Dear Mother: A gripping and emotional story that will make you sob your heart out

by Angela Marsons

‘She copied a picture?’ Catherine asked, trying to understand the teacher’s excitement.

  ‘She did much more than that. Look at how she managed to emulate the subtle shades of the colours. She would have needed to mix colours to achieve that – something far in excess of normal capabilities for this age group. Look at the detail she put into the placement of the stars. The fact that everything within the picture is in proportion to each other.’

  ‘But ultimately, you’re telling me that she copied a picture?’

  Tim shot daggers in her direction as he looked towards the girls. Lucy had moved slightly closer and her face looked flushed and crestfallen. She returned to her place beside Jess on the play mat.

  ‘What I’m trying to demonstrate is that this painting is an exceptional piece of work, and would be for a child twice her age.’

  ‘She’s six years old and she copied a picture,’ Catherine exclaimed, ignoring Tim’s warning glance. Catherine was concerned about the ideas this teacher might be putting into a young girl’s head. What she saw on the page was a mixture of balls daubed with pretty colours.

  ‘What I’m trying to say, Mrs Richards, is that Lucy is an incredibly talented and gifted child and this talent should be nurtured and encouraged.’

  The woman continued to drone on as Catherine found herself transported back to a similar room many years earlier.

  ‘Catherine, that is absolutely beautiful,’ Mrs Tromans had said to her.

  Catherine had liked Mrs Tromans. She was big and warm with woolly cardigans and feather earrings. She smelled of flowery perfume, smiled a lot and patted her on the head.

  ‘I love the way you’ve used green glitter to form the branches of the Christmas tree.’

  The teacher took the card from her. ‘Truly, Catherine, this is a very skilful piece of work.’

  Catherine glowed with pride as Mrs Tromans touched the sparkly glitter. ‘Is this for your mum?’

  Catherine nodded.

  ‘I think she’ll love it and give it pride of place above the fire. Go and write a nice message inside so that you can take it home today.’

  Catherine returned to the table and sat silently for a moment. She picked up a crayon but she didn’t know what to write. She glanced at Becky’s card and saw that it was filled with hearts and kisses and stars. She had a good look and then copied what Becky had done.

  The finished card filled her with pride. The hearts were better than Becky’s because they were coloured in. The stars were prettier because she’d done them in different colours. Mrs Tromans was right, Catherine decided. Her mum was sure to love it.

  She placed the card at the back of her exercise book to protect it from the plimsolls in her bag. The covers of the book would keep it flat and clean.

  She skipped home, imagining her mum putting up the Christmas tree. All of her school friends were already filled with wonder at the glistening baubles and colourful tinsel of their own trees, but hers wasn’t up yet.

  The house was as bare as when she’d left it. No bright Christmas tree with colourful lights or red and white candy canes. Her mum was at the table spreading jam sandwiches for tea, a grim look on her face. Beth stood solemnly beside her cutting the sandwiches into smaller squares. Alex was waving her potty around her head in the living room.

  Catherine took the card from the supermarket carrier bag that served as her school bag. She handed the card to her mum who opened it and started laughing. For a moment, just a brief moment, Catherine thought that she had done something good. But then the smile turned into a sneer and cold eyes rested upon her.

  ‘What the bloody hell is this?’

  ‘A Christmas card.’

  Her mum turned it over and looked at every surface. ‘You could have fooled me. It’s a scrap of shitty paper with some cheap glitter thrown on it.’

  ‘I made it for you,’ Catherine tried to explain, thinking it would make a difference. ‘I wrote in the middle—’

  ‘You spelt Christmas wrong.’ Her mum smiled again, the corners of her mouth twisting. ‘I’ve got enough fucking rubbish to get rid of. I don’t need no more,’ she laughed, tossing it into the bin amongst the stale bread and used tea bags.

  Catherine felt the tears sting the backs of her eyes. The card, so colourful and bright, in the bin.

  ‘But Mrs Tromans said—’

  ‘Fuck, Mrs Tromans. Teachers will say anything to get you to behave. It’s no fucking masterpiece, I can tell you that much.’

  Beth moved to retrieve it but her mother was faster and poured the dregs from the teapot into the bin.

  Catherine backed out of the room, desperate not to let the tears fall over her cheeks. Making the card had taken her into a world of her own. She had become oblivious to the rest of the classroom. She had been transported into a parallel universe where it was just her and the picture in her head. And she’d thought it was good.

  She had never picked up a paintbrush again.

  Catherine shook herself back to the present. She’d heard enough. She had no idea how this girl, who was hardly out of college herself, had the gall to fill the heads of her children with outlandish claims.

  Catherine stood and offered her hand. ‘Thank you for your time, Miss Whitney, but it’s late and the girls are tired.’

  Having no choice, Tim followed suit before calling the girls over. Catherine felt the awkwardness between them as they left the classroom but she didn’t care. That teacher had no right filling anyone’s head with unrealistic expectations. ‘Honestly, who does that…?’

  ‘Catherine,’ Tim said, indicating the girls walking between them. She sighed. She would explain her point once the girls were in bed.

  Tim ushered the girls into his car and she followed behind in hers. When she pulled on to the drive she saw that the gentle hum of the drive home had lulled the girls to sleep.

  Tim opened the back door and his face softened. He nodded for her to take a look at the girls lolled against each other in the back seat.

  ‘It’s a shame to wake them. I’ll carry Jess, you get Lucy.’

  Catherine watched as he carefully released the seatbelt and gently placed one arm beneath Jess’s legs, the other supporting her neck. She stirred slightly but turned her face into Tim’s jacket, her eyes firmly closed. He expertly opened the front door without disturbing the sleeping form in his arms.

  Catherine knelt beside Lucy and shook her arm gently. ‘Lucy, wake up, we’re home. Come on, get out of the car.’

  Lucy opened her eyes with effort but they drooped closed again. Catherine shook her again. ‘Lucy, it’s late, wake up and go inside the house, now,’ she said, her voice sterner.

  The child did as she was told and climbed out of the car.

  Catherine followed Lucy into the house. Her daughter looked like a drunk, swaying from side to side, hitting both the wall and the banister on her way up the stairs.

  Catherine headed for the kitchen and opened a bottle of wine. She took a cigarette and stood just outside the kitchen door. Oh, how she wished she’d been able to hold on to the euphoria she’d felt as she’d left the wine bar, but it had been kicked, trampled and left for dead.

  She drew deeply on the cigarette and hoped that when Tim had finished putting the girls to bed he would congratulate her on the promotion and help her celebrate. Maybe they could order in a nice meal, drink a few glasses of wine while planning what they’d do with the extra money.

  Perhaps, once he saw how hard she’d worked and that tonight had been unavoidable, their celebrations could continue in the bedroom.

  She extinguished the cigarette as Tim entered the kitchen. He had removed his tie and opened the top button of his shirt. Despite his tired, pinched expression, Catherine thought he had never looked sexier.

  She sidled up to him and placed her arms around his neck. ‘Sweetheart, I’m sorry about earlier but now it’s just the two of us—’

  ‘Stop it, Catherine,’ he said, removing her arms from around his neck. He ste
pped away from her and poured himself a glass of wine.

  ‘Sit down,’ he instructed. ‘We need to talk and I don’t think you’re going to like what I have to say.’

  Catherine sat and refilled her wine glass. The rejection of her advances stung a bit but she realised that Tim had to have his say before the rest of the night could go the way she wanted.

  ‘I can even tell what you’re thinking,’ Tim said, looking at her evenly. ‘You’re already thinking that this is one of my rants and then everything will return to normal.’

  Catherine blushed but shook her head in protest.

  ‘It doesn’t matter what you think, but I am going to say what’s on my mind.’ He took a deep breath. ‘A fog cleared tonight and I’ve got to be honest, I don’t like what I see.’

  ‘But it—’

  ‘Please don’t interrupt me. I need to say some things. I spent quite a while talking to that girl you saw when you first came in. She’s a single parent struggling to bring up her little boy alone. Many of the things she said to me while describing some of the hurdles she has to overcome seemed a little too familiar, uncomfortably so.’ He shook his head and looked at her directly. ‘This is a single-parent family, Catherine, and you’re the one that’s missing.’

  Catherine looked back at him, horrified. How could he say something so cruel?

  ‘I get up at six every morning to make sure—’

  ‘Don’t embarrass yourself by listing the things that you do. You’ll make yourself sound like the hired help.’

  Catherine was incensed. ‘Now hang on one—’

  ‘No, you hang on. Did you even recognise your own children in the things that their teacher said about them or did it feel like she was discussing the personalities of two strangers?’

  ‘She was inferring that there was something wrong with our children,’ Catherine cried. She lit a cigarette with trembling hands.

  Tim thumped the table, his eyes blazing. ‘Are you so blind that you can’t see what she was saying? She was telling us that our children are not getting enough attention. Lucy has disappeared within herself and Jess is starving for recognition of her individuality.’

  ‘That teacher thinks she knows our daughters better than we do.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Catherine, wake up. She knows the girls better than you do. You were a complete embarrassment tonight. I seriously wish you’d never made it at all.’

  ‘I was defending the girls,’ Catherine screamed at the injustice. Where had his arguments been? He had been too happy to just listen to the teacher’s accusations.

  ‘That argument doesn’t work because you ridiculed her when she tried to tell you how talented Lucy was. Where was your pride in your daughter’s achievements? Where was your total agreement that she is special, unique and talented?’

  ‘I will not fill her head with—’

  ‘It’s not about the damn picture. You should have those feelings for her regardless. She’s your bloody daughter.’

  Tim was standing, leaning on the table bellowing at her. She stared back at him. The anger seemed to drain out of him and he fell wearily back on to the chair. ‘We both looked at that picture tonight and saw totally different things. I saw a talented painting by my oldest daughter which filled me with pride. You saw some balls daubed on a piece of paper. You spoke of Lucy as though she was a stranger and what’s worse is that she heard you.’

  Catherine waved away his concerns. ‘She’s a child.’

  ‘She’s your child but it certainly didn’t feel like that tonight.’

  ‘I’ll speak to her tomorrow,’ Catherine offered, hoping to repair the damage between them. Despite the thought that he was over-reacting she didn’t like the weary, hopeless look on his face.

  ‘Just leave it. I don’t want you making it worse.’

  Catherine nodded but his eyes were cast downwards. She hoped that the argument was over but sensed that it wasn’t. Something was different this time. Tim was different and there was more that he wanted to say.

  ‘Tim?’ she whispered, reaching for his hand. He pulled it away. Catherine felt the panic churn her stomach. Usually once Tim had made his point they kissed and hugged and everything returned to normal.

  When he finally looked up his eyes were tired and haunted. When he spoke his voice was low and controlled.

  ‘I can see that you haven’t really listened to anything I’ve said, which saddens me. Your coldness towards the girls is tearing me apart because I don’t understand it and I know they can feel it. I’ve hidden from the fact that it’s hurting them for too long.’ He paused and Catherine’s heart missed a beat. He smiled sadly. ‘Surprisingly, I still love you more than life but you’re damaging our children. I know that your own childhood was less than ideal but you’ve never even shared it with me.’

  ‘It’s the past, Tim. It has nothing to do with now.’

  His smile disappeared, leaving only despair in its place. ‘Catherine, you need help. You need to talk to someone about what happened to you all those years ago. You say it’s the past and it’s over, but it’s not. It’s affecting the present and it’s hurting the girls.’

  ‘Don’t be so ridiculous,’ Catherine cried. ‘I don’t need to see a bloody shrink. My past has nothing to do with us now. Get a grip, Tim. We have a nice house, good jobs and two lovely girls. What the hell is wrong with you?’

  ‘That’s the illusion, Catherine. It’s what you like to think we have, but name one conversation you’ve had with either of our children since the day you buried your mother.’

  ‘Don’t be so damned pedantic. I can’t just pull one out of my head and you know it. You’re just trying to trap me—’

  ‘Catherine, stop it. I’m not arguing about this any more.’ He finished his wine and headed for the door. ‘Either get help or I’ll take the girls away for good.’

  Six

  Alex

  Alex turned her head to look at the clock and instantly regretted it. Whoever was swinging an iron bar around her head was invisible but no less effective because of it.

  The red LED display told her that it was 7.45 but her clock wasn’t twenty-four-hour, so she had no idea if it was morning or evening and she certainly had no idea what day it was.

  She laid her head back down on the pillow, which felt like a concrete slab, and listened for clues in the sounds outside. There was a faint tapping against the window that she recognised as rain. The sound of traffic was constant and gave her no help. It was light outside so that was useless also. She considered getting out of bed and switching on the TV but realised that she didn’t care enough to bother.

  She turned over and pulled the covers over her head to block the light that was trespassing through her closed eyelids. The density of the blackness comforted her and reduced the wrecking ball in her head to a pneumatic drill. She prepared to return to oblivion but her bladder had other ideas.

  ‘Fuck,’ she whispered as she realised what the journey to the bathroom was going to do to her. She eased herself up to a sitting position and cringed as her skull shrunk around her brain. She shuffled her feet around until she found a bare piece of carpet and forced her eyes open to navigate safe passage to the bathroom.

  Alex negotiated through the empty whisky bottles and beer cans until she reached the safety of the bathroom. She collapsed on to the toilet and fell against the wall.

  She stood and washed her hands, catching a brief glimpse of her reflection. Red, puffy eyes glared back at her. Blotchy skin sat beneath short, black unruly spikes.

  She lunged for the toothpaste and cleaned her teeth in an effort to evict the dead farmyard from her mouth and threw cold water at her face. There, that was her grooming regime for another day.

  She headed back to the bed. ‘Hair of the dog,’ she murmured, tipping up the bottles on route. They were all empty. She headed for the kitchen and opened all the doors, throwing the contents onto the counter top. Maybe during her drunken state she had seen fit to hide a
bottle of something, anything, from herself for a rainy day. ‘Well, it’s fucking raining now,’ she cried, as the washing machine yielded no alcohol.

  She struggled to the sofa and aimed the remote control at the TV. The opening credits of EastEnders blared out at her. Thank God it was evening and she could go out and restock.

  She guessed it was probably Tuesday, partly because she vaguely remembered Monday, and EastEnders aired on a Tuesday. And most other days of the bloody week. She switched channels and caught the end of the local news. She stared, stunned, at the television screen. Fucking Thursday, they said. How could it be Thursday? What had happened to Wednesday?

  Shit. She vaguely remembered the phone ringing incessantly and then Jay appearing in front of her but she’d thought that was a dream. Surely Jay hadn’t held her under the shower and then put her to bed? The memory returned to her in fragmented pieces. She had pretended to be asleep until he went and then she had dressed and nipped to the off-licence.

  ‘Oh Jesus,’ she sighed and buried her head in her hands. He had returned the following day but her mind couldn’t piece together exactly what day that had been. She vaguely recalled calling him some horrible names and telling him to fuck off.

  ‘Oh, Lord,’ she whined again. She hauled herself into the kitchen and searched for the effervescent tablets that she’d thrown somewhere. She located them underneath an upturned box of rice. She added water and swallowed the bitter-tasting liquid.

  A shower and a change of clothes later, Alex was feeling alive if not human. She locked the flat and headed for the bar where Jay worked five nights out of seven.

  As she passed a greasy chip shop the tantalising smell of fish and chips lured her in. She wasn’t sure when she’d last eaten. She made a hole in the layers of paper and delved in, retrieving a clump of greasy batter and grey fish. The first mouthful made her feel nauseous and she threw them away.

  The bar on Broad Street was rich with bodies and laughter and Alex had to fight her way to the bar. Most of the activity swarmed towards the DJ, leaving a couple of bar stools free. She perched herself on one and waited for Jay to notice her. When he saw her his face tightened and he looked away.