by Kate Long
Ancient Ivy Seddon appeared in the kitchen door holding the hoover by its nozzle. ‘Where do you keep your spare bags, love?’
I said to Mum, ‘What, you’ve got Nan’s mates cleaning for you now?’
Daniel put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Come and help me unload the car, yeah?’
When we were outside the front door he said, ‘It’s her birthday, Charlotte. Don’t wind her up.’
‘I wasn’t. She winds me up.’
He carried on down the path.
‘She winds ME up,’ I repeated, louder.
Across the road, a bright blue and green motorbike pulled onto the Working Men’s car park and came to a halt, revving. The rider cut the engine. Then he climbed off stiffly, like an old man, and pushed his crash helmet up off his face.
I did a double-take – it was an old man. It was my dad. ‘Hey up, Charlie,’ he shouted. ‘What do you reckon?’
Mainly I reckoned his top half looked way too big for his body, with his big-shouldered leather jacket and thin-leg jeans, a Lego-style figure. I made a gesture like I was being dazzled, then I grabbed Mum’s present off the car’s back seat and left him to it.
‘Dad’s here,’ I announced to no one in particular.
‘That’s nice,’ said Ivy.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Mum.
Will rolled onto his front and farted.
As usual Daniel was making a fuss of Mum. ‘Lovely to see you, Mrs Cooper, you’re looking extremely nice today.’ She laps it up, of course.
Meanwhile I threw myself on the sofa with my son and began to tickle him. ‘Mummy’s home now, there’s no escape,’ I said. He giggled, his head butting against my stomach and his legs flailing. Having him close again was pure magic. I wanted to bury my face in his T-shirt and shut out the world. ‘So, have you been a good boy for Grandma?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What’s that? You haven’t been good? You’ve been very naughty? Well then, I’m going to have to eat you up!’ I growled, bent over and pretended to bite his tummy. He shrieked with laughter.
Mum said, ‘When you’ve finished, Charlotte, there’s some bread needs buttering.’
I made a grab for Will’s foot and brought it close to my nose. ‘Pooh, smelly. Pongy socks.’
‘Smelly,’ he said.
‘Eurgh, take it away.’ I rolled him to the other end of the sofa. He scrambled straight back, laughing.
‘Smelly boy.’ I pushed him backwards. He was squealing and red-faced.
‘You’re smelly!’
‘You are. Pooh.’
‘Please don’t get him hyper,’ said Mum. ‘He’ll be sick if you carry on.’
What, was I not allowed to cuddle my own child now? I mean, who did she think she was talking to? Some bloody stranger off the street? But before I could raise a protest, Dad walked in, unzipping his leather jacket.
‘What’s that noise, Karen? Can anyone else hear a baby crying upstairs?’
‘It’s the cat,’ said Mum. ‘I shut him in Charlotte’s room to stop him getting at the sandwiches.’
‘My room? Oh, thanks.’
‘He’s got his litter tray. Come and help me butter this bread, for God’s sake.’
Somehow we all ended up in the back kitchen: me, Mum and Ivy slicing baps, Daniel on the floor with his back against the wall and his long legs stretched out in front of him, Will on his lap, and Dad nicking scraps of boiled ham and Wotsits. Even in here we could make out Pringle calling faintly.
‘Reenie Mather had a cat, saved her life,’ said Ivy. ‘When she fell downstairs, it went round to t’neighbours’ and sat on their windowsill staring in, they couldn’t shift it. Threw water at it, all sorts. So they went round to complain, and that’s when they found her.’
‘What an uplifting story,’ said Daniel.
‘Aye. She died two month later in hospital, mind.’
‘I once watched a film where a cat brought in a severed human hand,’ said Dad, flicking Wotsit dust off his T-shirt.
Will had rolled himself into a ball and was pushing his head determinedly against Daniel’s collarbone. I thought how natural they looked together, and how lucky I was to have such a tolerant boyfriend.
And yet, only last weekend we’d had another row.
The problem was, he didn’t seem to read me any more. When he arrived at York he’d been talking about Will, something funny Will had been doing when he called round to pick up my camera. I said I didn’t want to hear because I was having a bad day. I get these stretches when I’m raw with missing my son and I have to turn his photo face-down, and I’m incredibly touchy about anything to do with kids or mums.
So fair enough, Dan shuts up. But then, a bit later on, I was feeling less down and I wanted to ask about Will’s speech development and whether Mum was making my son talk properly and not still using baby language, because I don’t want him being held back. He’s a bright little boy. He should be saying ‘sheep’, not ‘baa-lamb’. By then, of course, Daniel’s changed tack, is unstoppable. Wants to tell me in tremendous detail about a supersize rodent they’ve discovered in South America, some new genus which makes it really really important (who to? A bunch of nut-head scientists, end of). I mean, bloody hell, giant rats. Sometimes it feels as though he’s trying to provoke me.
I said to Mum, ‘How’s it been, having a pet in the house?’
‘A damn nuisance, if you want to know.’
Daniel glanced up. ‘My dad says pet-owners live longer than non pet-owners. And they visit the GP less.’
‘They visit the vet more, though.’
‘I had a polecat ferret when I was ten,’ said Dad. ‘It stank.’
‘Didn’t you used t’have a donkey, Karen?’ Ivy asked, reaching across for the Lurpak.
A donkey? When on earth had my mother owned a donkey?
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Twinkle. Yes. I’d forgotten him. He lived on a sanctuary in Devon and he used to send me photos and newsletters. Grey, he was, with a black cross on his back because Nan said that’s the marking Jesus bestowed on all donkeys as a thank-you for carrying Him into Jerusalem. She set the whole thing up for me because I wanted a horse but we couldn’t afford one.’
‘So you never actually met this Twinkle?’
‘No. And I was that disappointed when she showed me because I did really want a horse. But she was trying her best, I can see that now. I hope I was grateful enough. I’m not sure I was . . .’ Mum trailed off, looking unhappy.
After a moment Daniel scrambled to his feet. ‘Has your mum seen her present yet, Charlotte? I’ll go fetch it.’
He disappeared back into the lounge. After a moment, Dad and then Will followed.
And still Pringle was yowling. I thought, What if he’s filled his litter tray in protest and then walked it over my duvet? Typical of Mum not to have thought of that. Or perhaps she had; perhaps that was why it was my room he was shut in and not hers. Meanwhile, down here in the kitchen we had about a million buttered baps piled round us, so did it matter if the cat helped himself to a few? It needed every calorie it could get, that bag of fur and bones.
‘I’ll start filling,’ said Ivy. ‘Did I see some tins of salmon in t’cupboard?’
‘They’re out of date,’ said Mum. ‘Use the paste.’
Daniel came back in holding my parcel. ‘Here you are. Happy Birthday, Mrs Cooper.’
‘I’ll just finish here.’
‘No, Mum. Leave them a minute.’
‘There’s drinks to make.’
‘Ivy’ll deal with them. Wipe your hands and then open your present.’
Dad and Will stood in the doorway to watch. Mum paused shyly, then tore into the plastic carrier with zero elegance. In ten seconds she had the jacket out, frowning, shaking it smooth by the shoulders as I’d done when Dan first showed it to me.
‘Is it all right?’ I asked when she didn’t say anything.
‘It’s . . .’
‘I know you had one like it.’
>
‘I did, yes.’
‘So I thought, you know, blast from the past. You never wear purple these days. You never wear any bright colours.’
Mum seemed a bit dazed. ‘Wherever did you find it?’
‘A vintage shop in Manchester. Daniel hunted it down. I paid for it, though.’
‘. . . So much like the one I used to have. I gave it to a charity shop when we moved back here and I was trying to get rid of clutter . . .’ She turned the jacket over to see the label. ‘Mine was from Clockhouse at C&A. Oh!’
‘What?’
‘Well, look. The size. God. I’m never that big. Honestly!’
I shot a look at Daniel.
‘We did measure it,’ he said.
‘I’m not that big,’ she repeated.
I said, ‘It’s vintage sizing, Mum. Just ignore what it says on the label.’
‘Yes, try it on, Mrs Cooper.’
‘It’s a bonny colour,’ said Ivy. ‘Puts me in mind of Vimto.’
Mum stared unhappily at the collar again, then pushed past us through to the living room.
‘Y’all right, love?’ Dad called over his shoulder. There was a short silence, then a howl.
‘What is it, Mum?’
We all craned to see through the doorway. She was standing in front of the mirror, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘It fits. It bloody well fits.’
‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ asked Daniel.
‘But I used to be a twelve!’
‘Didn’t we all, love,’ said Ivy, pouring fresh-boiled water into the tea pot.
Dad picked up Will and handed him across to me, then went to put his arms round her.
‘Get off me.’
‘You look great.’
‘I look fat.’
‘Don’t be daft. Open my present now.’
She began to take the jacket off. Dad reached down under one of the dining chairs and drew out a Thornton’s bag. I could tell by his body language he thought he was onto a winner; what woman doesn’t love a box of posh chocs? But no, he’d managed to pick the wrong moment yet again.
‘For God’s sake,’ she said when she saw it. ‘What is this, a conspiracy? Are you all trying to make me put weight on?’
Ivy bent towards me. ‘I brought her shortbread,’ she whispered. ‘Have I to tek it home with me?’
Fuck knows, I thought. There really was no telling what was happening in that mental head today.
I went, ‘Look, Mum, if you’re not happy, just go on a diet.’ Will wriggled and kicked so I let him slide down onto the floor.
‘So I DO need to go on a diet?’
‘That’s not what I said.’
‘Don’t diet for me,’ said Dad unwisely.
Mum scowled at him, and the think-bubble over her head went: Oh, it’s all right for you. You’ve no idea what it’s like to put on weight, Mr Built-like-a-broom-handle, and Madam there smirking ’cause she’s lean as a whippet, mind you so was I at her age and see what happened. It’ll come to you, Charlotte, it’ll catch up with you because it’s my genes ticking in your body and you’re doomed as I was, doomed.
‘Eeh, watch yourself, love,’ said Ivy, from somewhere at the edge of my hearing. I glanced down to see Will pulling at the cloth under the tea pot, dragging it over the edge of the table so that the pot of boiling liquid lurched towards him.
My heart gave a massive jump. On instinct I snatched his hand away and smacked the back of it, one fluid action, before shoving the tea pot right back where it was safe. Then I flipped the overhanging tablecloth up out of the way and set a plate of biscuits on top. My fingers were tingling with the horror of near-miss. Will was crying. ‘Oh, God, that was—’ I began.
I couldn’t believe what happened next. Within about two seconds Mum was at my side, shouting in my face. ‘Never hit him! You must never hit a child! Ever!’
‘But he would have been scalded. Scarred for life.’
‘Then you move the pot out of the way. There was no need to smack him.’
This was outrageous. ‘Hang on a minute. You used to smack me when I was his age.’
‘And look how you turned out, thinking it’s OK to teach a toddler by hurting him.’
‘I barely touched him!’
‘What was he crying for, then?’
‘You’re making a drama out of nothing. If I think he needs a tap on the wrist, I’ll give him a tap on the wrist. He’s my son.’
‘Who you leave in my care.’
Who you didn’t even want, I could have added. Who you told me to get rid of before he was even born. Remember that, do we? My face flushed and I swallowed with the effort of holding back the words.
I turned to Dad. ‘What’s wrong with her today? Is she menopausal or what?’
Suddenly she twisted away from me and made for the back door. She yanked it open, slammed it behind her. Through the window over the sink we watched as she stomped down the path to the flowering currant bushes by the fence at the bottom. It was still raining.
‘Should I take her an umbrella?’ asked Daniel after a minute or so.
Dad sucked in his breath. ‘I wouldn’t. Leave her alone, that’s the best when she gets like this.’
‘Like what, though? One minute she’s slightly cheesed off, the next she’s lashing out. It’s not normal behaviour.’
‘Aye, well. She has been a bit down lately.’
‘She’s going to get soaked.’ Daniel craned to see the figure in the grey dress at the end of the garden.
‘Good. Cool that temper,’ I snapped.
He looked at me doubtfully.
I said, ‘Sorry, but I’m not going to feel guilty for the way I handle my own son.’
Even as I spoke, though, I remembered Mum telling me once how guilt’s delivered up to every mother along with the placenta. ‘You can never feel easy with yourself again,’ she told me. ‘It’s like lying on a lumpy mattress forever after.’ I didn’t get what she meant at the time.
I looked at Daniel, at Dad.
‘I need to go upstairs and have ten minutes on my own,’ I said. ‘In case my violent tendencies break out again.’
I stood by the fence and felt the rain run over me. I thought, Will being born was supposed to be a fresh start. I was going to put the past behind me, everything. All the moaning about my job or because I had no love-life, push-push-pushing at Charlotte to pass her exams because I’d mucked up mine. Being furious with her for getting pregnant. Then, even worse, the other business, the horrible secret nightmare of tracing my birth mother and finding out what she was really like – most especially that. The darkest time. I’d been so grateful to come back to this house and have them all around me, our normal life. I told myself I was going to be a better mother. I was going to be the best grandma in the world.
For a while I think I almost was. I’d really made an effort to be sunnier and more tolerant, and to listen, and to count to ten before I spoke. And although Mum was ill and in a nursing home, in some ways it was a happy time because a lot of visits she was like herself and could chat and laugh and we were doing these tape recordings and she did love playing with Will. I suppose it was a bit of a golden period.
But over the past months, my best intentions had drained away. Every day I woke feeling bleak and raw. I’d hear my own voice, the snappish downbeat tone, and I’d cringe. Worse, I heard my voice in Charlotte’s. What was I passing on to my daughter? You assume you can pick and choose your children’s inheritance, only the reality is it doesn’t work like that.
I sat on my bed and stewed. Complete fucking over-reaction, or what? Treating me like a naughty kid when I was the parent: me. It wasn’t like I thumped Will or anything. Bloody hell, one smack. And so what if he’d cried a bit? He’d have cried a hell of a lot more if he’d managed to pour boiling water over himself. Two minutes later and he’d have forgotten all about it. In fact – I twitched the curtain to one side – there he was with Ivy on the car park below, running after a pigeon
and laughing. See, Mum? See?
Since Will was born she’d suddenly become hypersensitive to stories of child cruelty, I knew that. But the big irony was, she used to slap my legs all the time. Once she did it in front of my friends in the playground, just because I’d lost my lunchbox twice in a row. The hypocrisy was dizzying. I couldn’t be doing with it.
The voice behind me made me jump.
‘Hullo.’
His accent was Scottish, low and warm. I spun round to see a man about my age looking over the fence at me, bold as anything. He was dressed against the rain in a hooded top so I couldn’t see his hair, but he had a good jaw, brown eyes.
‘Who are you?’ I asked ungraciously.
‘Eric,’ he said.
I let out a squeaky laugh because in our school ERIC means Everyone Reading In Class. I thought about saying that, but realised in time how stupid it would sound. ‘Karen, I’m Karen Cooper. You know that’s somebody’s garden you’re standing in?’
‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Mine. I’m renting.’
‘Mr Cottle’s house?’
‘It’s a woman who’s letting it.’
The niece. ‘I see.’
He said, ‘Look, Karen, sorry to sound like a bad TV advert, but if you can spare a tea bag you might just about save my life.’
‘A tea bag? I think I should be able to manage that.’
‘And a splash of milk. And a mug.’
I squinted past him and saw the removals van parked in the drive. ‘You want me to make you a brew?’
‘That would be fantastic.’ I liked the way he dragged out the vowels: fantaastek. The rain was letting up, and he reached in front of his face and pulled back his hood. Now I could see he was younger than me. His hair was close-cut, brown and crinkly, his eyelashes glossy and long and lush. ‘I’ll pay you back. It’s just that I haven’t managed to hunt down the kitchenware yet. You know what it’s like when you’re unpacking.’
