by S. E. Lynes
‘Oh, Mummy,’ you said.
‘It’s OK, my darling. It’s all right. It’s all going to be all right.’
I sang to you then, do you remember? I sang some Adele, some Birdy, and that old spiritual your dad used to sing to us both.
Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen, oh yes, Lord…
I can’t sing like he could, but I can hold a tune. It was enough. You closed your eyes; your breathing slowed. I left the hot-water bottle on your belly. I pulled your hand to my lips and kissed it and tucked it away under the covers. As I left the room, I heard you whisper, ‘Night, Mum.’
‘Night, baby girl,’ I said. ‘Sleep now.’
* * *
In the kitchen, I poured myself a large glass of red wine. It was about 10 p.m. Bridget wouldn’t be back until midnight earliest, probably nearer 1 a.m. I wished she was there so I could talk to her. I thought of your dad and how calm he would have been and how I could have talked to him. How he would have known what to say.
‘If she’s sick, she’s sick, Bun,’ he would have said. Something like that. ‘Feeling worried won’t help. Feeling worried never helped anyone.’
Even thinking about what he might have said eased my anxiety, even though the soft sound of his voice remembered was wrapped up as all my memories of him are in the pain of missing him. He was… effortless. I don’t know any better way to put it. He had it no easier than anyone else, had his baggage just like the rest of us, but he bore it, bore everything, with lightness, with humour, with a kind of grace. I make it sound like we never fought, but honestly, we hardly did. Even when we did argue it was always me that caused it. Sometimes I’d pick a fight just to have one.
‘Bun,’ he would say in those moments. ‘Come on, Bunny, don’t be crazy.’ He would stroke my hair.
Once I hit him. Well I hit his hand. ‘Get off me,’ I said, and at the sight of his face, I burned with shame. He looked hurt, yes, but worse, he looked confused, as if he had no idea why I’d done that or who I was or what it meant. Oh God, even the memory of that hurts. I burst into tears and threw out my arms to him.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s OK, Bunny,’ he said, holding me.
‘I don’t know why I did that,’ I sobbed. ‘I can’t believe I did it. You’ll leave me. You should.’
‘Don’t be an eejit. If I didn’t have you to keep me on my toes, I’d relax so much I’d drop dead, so I would.’
I laughed. ‘You’re the eejit for loving me.’
‘You have a point there.’ He kissed my head. ‘We don’t have to know why we do what we do. It’s OK not to know why.’
Just the thought of him: that tuft of hair at the back of his head that never lay flat; his scruffy T-shirts and jeans; the terrible trainers that I threw in the bin when I’d bought him some new ones; the way he looked at me with a mixture of amusement and disbelief when I was being nuts, with mischief when he’d bought tickets for something or wanted to take me to bed… oh, and the way he danced. Like a flickering flame, he was, a beautiful flickering flame.
My throat stung. I swallowed some more wine. I wondered if your auntie Bridge had left any tobacco in the house. Ah yes, baby girl, it’s all coming out now.
‘Oh, Stan,’ I said to no one, imagining him right there at the kitchen table, bottle of beer lolling lazy in his hand.
Your phone was on charge next to the toaster.
‘Should I check it, Stan? Should I?’
‘I don’t know, Bun. Your call. I love you.’
‘I love you more.’
‘Wrong. I love you more.’
‘Should I check…’
He disappeared. From outside somewhere came the violent screech of mating foxes.
I told myself I was worried you were suffering from nerves and that I should scroll through your social media to make sure you weren’t being cyber-bullied. I told myself that I wouldn’t be a good mother if I didn’t check. Thinking back, I reckon I checked it for no more reason than to keep you near, to have someone with me there in the howling emptiness.
Photos: you’d taken a screenshot of the street map where the audition was in case you couldn’t get 3G, and I’d given you the A–Z too, which you’d already packed in your rucksack. You were looking forward to being Emily’s co-pilot.
I went through your other photos. There was nothing untoward, and even though I hadn’t expected to find anything alarming, I felt my breathing settle. I checked the deleted album, but there was nothing in there either, just couple of snaps I remembered you taking: the strawberry sundae you made at the weekend, the Rice Krispie cakes I made the other night. You built a tower with them and sprinkled them with that new food glitter we bought. A picture of your new Converse boots.
There was nothing worrying on your Facebook page either, or in your messages, so I didn’t need to worry about anything there. I trawled through some of your friends – 273: how can you possibly know all these people? You tell me that’s not even a lot. I have to say, Rosie, some of your girlfriends post some seriously worrying pictures. Another thing we’ve fought about.
‘Look at that girl,’ I remember saying once when we were going through your Facebook page together. She had her arms crossed, knowingly, to give herself a cleavage, and she was pouting like an advert for a sexy phone line. Underneath she had written: Cheeky little selfie, how do I look? There was another one of her in her underwear. She had taken the photo in the mirror; there was a star where the flash had bounced on the glass.
‘Look at this one!’ I said. ‘She looks about twenty-five!’ She did, love. She looked as wise, as knowing and as cynical as a fresh divorcee. At fifteen!
‘Oh, Mum you’re so stuck in the Ice Age,’ you said. ‘They’re celebrating their bodies and that’s their right. You’re just body shaming.’
‘But – but…’ I stuttered. Body shaming? I had no idea what you meant. ‘They’re not celebrating anything, baby girl, they’re asking for approval. These are advertising posters, they’re shop windows displaying their wares, like, well, like prostitutes, frankly, like you see in the knocking-shop fronts in Amsterdam. Honestly, Rosie, some of them may as well put a price tag on and have done with it. I might be stuck in the Ice Age, my love, but at least we didn’t confuse being attractive with being a commodity.’
‘It’s not like that any more.’ Your voice was thick with exasperation. ‘Women should be allowed to do what they want with their bodies. They’re proud of them. They see it as, like, a powerful feminist statement.’
‘Powerful, my backside.’
‘Don’t say that! You’re putting it all on the girls. We should be allowed to wear what we want and do what we want. It’s not our fault if some perv can’t control himself, is it?’
‘You’re all so flaming naïve. You’ve no idea how dangerous it is to post pictures of yourself like that. You don’t know who could be looking at those pictures, and I tell you what, lady, if I catch you doing it, you can say goodbye to Face—’
‘Oh, don’t worry, you won’t.’ You had raised your voice – you were almost shouting. ‘Because I won’t be doing anything normal, like, ever, because you just want me to be a weirdo. I’ll carry on being the only girl in the entire world who doesn’t have Snapchat or Instagram or go to parties or clubs or drink or smoke, and then I’ll just go and live in a convent or something or, like, like, like a Buddhist retreat, and I’ll never have a boyfriend or do anything normal, ever, in my whole, entire life.’
And with that, of course, you stomped out and slammed the kitchen door, leaving me with nothing to do but sigh and turn to my shaky reflection in the window.
‘That went well, Toni,’ I said to my own fractured image in the glass. ‘Fabulous bit of parenting. Congratu-fucking-lations.’
At least you weren’t posting sexy selfies. That’s what I told myself, to make myself feel better. But of course, just because I couldn’t see any sexy shots on your page didn’t mean you weren’t taking them, did it?
>
Twenty-Eight
Rosie
You’re pretty… you have nice eyes… these shop windows… these knocking-shop fronts…
Ó Maidrín rua, rua, rua, rua, rua…
An maidrín rua tá dána.
Silly moo, ignore me… Emily?
Your mum and I have a pact… It means I’ll never let her down again… Helen and me, we… Auntie Bridge?… Sexy shots… Mum? Mummy?
I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I’m sor—
Emily… I’m with Emily. We’re in Hampton Hill… no we’re not; we’re in Twickenham, in a café. We’re sitting at a table for two. She’s bought me a mochachino. It’s halfway between hot chocolate and coffee. It’s a teenager in a cup, I think: halfway between being a kid and a grown-up. I smile at this idea. It’s quite clever, you know, for me.
Your mother’s very careful with you, isn’t she? Emily’s head is on one side, like an animal hearing a sudden noise.
She gets worried, I say. Foam tickles my top lip. I lick it off.
I can see that. But you’re a big girl, my dear. You are a young woman, and a very talented, very beautiful one at that.
My face goes hot. Er, no, I’m not.
Emily laughs and shakes her head, and she gets this, like, look on her face, sort of smiling and looking at the ceiling and then shaking her head again.
Ah, how youth is wasted on the young, she says. It is our great shame and tragedy that we don’t see how beautiful we are until later, when it’s gone, and we look back and wonder why we didn’t see, why we didn’t know. Why we didn’t seize it and use it to conquer the world. She leans across the table. Her bosom squashes against the tabletop. Her eyes are shiny, as if she’s about to cry or something, but she looks pretty stoked too. I was beautiful once, she says. I was lovely, like you.
Yeah, I saw your photo, I say. She’s being weird, but I don’t want to be rude. You’re still pretty though, just in a different way. She’s so not, but she seems a bit down about it and I’m trying to be nice.
She smiles again but she looks sad, and she’s like, I was. But I didn’t fight my corner. I let things get out of my control. Sometimes you have to fight, Rosie. People try and cage you up, but you can’t let them. You can’t be a prisoner of other people’s madness, do you know what I mean? You have to leave the nest if you wish to fly. You have to get out!
I think Emily’s been smoking weed. Her eyes are a bit red and she sounds proper batshit.
Yes, I say. I don’t know what else to say. She’s not scaring me, she’s just, like, gone a bit weird. The menopause drove Auntie Bridge crazy. Maybe Emily’s got that. She is fifty-three.
When is this? When did we go to this café?
Emily melts, her face runs like thick sauce… like thick…
Auntie Bridge… there’s noise… new noise… the bubbling sound of people talking… we are in a pub. It’s the Cricketers on Richmond Green, I recognise it – hurray! We are outside at the tables at the front. It’s still light. There are people on the green, the air is warm and mellow – it has absorbed the sun. The air smells of heat from the pavement, of bodies, and of Auntie Bridge’s patchouli. The people on the green drink beer from plastic cups, sit around on picnic rugs with bottles of wine, bags of crisps, ice creams. Two men kick a football and hold their pints at the same time. We are drinking lager too, from glasses, and Auntie Bridge is smoking a roll-up. It smells sweet, and I think she’s put some dope in it, but I don’t ask her because that’s not cool. She has a pint. I have a half because I’m an underage squirt. I think this is just after my fifteenth birthday, like a week or something before I went into Year 11. I don’t even like lager. I only drink lager with fruits of the forest in it, which Auntie Bridge says is an abomination. She has chewing gum for both of us for afterwards, to disguise the smell of alcohol for me and cigarettes for her.
So that you don’t find out.
We are waiting for Helen.
Do you think you and Helen will get back together? I ask.
She shrugs and pulls on her fag/joint. Depends.
On what?
On Helen. On me. On your mum.
Mum’s fine. She’s fine now.
But you’ll be off to uni in a year or two, won’t you, Squirt?
Yes, but that doesn’t mean…
I don’t know what I was going to say. I don’t know if I ever knew.
Neither of us has found anyone else, I suppose, and… Bridget takes a drag of her cigarette, and her eyes narrow like they do when she’s going to say something difficult. She’s about to say it, but then Helen arrives.
Hello, you two. Pissed again? She kisses Auntie Bridge on the back of her neck, which is weird considering they’re supposed to be ex-partners, and nods to me. I told you to stay away from her, Bridge. That Rosie Flint is a bad influence.
Helen is smaller than me. Auntie Bridge calls her Titch. Grown-ups have more nicknames than teenagers, I think, or maybe it’s just Auntie Bridge. Helen has long brown hair, which she always ties back because she says it’s like rats’ tails, which it so isn’t. She has cool glasses, like 1950s ones, and a wicked sense of humour, which if I tried to do it would just come out wrong or cruel or sarcastic but when she does it, it’s funny. She’s an actor like Auntie Bridge but she doesn’t do any acting any more, she writes screenplays for television. She writes for EastEnders and earns a lot of money. She is the love of Auntie Bridge’s life, but Auntie Bridge told me that when she’d had a few too many, and in the morning she told me never to tell anyone what she’d said.
Not even your mum, OK, Squirt? Especially not your mum.
Grown-ups are weird… grown-ups are…
* * *
I’m just home from rehearsal for Little Red. You’ve made leek and potato soup. It’s delicious. You watch me as I eat it, smiling like I’m doing a good thing, but I know you like it when I enjoy eating what you make. You’re a good cook, Mummy. Sorry, I don’t really say that. No one’s cottage pie is as good as yours.
Auntie Bridge makes better chilli con carne though, LOL.
Peng munch, Mum, I say, dipping my toast in.
What? What does that even mean?
Peng munch? It means nice food, duh.
You shake your head, but you’re still smiling. Honestly, you speak a whole other language.
I say goodnight early. I tell you I’m tired, but I’m so not. In my room, I check my phone. Ollie has messaged! I get into bed with my clothes on and pull the covers over my head. I make my cave of light.
Hey, beautiful.
Beautiful! Like it’s my name! I start to reply, but I think, wait, leave it a few minutes. I look on his Facebook page instead. He’s posted a cute photo of himself as a little boy. His hair is practically blonde in it, and he looks so cute in dungarees and a little stripy T-shirt. His cheeks are bright red and he has put the caption: Human cherry. I like the picture, then back over on Instagram:
Hey, ugly mug. Jokes. Saw your pic on FB. Winking-with-tongue-out-face emoji.
You’re in the living room watching the news, but I’m still scared you’ll see or hear or… just know, by telepathy or something.
OMG, he is typing…
What’ve you been up to today?
We message for a bit. You knock at my bedroom door and open it.
Rosie? You’re not still up, are you?
Shit shit shit. If you pull back my covers you’ll see I’m completely dressed.
Just reading.
OK. Lights off now, babe.
OK. Night. I can feel you’re still there. I turn off my phone and my secret cave goes dark.
Night, love. Love you.
Love you more.
Wrong. Love you more.
Night.
Night.
I listen, still as a rock, for the shush of the door on my bedroom carpet. I hear the water run in the bathroom and switch on my phone again. Ollie and I message for, like, forty-five minutes. That’s a record for us. He�
�s so interested in everything about me, and he knows about acting because he asks if I’ve read any Ute Hagen and I’m, like, Oh my God, yes! We talk about Stanislavski and our favourite actors. His is Jake Gyllenhaal. I think Jake Gyllenhaal is too ‘big’, but I don’t say that. He likes Claire Danes too, and I agree with that. She’s not my total fave – that would be Carey Mulligan or Jessica Chastain – but Claire Danes is up there. She is awesome. Messaging him, I feel all warm and relaxed, as if I’m in a hot bath, but at the same time I have butterflies kind of everywhere. It’s midnight. You are asleep in bed and I’m still awake, and I know I’m going to be wrecked in the morning, so I make a mature decision.
GTG.
What is GTG?
Got to go, silly! Crying-with-laughter face.
OK. Kiss emoji. Crying-face emoji.
I am in love. I am in actual love. But I can’t tell you or Auntie Bridge. And I can’t tell my friends, not even Naomi – not yet. It’s too embarrassing, because if I tell her, she’ll ask questions and then she’ll find out it’s actually nothing because we haven’t met or spoken or anything so she’ll think that we aren’t legit friends. She won’t understand the connection. Because that’s what this is: a deep love connection.
I clean my teeth and quickly pull off my clothes and put on my nightie. When I get back, I check my phone again, just in case. Red circle! He’s sent a picture. OMG! A picture – a private picture just for me. I can’t figure out what I’m looking out at first, and then I realise: it’s a close-up of a big toe.
His. Big. Toe.
Normally that would creep me out, but that’s just Ollie – he’s really good-looking but actually he’s really interesting and funny when you get to know him. And even his toe is hot. The nail is a soft brown, like that golden caster sugar we get. There’s a thin white strip at the top and a creamy white crescent moon at the bottom. I drop the phone. I know boys’ toes aren’t rude or anything, but my heart pounds and I have to breathe in and out through my mouth. A memory… toes… toes… toes wiggling in the sand. Little toes, and big toes.
