The A-Z of Everything

by Debbie Johnson

  The programme I’ve chosen – from the many – is for Grease, and that run I had over the school holidays, playing Frenchie. I was exceptionally old to be playing a high-school student, but such is theatre, and it was great fun. You used to come along and sit in the box every night, and saw it so many times you knew all the words to that shama-lama-ding-dong song near the end. Plus you did the cutest ever little duet of ‘Summer Nights’ – you always insisted on being Danny, didn’t you, Poppy?

  That was a good time – but it wasn’t always easy to combine my work with being a single mum. Rose, I’m sure you’ll appreciate exactly how tough it was, now, after doing it yourself. I was trying to make life as stable as possible for you two, and that involved making a lot of compromises with my acting.

  I tried to work during the holidays when you could come with me – all those days sitting on set with colouring books and dot-to-dots; what I’d have given for one of those Nintendo devices like Joe has! I had to turn jobs down, and of course I wasn’t based in London, which is the centre of the known acting universe, so it wasn’t always easy.

  I had to balance the need to disrupt your lives with the need to earn money, and keep you two in Clark’s shoes and fig rolls, as well as all those boring old things like paying the mortgage and the gas bill.

  It was always a challenge, and I’m very thankful that Penny Peabody came along in my twilight years and rescued me from a life of cutting out food coupons and rationing my bubble baths. Still, no matter how challenging it was, it was a fabulous career.

  I had so much fun, met so many interesting people; I travelled, and saw the world, and enjoyed pretty much every moment of it. I mean, it’s not like a proper job, is it? I may not have hit the heights of some of my contemporaries, but I loved it – and somehow, with a nod and a wink from the big man upstairs, seem to have managed to combine it with raising two little girls on my own.

  I’ve put together a little show reel for you, girls – it’s on the video sharing thing that Lewis has set up, but it’s also on a DVD too. I wanted you to have it like that as well so that you can pass it on to Joe without him having to see all the other, perhaps less fun, videos.

  It’s a collection of some of my favourite film and TV clips – and you’ll get to see your dear old mama transformed before your very eyes into a collection of tarts with a heart, barmaids, sassy secretaries, yummy mummies, stern head teachers and, perhaps my most favourite of all, the nubile young victim of a dashingly handsome Count Dracula – that was before I had you two, and – if I say so myself – my bosoms in that peasant wench outfit are absolutely magnificent; they could have had a film of their own!

  There are a few clips of some of my stage shows, and to prove I’m not a complete egotist, I found space on there for some footage of you two as well. Although you may not thank me for it – it’s of you doing your ‘Summer Nights’ routine, and giving it loads of wella-wella-wella-uh!

  In the package there will also be some more theatre programmes, a few old movie posters that have somehow survived the decades, and even some of my reviews. Only the kind ones, of course – the rest were ceremonially roasted over a fiery pit. I hope it’s fun for you, and also helps you see me as someone other than your mother – because while that was obviously my most important role in life, it was far from the only one.

  Now, while I’m at it, let’s discuss the letter I. I’m going to ask Lewis to simply put it next to H and leave it blank, because to be honest, girls, I can’t think of anything remotely interesting to go with it. So, I’m choosing I is for Inebriation – please tuck into that nice bottle of Amaretto I’ve left in the booze cupboard while you watch.

  Happy viewing, and enjoy!

  Mum xxx

  Chapter 41

  Poppy

  ‘She was very, very good, wasn’t she?’ Rose says, slurring her words slightly around her amaretto glass. She’s taken Mum at her word on the inebriation front – some instructions are simply easier to follow than others.

  I don’t mind. In fact, it’s been perfect timing – things were ever so slightly tense after she read my old letters. I still don’t know if I did the right thing in letting her or not. I guess if she’d come flying down the stairs in tears and we’d had an emotional reunion, I’d be more decided about it.

  The reality is that they seem to have knocked her sideways a little, made her even more wary and cautious. I’m trying not to remember too clearly what was in them, and trying not to feel too bitter that she hasn’t been willing to discuss them any further. Perhaps a tiny part of me had hoped that once she read my version of events, things would change – and that she’d realise how much all of this has damaged me as well.

  As none of that seems to be happening – like she says, this isn’t Beaches – then the amaretto is some consolation. That and a very entertaining evening of watching my mother prance around the screen in a variety of outfits, using a variety of accents, and snogging a variety of men.

  It was a bit of a rollercoaster for me, as I’m less drunk than Rose. Some of it was very, very funny – especially the nubile peasant wench falling under the mesmeric spell of Dracula’s eyes as he fanged her. But I also found myself sitting there, the room dark apart from the flickering of the television, in floods of silent tears – seeing Mum there, on that huge flat-screen TV, but knowing that I’ll never be able to talk to her about any of this.

  Never be able to ask how she kept her face straight during the horror film; or how she managed to run away from that knife-wielding maniac in six-inch stilettoes, or why she had such a huge crush on Ian McShane. She’s gone, and seeing her mature and change over the years on screen is just emphasising how much I took her for granted while she was here, and how much I’ll miss her now she’s not.

  ‘She was,’ I reply, as we both politely ignore the clip of us pretending to be Danny and Sandy from Grease – it is unbearably cute and unbearably painful. ‘She could have done so much more, couldn’t she? If she hadn’t been trying to look after us as well?’

  ‘Yeah, but you can’t look at it like that,’ Rose says, trying to pour herself another glass and then looking confused when she discovers that the bottle is empty. ‘She loved us, and she loved being a mum, and when you’re a mum, it doesn’t matter what you have to give up.’

  ‘Really?’ I answer, knowing that I’m looking less than convinced. Because I genuinely don’t understand that aspect of Rose’s life, or my mother’s.

  ‘Really. I mean, you don’t know, you’ve never had kids … but that’s how it works. I don’t mind being a teaching assistant – it means I’ve been able to spend more time with Joe.’

  ‘But weren’t you supposed to find a cure for cancer?’

  ‘To be honest, sis, if I found a cure for cancer, I’d probably lose it down the side of the sofa within minutes. After Gareth left, I could’ve gone back and carried on with my career – but it felt impossible, for all kinds of reasons. I wasn’t exactly swimming in self-confidence, money was tight, and I had Joe to think about. I needed something stable that wasn’t too challenging, and for ages, it worked perfectly. We can’t all be hotshot career girls, you know.’

  I bite back a snort at that one – because yes, while I have done well, and get to be the boss of my own particular universe, these days I’m seeing myself less and less as a hot-shot and more as a saddo who’s never done a day’s work I’m actually proud of.

  ‘What about now?’ I ask, not wanting to throw mid-life career crisis into my current bucket of crap. ‘Now Joe’s older – you could do something else, couldn’t you?’

  She pulls a face, and uses her finger to scrape the last few drops of liqueur from her glass, licking it clean before she answers.

  ‘I could. In fact I should. He’s off to college, and it’s not like I’m ancient or anything. I thought maybe about teacher training, but we could never afford it.’

  ‘Is that the only reason?’ I ask. ‘Because there is that life-assurance policy Lewi
s mentioned; plus, well, you know, we might decide to sell this place. Mum would have wanted you to use the money for something like that.’

  ‘Possibly. Although I can’t think about selling this place right now. It’ll make me cry, and possibly puke up. It’s not just the money … I’m not sure I could do it. You need to be really organised to be a teacher, and really confident, and … well, I’m neither of those things.’

  ‘That’s bollocks!’ I say, taking the glass out of her hand just as she starts sticking her tongue into it to try and lick a bit from the bottom. ‘You’re dead clever, Rose – you always were. You can do anything you want to do, if you set your mind to it.’

  She pulls a face at me, but lets the glass go. I see her eyes drift in the direction of the kitchen, and know she’s wondering what else is in the booze cupboard, the old lush.

  ‘You sound like something off an American reality TV show, Poppy,’ she replies. ‘Like if I can dream it I can be it, and all that crap … it’s not that simple in real life. Do you think she’s got any gin left? I mean, she said I was for Inebriation, and I don’t want to let her down.’

  ‘I think you’ve already done her proud on that front. And I think you’re just being a coward. Go to teacher training – you’ll be brilliant at it.’

  ‘Ha! Says the woman who always intended to write an award-winning book, and now writes advertising slogans for pooper scoopers …’

  I stick my tongue out at her, and take the glasses through to the kitchen. She may or may not be right on that front, and now is not the time to discuss it. Now is the time to go to bed.

  ‘Let’s do J,’ she says, as I walk back into the room, clearly having other ideas. ‘I’m absolutely shitfaced, and won’t remember a thing about it tomorrow – so let’s get another one out of the way. I’ve noticed she’s trying to balance these things out – alternating the excruciatingly painful ones with the funny ones. And as we both almost wet ourselves laughing at that DVD, and we have all these lovely old cuttings to look at, I’m guessing that J will be an absolute bastard. Let’s do it now.’

  She’s right, of course – that is what Mum’s doing. Keeping us hooked, playing us perfectly, cranking up the tension and then deflating it. And I already know what J is. J is for Jealousy, and it’s a list of things that made Mum jealous in her life – and our task is to talk about ways we were jealous of each other.

  So while we really should go to bed – especially Rose – it’s not an altogether terrible idea to get it out of the way while one of us is mildly tipsy, and the other is hammered.

  ‘Okay,’ I say, ‘if you insist. I’m not going to argue with two-thirds of a bottle of amaretto, that’s for sure. Give me a minute.’

  I open up the box, and find the envelope marked with a J. As I do that, Rose shuffles off into the kitchen, and I hear the opening and slamming of doors, and the telltale chinking of glasses before she comes back in with two large gins.

  ‘J is for Jin,’ she says, grinning as she hands me a glass. ‘If you spell it wrongly. I’d absolutely nail that teacher training, wouldn’t I?’

  ‘You would. Now, J is actually for Jealousy,’ I reply, waving a laminated card at her while she throws herself back down on to the sofa so hard all the cushions whoosh as she lands. ‘Shall I read it out to you?’

  ‘You better had,’ she says, sloshing the gin all over her T-shirt.

  I flick on a lamp, and peer at the words. I’m not entirely sober myself, and am glad that this one has been typed so I don’t have to decipher Mum’s increasingly loopy scrawl. I know that the messier her handwriting gets, the more she was suffering, and that is an intolerable thing to have figured out. I wish I could un-think it.

  ‘Okay … here goes …’ I read. ‘Darling girls, today we are going to deal with the dreaded Green-Eyed Monster, in all its many forms. Jealousy, envy, coveting thy neighbour’s ass—’

  ‘I covet my neighbour Simon’s ass,’ interrupts Rose. ‘It’s a mighty fine ass, let me tell you.’

  I stay silent, and stare at her, until she makes an apologetic sound and mimes zipping her mouth up. I read on.

  ‘Jealousy, envy, coveting thy neighbour’s ass, whatever you like to call it, we’ve all felt it. Another one of the Big Nasties when it comes to our less attractive emotions. I’ve made a list of the things that brought out my green-eyed monster, and after you’ve read it, I’d like you two to discuss your own lists – specifically, the ways you were jealous of each other, both as children and now. That sounds exciting, doesn’t it?’

  ‘No,’ says Rose, her face so sulky she looks like a teenager again. ‘It sounds shit. Sorry … sorry … go on. Read the bloody list then.’

  ‘Number 1,’ I start, keeping my voice firm so she’s not tempted to interrupt again, ‘I was always jealous of Joan Collins. She had the most perfect bone structure I’ve ever seen, and it always made me want to give up.

  ‘Number 2 – when Judi Dench was cast as M, I had an absolute fit, because it was one of my dream roles.

  ‘Number 3 – I was always desperately covetous of Ian McShane – such a handsome man, brought out the beast in me! – and sickeningly jealous of all the actresses who got to appear in Lovejoy with him.

  ‘Number 4 – I was secretly jealous of every perfect little couple in the village, especially when I had to see them at school events. Single mothers weren’t as common then as they are now, and although I was happy with my choices in life, seeing their lovely little family units always made me want to scream.

  ‘Number 5 – I was a tiny bit jealous of you two when you were teenagers, so young and perfect and with the whole world at your feet, just as my life felt like it was narrowing down to nothing.

  ‘Number 6 – I was extremely jealous of people with money, and used to have fantasies about suddenly becoming rich, and being able to give you both everything in the entire world – plus have lovely shopping sprees in Harrods.

  ‘Number 7 – my skin would practically turn a vivid shade of emerald every year when I stayed up late and watched the Oscars, knowing that I’d missed my boat on that front. I consoled myself by bitching about the dresses. Lewis helped with this one in later years, and is even more of a bitch than me.

  ‘Number 8 – sometimes, and this is a nasty one, I was jealous of single people with no children, who could go out whenever they wanted and take exciting city breaks to Marrakesh.’

  I finish reading the list, which ends abruptly – I suspect there was more, but perhaps she didn’t want to admit to them, or perhaps she was just too tired to bother.

  I’m glad that Rose let me get through it all without interruptions, and I sit back on my heels, waiting for her response. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been, and I really can’t begrudge Mum any of it. Much as we think parents are superheroes when we’re kids – annoyingly bossy superheroes – she was only human.

  ‘Is that it?’ says Rose, looking at me expectantly. ‘That’s not so long, is it? And I still don’t get the Ian McShane thing, do you? Anyway, what are we supposed to do now – discuss our feelings again?’

  The gin is all gone from her glass, and her eyes are blinking rapidly, as though she’s trying to get rid of her double vision. She is way too drunk for this.

  ‘Yes, but we could do it tomorrow if you like …’

  ‘No! I’ll go first. I was always jealous of your legs. They just go on forever, and you always made me feel like Stumpy McShortarse when I stood next to you.’

  Hmmm. Fair enough, I think, deciding to reciprocate in kind.

  ‘I was always jealous of your boobs. I didn’t get any until I was sixteen, and even then they weren’t the stuff of centrefolds. You were always so curvy, and you had perfect skin when I was covered in spots the size of power stations.’

  ‘Yeah … you really did suffer with that, didn’t you? Poor little Spotty Poppy. Well, I was jealous of your hair as well – yours has always been straight and shiny and easy, and mine is a nightmare.’

&
nbsp; ‘Back at you. I always wanted your curls – it gave you this earth-goddess thing. And your eyes. You got Mum’s eyes, and I, presumably, got lumbered with our absent dad’s.’

  She nods, bites her lip, and is clearly thinking of what else to add to the list.

  ‘I hated the way you were so clever with words. You could do little rhymes, and make up limericks, and do improvised raps. All I could do was use Bunsen burners.’

  I’m not so sure I’m pleased with the way this has slipped into ‘hate’, but there isn’t much I can do about it. Rose is on a roll.

  ‘Well, I was jealous of all your friends. People liked you much more than they liked me, even if I could rap,’ I say. Which is true – she was always much more popular.

  ‘And you were jealous of Gareth,’ she adds, pointing one unsteady finger at what she thinks is me, but is actually a few inches off to my left.

  ‘Yes. I hated Gareth,’ I admit.

  ‘Well I,’ she says, leaning so far forward I am worried she is going to topple off the sofa and land in a heap of wobbly Rose on the floor, ‘hate your fucking face. The End!’

  Right, I think, downing my gin in one. That went well.

  Chapter 42

  Rose

  K, as it turns out, is for Karaoke. Poppy delved into the magical box to find that it was just a gaudy A4 flyer for a weekly night at the Farmer’s, which I could tell deeply offended the marketing guru my sister had become.

  ‘The apostrophes are in the wrong place,’ she said, looking at it in disgust. ‘Friday Night’s are Singalong Night’s. Uggh.’

  Apostrophes, to be fair, were the least of my concerns. Mother dearest had simply written on top of the paper, in bright-red felt-tip pen: Go To This!

  You really can’t knock her sick sense of humour.

  At least it was something we could do at night, which gave me the whole day to try and make myself presentable. I cracked open one of Mum’s many toiletry gift sets, and given my hair a deep conditioning treatment to try and tame the frizz.