The Mum Who'd Had Enough

by Fiona Gibson

  I’d grown up in Solworth and left school without any qualifications. By the time my friends were heading off to college and uni, I was already a mum. While they were all excited about choosing throws and cushions for their student halls, I was living at my parents’ place with my boyfriend Neil and our baby boy, and battling with nappies and night feeds and all that. When my friends talked about modules and lectures and freshers’ week, it could have been a foreign language. All I managed throughout my twenties was the odd supermarket job, fitted in around the kids.

  I failed that first driving test, probably due to nerves more than anything else – and by the time the next one rolled around I’d worked myself into such a state that it was inevitable I’d screw up. I tried to impress on the examiner how important it was for me to pass – just to be pleasant and make conversation. That was Nate. I can’t believe I was terrified of a guy who gets tanked at a barbecue and ends up crawling into a little plastic house, like an inebriated teenager! ‘I’m sure it is important,’ he’d said, with not a flicker of empathy. Are you an actual human being? I’d thought irritably, or don’t you have any emotions at all?

  And now, as I sit in Burger Bill’s back yard on my afternoon break, I turn over the whole Nate/Sinead scenario in my head. That crazy list, and her walking out with no warning: I know I gave Nate a telling-off for being a crappy husband, but still, it seems pretty drastic. Leaving her kid as well! I know Flynn’s not a baby – but still. When Neil and I split, it never occurred to me to not have the children stay with me. I know I’m being sexist. Plenty of men walk out on their kids without so much as a backward glance – and no one vilifies them.

  But can Nate really be so terrible as a husband and dad? He seems thoughtful and kind; qualities I’d have sneered at once, but which seem to grow in importance, the older you get. Handsome, too, with those intense dark eyes behind wire-rimmed specs and that slightly wonky smile. I only noticed that when he was round at my place that night. I suppose, when you’re about to sit a driving test, the last thing on your mind is whether or not the examiner is fanciable. But yeah – he definitely is. He has that long-legged, gangly thing going on too, which is appealing. You could do a lot worse, Sinead, I decide. Yep, now I’m trying to beam my opinions through the airwaves to a woman I’ve never met, like I know the first thing about relationships.

  Something-owl, that’s the shop his wife works in. I pull out my phone from my pocket and try googling a few owl species, then type in the more obvious ‘owl-gift-shop-Hesslevale’. Up it pops: Little Owl. Funny that Nate knows literally thousands of rules of the road – yet can’t even remember the name of it. I go to the shop’s website and click on ‘Meet our team’. There’s a woman with a brunette pixie cut and a slash of red lipstick: ‘Hi, I’m Vicky,’ the caption reads. ‘It was always my dream to open a shop of beautiful gift ideas and call it Little Owl!’

  And then there’s a blonde woman with a kind, sweet face, a pinkish complexion and bright blue eyes. ‘I’m Sinead, and I work in Little Owl, helping you to choose that perfect gift for someone special. I look forward to meeting you very soon!’

  She looks like the kind of woman who’d take care to pack a nutritionally balanced lunchbox for her kid. I’d have thought she was the last person to scrawl a demented note and walk out on her son.

  I slip my phone back in my pocket, stuff my half-eaten burger into the bin, and finish my carton of weak coffee. Then I head back into the restaurant for another four hours of serving the great British public.

  The volume around the rowdy table has cranked up several notches. Carmina, the other waitress who’s on today, gives me a knowing look as the ponytailed man snaps his fingers and shouts, ‘When you’ve got a minute, please?’

  ‘He’s just asked if I have a boyfriend,’ she mutters. ‘I told him it was none of his business. He said he was only trying to be friendly—’

  ‘Aw, you’ve probably hurt his feelings,’ I remark, and we both snigger.

  ‘He must be at least forty …’

  ‘God,’ I exclaim. ‘Almost dead!’

  ‘Sod him,’ Carmina says with a smirk. ‘I don’t care. This is my last shift—’

  ‘Has that come round so soon?’ I exclaim, with a prickle of envy.

  ‘Yeah!’ She’s beaming now. At eighteen years old, Carmina has only been working here in order to amass the funds for her trip to Thailand, before she heads off to university in the autumn. It’s just been a stopgap to her. It’s not her life.

  ‘Could we order some desserts, please?’ That’s the pink-top woman from the circular table.

  I zoom over with a smile. As Stef always says, ‘It costs nothing to be nice.’ The astronomical cost of driving lessons and tests, and the fact that Gary never seems to bring home anything like I’d expect him to earn, means I’m always grateful for tips. Luckily, Stef lets us keep our tips, rather than shoving them into the till like they do in some places.

  After Driving Test Fuck-up Number Two, this was the only job I could find in a hurry. At least it was local, I thought. I could walk here from our flat. And it would only be temporary. I’d lost my job at Brogan Mitchell, soon to be replaced by a girl called Lilli, with an ‘i’, who looked barely old enough to cross a road by herself, let alone drive a car. I met her when I bumped into the whole gang on a night out. They were all gathered around a big table in the Lamb and Flag. I’d just popped in with my friend Maggie and, of course, my former workmates spotted me and beckoned us over.

  Lilli had the kind of skin that’s so smooth and even, you’d wonder if she actually has pores. ‘You must stay in touch, Tanz,’ Brogan said, squirming uncomfortably. ‘I’ll always look out for you, you know.’ Yeah – sure he would.

  Of course I didn’t keep in touch. What would we have talked about: the brilliance of Lilli’s driving? Recent developments in the savoury pie industry? Still, a yearning to drive had its hooks in me. In the past three years, since I’ve been serving burgers, I went on to sit eight more driving tests.

  Then last month I failed for the eleventh time.

  Normally I don’t fall to pieces. I just try to brush it off and focus on the next time. But that day I was sobbing like a little kid, and snot was pouring out of my nose. Poor Nate just sat there, waiting for me to finish.

  I wasn’t crying because I’d been under pressure to pass for work. There was no job at stake. No, that time, it was about something that mattered much more – and I flunked it, just as Gary said I would.

  That’s the end of your test. I am sorry, but you haven’t passed. Would you like me to explain why?

  No-bloody-thank-you, I wouldn’t. It was Mum who once told me that only a raving idiot keeps going back for more helpings of the same old crap.

  So I’m done with driving. That’s the easy part. The other stuff – the major fault in my life – is going to be a whole lot harder to fix.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Kayla, my youngest, is allergic to her phone. At least she is when it’s me trying to speak to her. What’s the point of paying for her mobile if she refuses to communicate with me? At least half the week she stays over at her best friend’s place. She even keeps her best dressing gown there. ‘Oh, I’m leaving it at Paige’s now!’ she told me, when I asked where it had gone. Sounds trivial, I know, but it didn’t half feel like a kick in the teeth.

  ‘Paige’s is just handier for school, Mum,’ she keeps telling me – and, yes, there is that, although she is eligible for the free school bus. ‘And I love their place,’ she added. ‘It’s so calm and relaxed there.’ Hmm, that was harder to take. Not that I begrudge Kayla having friends, because life’s been tough for her, after her dad and I split up. This was five years ago. Her older sister had just left home, so it wasn’t the best time – not that there ever is one.

  I finished at Bill’s at six today and had a quick glass of wine in the diner with Carmina to celebrate her freedom and forthcoming trip. And now, instead of hanging about for the next bus, I’
ve decided to drop in at Paige’s and at least check in with Kayla and remind her that she does in fact have a mum.

  The evening has turned cool and breezy by the time I reach Paige’s estate, not that that’s what they call Aspen Grove. No, it’s a development in yellowish brick, with all kinds of pillars and columns decorating the houses, and those ultra-bright bedding plants in the front gardens that never look quite real. I’ve been here before but I’ve only met Paige’s parents briefly. Both solicitors, they seem to be either at work, or bounding out for a run with plastic water bottles strapped to their chests in special elasticated holders, as if they are about to cross a desert.

  Paige’s house is the biggest and fanciest here. It’s been quite a climb up a long, steep hill. I take a moment to steady my breath and rap on the front door, then wait patiently for someone to answer.

  ‘Oh, hi, Tanzie!’ It’s Paige who opens the door. She’s a stunning girl with long, golden hair, huge blue eyes and braces across her seemingly perfect top teeth.

  ‘Hi, Paige. Hope you don’t mind me dropping by. Is Kayla still here?’

  Paige blinks at me as if I might be about to storm in and try to kidnap her. ‘Yeah.’ She turns away. ‘Kayla? It’s your mum!’

  I swallow and wait, trying to ignore a tight ball of indignation that’s growing inside me now. I’m her mother, for God’s sake. Aren’t you going to invite me in?

  Paige is standing there, waiting, arms folded across her pristine white top. Perhaps she’s worried I’ll contaminate her shiny home with the greasy whiff from Burger Bill’s if she asks me to step inside. Actually, she’d have a point there. I know it clings to my clothes, my hair – even my skin, probably. Sometimes I’m conscious of the person sitting next to me on the bus trying to edge away, as if the fatty smell might transfer from my sleeve onto theirs, and seep through the material to their arm.

  Now Paige has wandered back into the wide, polished-floored hallway, leaving me stranded on the doorstep as if I’m a delivery person waiting for a signature for a parcel.

  Ah – finally here comes my daughter, face chalky-pale, shoulder-length dark hair all tangly and loose. ‘Mum! Hey.’ She smiles resignedly.

  ‘Hi, love. I had a while to wait for my bus, and you haven’t been answering your phone—’

  Kayla winces. ‘Forgot to charge it. Sorry …’

  I decide not to challenge her feeble excuse. ‘That’s okay. You’ve been here since Friday night, though, and I’m missing you …’ I realise, with horror, that a wobble has crept into my voice.

  ‘Have you?’ She beams her beautiful wide smile. ‘I s’pose I am pretty wonderful really.’

  We both chuckle. ‘So, what’ve you been up to, then?’

  ‘Just watching films, chatting, hanging out. Nothing much …’

  ‘Are you coming home tonight?’ I ask, aware of a note of hope in my voice.

  Kayla shrugs. ‘Er, I don’t think so, Mum. It’s just, with school tomorrow, it’s so much easier to go from here—’

  ‘And you’ve got everything you need, have you? Enough clean clothes and stuff?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. Paige’s mum’s been washing stuff for me.’

  I clear my throat. ‘Why don’t you just come back with me, love? We can watch something together and have a catch-up. You could get the bus to school in the morning—’

  ‘I’d rather stay here, Mum.’ She drops her gaze. I could demand that she comes home with me now – but what would be the point, and who could blame her for enjoying being here, being ‘treated like one of the family’ (ouch!) as she once put it?

  ‘Give me a hug, then,’ I say suddenly, overcome by an urge to hold her.

  Kayla laughs awkwardly, then we fold our arms around each other. It doesn’t matter that I am standing here on the doorstep, virtually have to beg for time with my daughter, because it’s so good to feel her close.

  We pull apart. ‘I’d better get off, then,’ I say.

  ‘Okay, Mum.’ Concern flickers in her greenish eyes. ‘Love you.’

  Love-you: all the girls say it that way, sing-song, like a doorbell jingle, and I suppose it’s kind of lost its meaning.

  All the same, I hold the words close as we say goodbye.

  *

  No wonder she prefers it here, I decide as I head down the hill. Of course, I know it’s not solely due to Paige living so close to school. It’s Gary too – not that he’s actually been horrible to her. I mean, he hasn’t shouted at her or been violent or anything. He’s just an unpleasant presence, radiating his bad moods and plonked there, inert on the sofa like a bloody great silverback gorilla. Actually, a gorilla would be preferable. It wouldn’t have the telly blaring, or litter the floor with its cans.

  A gorilla wouldn’t tell me I’m thick and useless and should never have even bothered to take all those driving tests.

  As I near the bottom of the estate, where the newest houses are empty and still up for sale, a slim, blonde woman appears and starts striding up the hill towards me. At first, I barely register her. I am too busy thinking about Kayla’s pink fluffy dressing gown dangling from a hook on the door in Paige’s bedroom, and telling myself that only a mad idiot would feel jealous. Then I glance at the woman again. Her long hair is loose and a bit dishevelled. She is wearing a cotton dress, patterned all over with little blue flowers, and a flimsy navy blue jacket on top, plus flat Mary Janes, the kind of style some women (like her) manage to look cute in. I’d just look like a middle-aged woman stomping about in a child’s shoes.

  I slide my gaze over towards her as we pass each other. Now I realise I know her face. I saw it earlier today, during my break at work: the blonde woman on the Little Owl website. Sinead, Nate’s wife.

  She catches my eye and smiles briefly, as if she’s just on her way home to her nice, normal house, and her lovely husband.

  I stop and watch her trotting up the hill, all jaunty, like she doesn’t have a care in the world. You’d never guess she was capable of writing a note like that – about all her resentments about mice and records and his mother … What else was on it? Oh yes – his crappy attempts at DIY. At least he had a go, I think bitterly, heading out of the estate now and along the lane, past the single-storey building that used to be Brogan Mitchell’s pie factory.

  You’d think, being a tradesman, Gary would be willing to do the odd job around our cottage – but no. The shelf that fell down in our bedroom is propped up against the wall, my books stacked in untidy piles all around it.

  ‘Your fault,’ he said, ‘for putting too many books on it.’

  ‘But it’s a bookshelf!’ I’d argued.

  He’d rolled his eyes. ‘I’ve just done a full day’s work, Tanz. Maybe you should spend less money on books, and less time reading?’

  I was about to remind him that the books I devour – biographies of people with interesting lives, doing things that matter – are from charity shops and generally only cost a couple of quid. But we’d been there before, many times. Gary doesn’t see the point of reading anything.

  I was also tempted to ask what had happened to the charming man who’d seemed so generous and attentive when we first started going out. He’d come to carpet Brogan Mitchell’s offices when we had our refit, and flirted and charmed me with loads of calls after the job had finished, until I finally agreed to go for a drink with him. I wasn’t bothered about having a boyfriend, but why not just go, the girls in the office kept saying? He’s handsome and sexy, they reckoned. If you don’t, one of us will!

  He’d seemed lovely at first: never married, no kids, bit of a free spirit and lots of fun. Bloody good-looking, too, in that slightly rough-around-the-edges sort of way, like the waltzer guys my friends and I all fancied when the fair came to town. I could hardly believe he was attracted to me. Seriously, I was almost embarrassed to put up Facebook pictures of the two of us, imagining people thinking, ‘How did she manage to nab him?’ It’s not great, being the less attractive partner. But then,
it wasn’t his looks that hooked me really, but his generosity and mad sense of humour (surely anyone who’d come up with ‘The Lino King’ for his business name had to be a decent guy?).

  In our early days together, he drove us all over Yorkshire on weekends in his yellow van: to the seaside, on shopping trips to Leeds, even to the theatre a couple of times, to see shows. Kayla came along with us sometimes, when she wasn’t staying over at a friend’s. Even she seemed to like him at first. He was the kind of man who, when he took you out, insisted on buying a programme and ice creams in the interval, and then maybe going somewhere afterwards. We had so much fun. Neil and I had never done any of that. Not that I blamed him – we were young and broke, with a family – but it was a new and lovely experience to have all that.

  There were signs, though, a year or so in, after we’d moved into the flat just off Hesslevale high street. I wanted to believe that Gary worked hard, grafting long hours; that I was just being paranoid. I told myself I was worrying unnecessarily when someone started calling our landline and, whenever I answered, there’d just be silence, punctuated by the odd, sharp breath, and then they’d hang up.

  ‘Who d’you think it is?’ I asked him one evening in bed.

  ‘Just some nutter,’ Gary replied.

  I told myself I was being overly suspicious when I overheard two of Gary’s friends chuckling together at a wedding we’d been invited to: ‘See Gary’s still up to his old tricks?’

  ‘Yes, haha – the John Lewis of carpet laying.’

  ‘John Lewis?’

  ‘Never knowingly under-shagged.’

  Just stupid drunk men gossiping, I told myself.

  I also convinced myself I was being ridiculous when a salmon-coloured bra turned up in our laundry basket two weeks ago. With its huge rigid cups, it certainly wasn’t mine – or Kayla’s. So how the hell had it got there?

  ‘Nothing to do with me,’ Gary countered, when I dangled it in front of him.

  ‘Are you sure? Please, whatever it is – just be honest with me.’ I stood there, shaking with fury and humiliation.