Just taking a break, while Arthur dazzles us with his skill in the kitchen, aren't I, love?"
"Uh-oh," Pip said.
* W.B. Yeats.
