Her Mother's Daughter

by Alice Fitzgerald

  Her Mother’s

  Daughter

  Her Mother’s

  Daughter

  ALICE FITZGERALD

  First published in Great Britain in 2018 by Allen & Unwin

  Copyright © Alice Fitzgerald, 2018

  The moral right of Alice Fitzgerald to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  Every effort has been made to trace or contact all copyright holders. The publishers will be pleased to make good any omissions or rectify any mistakes brought to their attention at the earliest opportunity.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events have evolved from the author’s imagination.

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Trade paperback ISBN 978 1 76063 062 1

  Ebook ISBN 978 1 76063 587 9

  For my family; I love you

  prologue

  JOSEPHINE

  18TH OCTOBER 1997

  With each step I feel lighter, like the years of wading through quicksand are being washed away. It’s as though I’m treading water and at last the surface is below my chest. I can breathe again.

  It starts raining, and me with no umbrella. For some reason this makes me smile. Then I remember why. I don’t run to the station or even increase my pace. Instead, I let the raindrops fall onto my face, trickle down my cheeks and seep into my collar.

  Oh, Michael, remember when we danced in the rain on our way to Buckingham Palace?

  It’s funny, remembering who you were, knowing who you have become. You can never quite imagine how things will pan out, no matter how hard you try. Siobhan and me playing the game when we were little: Who do you want to be when you grow up? Where will you be when you’re twenty-five? Thinking twenty-five was old. Thinking that home was the whole world.

  The trees shiver in the rain and I realize just how many there are; one every few metres on both sides of the road. They must be a hundred years old or more. I couldn’t tell you how many times I’ve gone up and down this road over the years, and I don’t think I ever noticed them.

  A gust of wind blows and a shower of leaves breaks off and swings its way to the ground. They’re wet and soft when I tread on them, not crisp like the ones Thomas loves. He’ll be out tomorrow in search of the crunchy ones, running and jumping on them with both feet. And Clare will be after him, playing Hopscotch on the flagstones, just like all the other days.

  CLARE

  7th JULY 1997

  This year we’re going to visit Mummy’s family for the first time EVER. When I ask why we’ve never been before but we see Daddy’s family every year, she tells me to be quiet, like a good girl. But I’ve heard her call them a shower of cunts, and that must be something bad because the look on her face when she said it was a dark one. She was all white and her lips were thin. I wonder what cunts are. I imagine them falling out of the sky like rain.

  I scratch my head and rub my eyes. Then I climb down the ladder, which takes me fourteen seconds. I go over to my calendar, hanging on the wall by the window and the chest of drawers with My Little Pony stickers on it, and put a big fat X across Saturday, which means now there are only eleven days left till our holiday.

  Mummy comes in, bright and breezy like lemon squeezy. That’s a song we sing when we’re all happy.

  ‘Morning, darlings.’ She smiles, comes and holds my face in her hands and kisses me on the forehead. Then she goes over to our bunk beds and does the same to Thomas.

  ‘Morning, Mummy!’ I skip over to the curtains and pull them back, then tie the ropes with dangly bits around the ends, so it looks like a theatre, the way she likes.

  ‘Shall we go and have some breakfast?’ Mummy asks. She comes to look out the window and rubs my hair, twirling my ponytail around in her hand to make it curly like a pig’s tail.

  It’s a Nutella-on-toast day. I can tell because Mummy is speaking in her nice, soft voice, which means everything is okay and she loves us. When things are not okay, her voice is low and rumbly like thunder and her eyes are dark like clouds and she doesn’t ask if we’ll have breakfast, she says, Wash your faces and get downstairs.

  We put on our dressing gowns with Mickey Mouse ears on the hoods and tie the belts tight around our waists, so they keep the cold out, and we put our slippers on. Mummy has her nice green silky dressing gown on today. It’s got a brown stain on the front from the other night, when she was drinking her strong apple juice and she spilled it. I know this because she tiptoed into our room and woke me up to ask me if I’d like some hot chocolate. When I said yes, she helped me down the ladder. Downstairs, I tried not to listen while I drank my hot chocolate, because she was saying things that weren’t nice. When she finally let me go to bed, I got into Thomas’s bunk and snuggled up close, to keep the bad dreams away.

  I run down the stairs two at a time, closely followed by Thomas, then Mummy.

  Daddy works on Saturdays, so it’s just the three of us. That’s fine now, but sometimes I wish he was here to tickle us and make us laugh, or put his arms around Mummy and make her smile.

  I sit down at the kitchen table and Thomas climbs onto the chair next to me. He has all these little golden hairs that Mummy calls baby hairs, and they’re sticking out everywhere and make me laugh.

  ‘What’s for breakfast?’ I ask, even though I’m pretty sure.

  Mummy is filling the kettle for her coffee. ‘How about Nutella on toast?’

  ‘Yeah!’ me and Thomas shout. If we’re really lucky we’ll get to put it on ourselves and I can scoop loads on, so it’s dripping off the edges.

  ‘Shall I put the bread on?’ I ask.

  Mummy pushes the button on the kettle and gathers her hair into a ponytail and ties it up so it’s out of her face, the way she likes when she’s around the house.

  She likes us to help and for me to be a good girl and Thomas to be a good little boy. Only you have to be careful because once I washed the dishes and she dipped her finger in the water and said it was cold and hit me around the back of the legs with a tea towel. I haven’t washed the dishes since.

  I take the bread out of the breadbin, then slot four slices into the toaster. I get the Nutella out of the cupboard and two knives out of the drawer by the sink, and put them on the table.

  ‘Don’t just sit there, do something,’ I tell Thomas. ‘Lazy good-for-nothing.’

  He sticks his bottom lip out.

  ‘Clare, don’t you speak to your brother like that,’ Mummy snaps.

  ‘Sorry, Mummy,’ I say. My bottom lip goes loose and I try to hold it still. ‘I was only telling him to help.’

  ‘Well, that’s no way to do it.’

  Thomas goes over to Mummy and puts his arms around her leg, while she stands in the middle of the kitchen twirling his hair round her fingers. She says he has the eyes a
nd hair of a little cherub.

  I sit at the table, looking at them and feeling a bit jealous. I don’t say to Mummy that it’s how she tells us to help.

  The bread pops and I jump.

  Mummy taps Thomas on the back. ‘Get the plates out, like a good boy. Now, we’re going to have a fun day out. There’ll be no tantrums from either of ye.’

  I smile and shake my head. ‘No, Mummy.’

  Thomas stands up straight and tall, like one of his plastic soldier men. ‘No, Mummy.’

  ‘Can I get a nice dress?’ I ask. Today we’re going shopping because Mummy needs clothes to look beautiful, for going home to see her family. She wants to look her beautifullest and skinniest. She always looks beautiful, but she wants to look even more so than normal for her family. She’s been on a diet for ever and ever, and I’ve heard her say to Aunty Maura (Aunty Maura isn’t really our aunty, but she is Mummy’s best friend) that she doesn’t want them talking about her behind her back. I wonder why they would do that, because they’re going to be so excited to see her that they’ll only want to talk to her face.

  ‘If you behave,’ she says.

  ‘What about me?’ Thomas pipes up.

  ‘You can get a dress, too,’ jokes Mummy, which makes him put a grumpy face on. ‘Only joking,’ she says, tickling his sides. ‘We’ll get you your own outfit.’

  Thomas smiles, all happy with himself, as he carries over the plates with toast on. When he gets to the table he sticks his tongue out at me and I look to see if Mummy’s watching. She’s busy pouring the boiling water into her coffee mug, so I stick mine out at him.

  ‘Cunt,’ I whisper. As soon as I’ve said it, I realize it was too dangerous. I whip my head round, squinting my eyes just in case, but Mummy’s getting milk out of the fridge.

  After breakfast, it’s bath time. Me and Thomas have a bath together every Saturday morning because we’re small, so we can’t waste all that water twice, even though Thomas wees in it every time.

  Mummy pours in the bubble bath. I decide to take advantage of her good mood. ‘Can’t I have one by myself, just today?’ I say in my sweetie-pie voice.

  ‘If you’re not careful, I’ll wee in it, too,’ she says.

  I fold my arms across my chest in a huff-puff. Then my head itches, so I scratch it.

  ‘You ought to see how we washed when I was a little girl,’ she says in her grumbling thunder voice. ‘Then you wouldn’t complain.’ She swirls her hand around in the water and brings up a handful of foam. ‘Six of us bathed in the same water, and when it was your time to go last, there was more piss than water.’

  The tears sting my eyes on their way out and my chest heaves.

  ‘Oh, stop your whingeing,’ she says through curled lips.

  ‘Mummy, I need to go to the toilet,’ says Thomas. He has taken off his dressing gown and his pyjamas with aeroplanes on and is naked beside me, cupping his winkie with both hands and jumping up and down.

  ‘In the bath.’ Mummy holds her hand out for Thomas.

  Thomas looks at me, then at her.

  ‘In. Now!’ She puts her hands under his armpits and lifts him over the edge.

  Thomas sits in the bath and looks sheepish, like when he does a poops and doesn’t own up to it.

  ‘Come on,’ Mummy says to me. ‘In you get.’ Her face is white and she looks dead serious.

  I untie my dressing gown and take off my pyjamas with gold stars on, holding my tears in, so Mummy doesn’t give me a belt across the back of the legs as I climb in.

  Usually the water is so hot that I don’t sit down at first. I dangle in the air, holding on to the edge with my hands and feet and nudging myself in until my bum feels the heat. But now I just get in. It’s no time for donkey games and silly buggers.

  I sit in the hot suds, my fingers turning into pink prunes while Mummy washes Thomas’s hair. I hate prune-fingers. They’re like old-lady fingers. Not that I know what old-lady fingers look like; I’ve never seen any up close. Daddy’s mummy died before I was born, and I’m only going to meet Mummy’s mummy for the first time ever this summer. I will make sure I look at her fingers when she’s playing with my hair and rubbing my face. I hope I don’t forget.

  When Mummy has had her bath and dried her hair into big red waves and put make-up on, so she’s shiny and new, all that’s left is to paint her nails. She chooses a red one from the fridge, and sits down in the armchair with a fresh coffee beside her. She shakes the little bottle of paint.

  ‘Can we watch, Mummy?’

  She nods as she rolls the bottle between her hands.

  ‘What does that do?’ She likes it when I ask questions like this, and I want to get out of her bad books.

  ‘Warms it up, so it’s easier to paint.’ She unscrews the top and paints her thumbnail in three strokes, one in the middle and another on either side. It smells a bit like when Daddy painted the walls in the sitting room and Mummy said the fumes could knock out a horse.

  ‘Will you paint my nails?’

  She looks at me, then takes one of my hands in hers to inspect my nails. ‘Go on, then.’ She smiles.

  The paint is cold as Mummy dabs the brush on each one of my nails. When she has finished, I hold them out to look at; they’re all shiny and new, like Mummy’s.

  ‘And me!’ Typical. Thomas always copies me.

  Mummy laughs. ‘Boys don’t paint their nails, silly!’

  ‘Why not?’ Thomas asks, frowning and pouting his lips the way he does when he’s getting angry.

  ‘Because painting nails is only for girls,’ I tell him in my I’m-older-than-you-I-know-more voice.

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Because we like to make ourselves beautiful.’ I wave my hands around to dry my nails while Mummy finishes painting hers. Then, when she has finished, she blows on them. I blow on mine, too.

  Thomas is bored, so he turns on the TV and sneaks out to the kitchen to eat a biscuit from the jar without asking. I know because he has a crumb on his lip when he comes back, and I heard the sound of the jar being opened and closed. He must have climbed up on a chair to get to the jar; he’s lucky he didn’t fall and chip his tooth. He’s already chipped one, from when he was climbing on the tree in the garden, but it’s just the corner, so you couldn’t tell it was chipped if you weren’t there to see him cry.

  ‘I’m going to the loo,’ I say, bouncing off the sofa. In the kitchen, I lift the lid of the biscuit jar off in one clean movement, take two biscuits and, ever so slowly, put it back on. It makes the teeny-weeniest sound. I eat the biscuits in the toilet while I wee.

  For the seventeenth time, Mummy turns to one side and looks over her shoulder at her bum. I’ve been counting. Me and Thomas are in the changing room, watching her in the mirror.

  ‘You look gorgeous,’ I say, because that’s what Daddy says when she comes downstairs all dolled up, and it makes her eyes shine.

  ‘Thank you, darling.’ She turns the other way, looks over the other shoulder, smooths the flowery material down over her hips. Everyone at school always says she is more beautiful than their mummies. That makes me smile inside.

  ‘Can we go now?’ says Thomas. He is like Daddy. He hates shopping.

  ‘Soon.’ Mummy takes the dress off and gives it to me to put on the hanger while she tries on another one.

  I watch her fingers pop the buttons into the gaps. ‘What are Granny’s hands like?’ I ask.

  ‘What?’ She jumps, like I’ve crept up on her and shouted Boo!

  ‘What are Granny’s hands like?’

  She shakes her head. ‘Just a woman’s hands, Clare. What a strange question.’

  ‘I just wondered if they’re like yours and mine and Thomas’s.’ I get Thomas’s hand and put it flat against mine. His is smaller, so the tops of my fingers have nothing against them. We clap them together.

  ‘I shouldn’t think so,’ she says. She ties the belt around her waist and looks at herself in the mirror.

  This one’s pin
k and flowing and has a big white collar.

  ‘It can’t be too much, or too little,’ she says.

  I watch her in the mirror, because I don’t know what too much or too little is.

  ‘Why aren’t Granny’s hands like ours?’ I ask.

  She bites her fingernail and some red comes off on her lips. ‘Oh, damn it!’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I tell her in my soothing voice.

  She looks at me and then shakes her head and laughs.

  ‘What’s funny?’ I ask.

  ‘Nothing,’ she says.

  She’s laughing on the outside, but she’s sad on the inside.

  When she’s decided on hers, Mummy chooses a dress for me. It’s all frilly and I think of saying I don’t like it, but she might pinch me hard under the arm and I wouldn’t be able to hold back the tears and everyone would turn around and look at me and I’d have a big purple mark for days.

  Thomas gets a navy-blue T-shirt with white stripes and a pair of blue trousers.

  I wish I could get a T-shirt and trousers instead of a frilly dress. But, Mummy says, there is a price to pay for beauty.

  Because we’ve been good we can go to the coffee shop. We’re so lucky because we’re going to have pizza tonight AS WELL. That’s two treats in one day. Every weekend we have a Family Night Out, when we go to one of Mummy and Daddy’s favourite restaurants and they have wine, and me and Thomas can have whatever we want until we can’t eat any more.

  I get lemonade and Thomas gets orange juice. Mummy gets a hot chocolate with skimmed milk, which is hot chocolate with watery milk so it won’t make her fat. Me and Thomas are allowed to share a chocolate-chip muffin between us, even though Mummy says we shouldn’t.

  I suck my lemonade through the straw and swing my legs under the table. It’s sweet and cold and I keep sucking until I have to stop, even though I don’t want to, just so I can come up for air. I take a deep breath and go back for more. Thomas does the same and we kick each other under the table and smile through our straws.

  Mummy breaks a big piece off the top of the muffin with all the chocolate chips in it. There’s so much that she can’t close her mouth and I can see the chocolate-sponge smudge all over her teeth. I grip my lips tight because she said it was for us, and then took the best part, like she always does. I secretly hope she gets fat. She deserves to.