The A-Z of Everything

by Debbie Johnson

‘I thought he was at his dad’s?’ I say, opening the curtains so we don’t feel like we’re in a funeral parlour. The living room is small, and cosy, and not at all the hovel I was expecting, apart from the rubble on the floor.

  ‘He’s supposed to be,’ she replies, stomping into the kitchen and automatically putting the kettle on. ‘But my spider senses are tingling.’

  She goes through the motions of making us a cuppa – and, predictably enough, she’s not run out of coffee – while I mooch around. It’s a lovely room, facing the back garden, with exactly the same levels of lived-in mess that our own mother used to surround herself with.

  School letters are held up on the fridge door with magnets; a calendar on the wall shows all of Joe’s various football matches and guitar lessons; the fold-out dining table is covered with a green polka-dot cloth.

  ‘You’re overdue for your smear test,’ I say, pointing at the calendar.

  ‘Ha! My one exciting social engagement for the month,’ she replies, opening the fridge to look for milk. I notice some wilted quinoa salad alone on the shelf, and know it has a date with the bin.

  ‘He’s definitely here,’ she says, pulling out a big semi-skimmed bottle, ‘because there are five cartons of milk in the fridge. I forgot to cancel the milkman, obviously.’

  ‘Is he hot?’ I ask, trying to lighten the mood as she hands me my coffee.

  ‘About as hot as Fred,’ she replies. She pauses, then lets out another one of those tremendous bellows, shouting Joe’s name. My eyes go wide, and I am fairly certain one of my eardrums has just exploded.

  She leans her head on one side, listening out, and within seconds we both hear the sound of footsteps thundering down the stairs.

  My nephew staggers into the room, ricocheting off the walls in a way that implies that at least part of his brain is still asleep. His long brown hair is tufting all over the place, and he’s bare-chested, wearing fleecy pyjama pants with orange footballs on them. He appears to be even taller than the last time I saw him, super-skinny, and disconcertingly like his father.

  ‘Mum!’ he says, wiping sleep from his eyes. ‘I didn’t expect you back!’

  ‘Clearly,’ she says, leaning back against the sink, her arms crossed over her chest in a classic pissed-off mama bear pose. ‘Why aren’t you at your dad’s? And did you drink all that beer?’

  He looks a bit guilty, so I suspect he did drink at least some of the beer, but he stands up tall and tries to appear tough. Epic fail – the football PJs ruin it.

  ‘It all got a bit messy at Dad’s,’ he says. ‘Sylvie wouldn’t let Amber and Ariel come – said they had chicken pox, but I suspect not. Plus him and Heather are … well, they’re not exactly getting on. Heather’s up all night with Charlie, and Dad just seemed really fed up and knackered, and … well, I decided to come home. He put me on the train from London yesterday. I was going to call you.’

  ‘Why didn’t you, then?’ she prompts, her eyes flickering over him as though she’s checking for damage.

  ‘Lost my phone charger.’

  ‘You could have used the landline.’

  ‘Your number was in my phone, and I didn’t know it off by heart, and I don’t know Gran’s landline number, and Dad said he was going to text you anyway.’

  ‘Wow,’ she says, trying to keep the smile off her face, ‘you have an answer for everything, don’t you?’

  ‘No,’ he says, grinning at her, knowing she’ll forgive him anything, ‘I don’t know the capital of Uruguay.’

  Rose walks over and gives him a gentle cuff across the head, followed by a hug. It’s a long hug, and I can see him squirming slightly in her embrace. I stay quiet – this isn’t my drama to intrude on, plus I have no idea who Sylvie and Amber and Ariel and Heather and Charlie are. Joe gives me a friendly nod over his mother’s shoulder before he manages to escape.

  ‘Sylvie is Gareth’s second wife,’ Rose explains, as though reading my mind. ‘Amber and Ariel are their kids. Heather is the third wife, and Charlie is their two-year-old daughter.’

  She turns her scrutiny back to Joe, who is sidling towards a cupboard full of chocolate cereal.

  ‘What about the beer?’ she snaps.

  ‘Oh … well. That wasn’t me, honest. Well, not all me, anyway. Simon saw the lights on last night and came round to check. He had a baseball bat and he scared the shit out of me – you know how hard he looks, even though he’s dead nice. When he saw I was here on my own, we got the pizza, and the beer. And I only had one. Maybe two.’

  He pours himself the world’s biggest-known bowl of Coco Pops, and splashes on half a gallon of milk.

  ‘He kept all the milk in his house as well – I think you forgot to cancel it … you look nice, by the way, Mum. Your hair’s different.’

  She half scowls, half laughs at his attempt to change the subject, and looks set to give him another telling off when there is a firm knock at the door. We all jump a little at the sound, but Joe recovers first.

  ‘That’ll be him now,’ he says, wandering through into the living room and collapsing on a sofa that’s seen better days, propping his bare feet up on the coffee table.

  Rose looks slightly flustered, and does a thing with her boobs she probably doesn’t even notice she’s doing. She practically runs to the front door, and in comes the famous Simon – super neighbour and fine-assed lawn-mower.

  He’s a big man, dressed in working clothes, his hair shaved short and his face a little on the battered side. His eyes, though, are a vivid shade of blue, and look kind. The type of kind that would save your milk and look after your kid for you.

  They walk through, and Rose introduces us. She looks flustered, her eyes constantly darting between me and Simon, as though waiting for something to happen. I realise with absolute horror that she is expecting me to flirt with him. Possibly screw him on the kitchen table. Because, after all, he’s male – and that’s what I do.

  I can’t say that I blame her for having some suspicions, but it still upsets me, the way she seems to automatically assume the worst. I know I don’t have a good track record – the absolute worst, in fact – but I would never, ever do that. Not in a million years. I’m a different person now, and it cuts deep that she doesn’t know that yet.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Simon,’ I say, politely shaking his hand. ‘I’m just going to pop upstairs and freshen up. Then maybe Joe can give me a guided tour.’

  Joe gives me a small salute in agreement, Coco Pops dribbling down his chin, and I disappear off towards the hallway. I need to get out of view, and quickly, because I suspect I am about to do some very ugly crying.

  Chapter 47

  Rose

  I ring Simon’s doorbell once, very briefly, half hoping that he doesn’t hear and I can slink away again.

  I’ve left Poppy and Joe in the house, after a day of showing my sister around the area. She feigned enthusiasm well enough, but seems far more interested in Joe than in me. In fact, the two of them are getting along so well I fear the house may burn down.

  It makes me twitch, seeing them like that, side by side on the sofa, as though they’ve known each other forever. I love my boy more than anything in the world, and am worried about him setting foot in the toxic cauldron that Poppy and I seem to inhabit.

  She’s also told me about her Joe le Nephew savings account, and the frankly daft amount of money she’s set aside for him. It’s a kind gesture, but somehow I feel slightly threatened by it. By her incursion into my life. By all of it.

  I needed to escape for a while, and Simon’s seemed the sensible option. I wanted to thank him for looking after Joe, and looking after our milk, anyway.

  He opens the door, and looks genuinely pleased to see me.

  ‘Come in, come in … excuse the mess …’ he says, as I follow him through into the living room. The layout of the house is exactly the same as ours, but the resemblance ends there. He only moved in last year, and it still looks as if he hasn’t unpacked. Everything is perfec
tly tidy and uncluttered, the only sign of luxury being a mahoosive TV and some video games consoles.

  The door to the kitchen is open, and I see one cup, one plate, one knife and fork laid out on the drainer, lined up with military precision.

  ‘Were you in the Navy SEALs?’ I blurt out, as he directs me to the sofa.

  ‘Erm … no,’ he answers, looking confused. ‘They’re American. I was in the Royal Marines.’

  ‘Oh! That’s … well, that’s good. Anyway, I just wanted to thank you for looking after Joe like you did.’

  ‘Not a problem,’ he replies, sitting down opposite me on a chair that looks like it’s never been used. ‘How’s it going? With your sister? And your mum’s A–Z – Joe told me about it. Have you been all right?’

  ‘Sometimes I’m all right,’ I answer, honestly. ‘And sometimes I’m not. Sometimes I just want to die, to be truthful … and, well, it’s complicated, all this stuff with Poppy.’

  ‘I can imagine. I was surprised to see her here.’

  ‘I’m surprised she is here. I think she is too. But what can I say, our dead mother made us! What did you think of her? She’s really pretty, isn’t she?’

  I have no idea why I am asking that. It is utterly ridiculous, and makes me sound like an idiot. It’s as though part of me is probing, digging, wanting him to say ‘ooh yes, she’s gorgeous, is she single?’ – so I can say yes, and he can ask her out, and those two can get married, and I can hate Poppy even more.

  I remember what Mum said about picking at scabs, and suspect that’s exactly what I’m doing – I want Poppy to behave badly so I can be justified in never seeing her again.

  ‘I suppose,’ Simon says, not playing to the script, ‘if you like that kind of thing. I prefer a woman with a bit more meat on her bones.’

  These, I realise as he says them, are words that are sacred to chubby women the world over, and I’d be lying if I said they didn’t light a tiny fire down below. In a place where the fire has long ago gone out. I stare at him for a moment, unable to think of a response, so he carries on talking.

  ‘Is this part of your A–Z, then, coming home?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I reply, looking around and not seeing a single photo anywhere in the room. ‘L is for Location, Location, Location. I went to Poppy’s yesterday. Next up is M, for Magical Mystery Tour, which seems to be some kind of treasure hunt. I don’t know – my mother was never lacking in imagination.’

  ‘It sounds like it. I’m sorry I only ever got to nod at her on the doorstep. So, how are things, with Poppy? Have you sorted out your differences?’

  ‘Well, that’s a tough question. Maybe we’re trying to, I don’t know. But she shagged Joe’s dad, you see, which is a hard one to get over.’

  He’s silent for a moment, and I wonder if I’ve over-shared.

  ‘Right. Well, that’ll do it every time, I suppose. Anyway – if you’re off again, will Joe be staying at home? I don’t mind keeping an eye on him if you need me to. Might even rope him in for some labouring work.’

  ‘Thanks, but I think, if I can, I’ll take him with me … I know he’s sixteen, but … well. Thanks anyway. I’d better be getting back. Poppy and I need to go over the next one. And I need to stick my head in a bucket of cold water.’

  He takes my rejection without a flicker – he is a hard man to read – and sees me to the door. I feel him watching me as I make the thirty-second journey to my own door, and assume he is making sure I don’t get abducted by aliens or trip over a plant pot.

  Inside, I find that Joe has gone up to bed, and Poppy is sitting on the sofa, legs tucked beneath her, flicking through one of our old photo albums. I notice a sad look on her face, like she’s catching up on everything she’s missed out on, but she seems to shut it down as soon as she sees me.

  ‘You okay?’ she asks, laying the album aside. I recognise it as one from when Joe was about five, his first year in school and super-cute.

  ‘Yeah, fine,’ I reply, collapsing down next to her on the couch. ‘I’m just knackered. Joe being here threw me a bit, and I’m not exactly happy about his dad letting him come home on his own without telling me.’

  ‘That is a bit off. Does Joe … what does Joe think happened with you two? I mean, I could see the look on your face when he told you why he’d come home, but you didn’t say a word. Don’t you ever want to just scream “your dad’s an arsehole” at him?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ I say, flicking through the album and smiling at one of Joe dressed as a camel in his first nativity play. ‘But that wouldn’t help Joe, would it? I’ve always just told him that it was one of those things – that it was nobody’s fault, we just grew apart. I didn’t want him growing up hating his dad, no matter how I felt. It’s my job to protect him, not traumatise him. And I think, as he’s getting older … well, he’s seeing stuff for himself, isn’t he? At least that’s always been my hope.’

  ‘And what did you tell him about me?’ she asks, quietly.

  ‘Well I didn’t tell him you screwed his father, if that’s what you mean. Again, it’s my job to protect him.’

  I feel her tense next to me, and know she’s upset. We’re both upset. We’re tiptoeing around each other, feeling the icebergs melt around us bit by bit, and both worried we might drown in the resulting deluge.

  It’s been so intense, all of this – losing our mum the way we did, finding out the way we did, getting through the funeral. We’re dealing with grief, and loss, and a whole A–Z of shitty emotions.

  I turn the page in the album, and point out one where Joe is brandishing one of his front baby teeth, looking proud as can be, the fresh gap showing in his grin.

  ‘See this?’ I say, smiling at the memory. ‘He kept all his teeth in a little jar, every time one fell out. Didn’t want the money from the Tooth Fairy – said he’d rather keep them than get a pound. For all I know he still has them upstairs.’

  She smiles, and strokes the photo with one long finger, as though she’s actually stroking a primary-school-aged Joe.

  ‘I’ve missed so much …’ Poppy says, almost in a whisper. ‘And I know, before you say it, that I deserved to miss it. I’m not trying to make you feel bad. I just … well, I’m so sad about it. I should have been here, in his life – in your life. I wish I had been. I wish I’d been able to help you, Rose, and come to all these school plays, and see his tooth jar … I know it’s my own fault, but I regret all of this so much. I’m grateful to know him now, but I’ll never catch up. All this precious time, wasted.’

  She looks exhausted. Completely drained. And God knows, that’s exactly how I feel too.

  ‘I think,’ I say, after we’ve both been silent for a moment, looking at more pictures, ‘that we might need a break, don’t you? From all of this? I know we have M to deal with, and I’m definitely willing to do it – but perhaps we should have a few days off? What do you think? I could do with a bit of time at home with Joe, doing normal stuff, and I’m sure you’ve got a shedload of work to catch up on. Would that be all right? We’re making progress, I think, but … God, I’m tired.’

  Poppy nods, closes the photo album, and stands up without a word. I hear her go into the kitchen and get a glass of water, and by the time she returns, she is yawning and stretching in a completely pantomime ‘I’m-really-sleepy’ way.

  ‘Good idea,’ she says, back to being brisk and business-like. I appreciate that. Brisk and business-like Poppy is much easier to deal with than vulnerable Poppy.

  ‘A few days off. I’ll go into the office and make some people’s lives hell. You see Joe. Then we can meet up back at the cottage for M. I looked at it earlier, and Lewis’s notes say we’ll need a couple of days. It’s some kind of map in poem form. I bet it rhymes and everything.’

  ‘Cool,’ I say. ‘Maybe it’ll even be fun.’

  Poppy nods, and walks towards the door into the hallway, where she pauses and looks back at me. I think there are tears in her eyes, but tell myself it is a trick of
the light.

  ‘And by the way?’ she adds. ‘Just for the record – I would never, ever shag your neighbour.’

  Chapter 48

  Andrea: M is for Magical Mystery Tour

  1,

  I’m curved and cool and far from poor,

  I am a door, but not a door,

  Climb my steps and take a dip,

  But please be careful not to slip!

  2,

  My mouth is burned, oh poor me!

  I’ll cool it down, in the sea.

  Maybe I’ll dig up something old,

  Then make my tongue feel nice and cold.

  3,

  Stretching out around the bay,

  Candyfloss colours, all so gay!

  Use my key, spend some time,

  I’m glad it’s not orange – that wouldn’t rhyme!

  4,

  Inside me you’ll find a kettle,

  And a spade all made of metal,

  Dig down deep and find out maybe,

  What you wore as a baby.

  Chapter 49

  Poppy

  ‘Nobody uses the word “gay” like that any more,’ says Joe, staring at the poem again. He seems fascinated by it, and keeps touching it over and over. The poor thing is missing his granny, I think.

  Mum has done a beautiful job on this one, using elaborate olde-worlde handwriting that I know must have taken her forever, and decorating the edges of the card with little pictures of flowers and birds. It’s the very definition of gay – in the old-fashioned sense – and I think I might get it framed and hang it in the hallway.

  ‘Grandmas do,’ replies Rose, staring off out of the window and into the garden. She’s looking at the neatly mowed lawn and the full birdbath and at the kitchen that has clearly been used, frowning. She is, I suspect, fast coming to the correct conclusion.

  ‘Have you been staying here?’ she says, her eyes narrowing, as though she’s accusing me of sacrificing virgins at a Satanic altar.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply simply. ‘I’d booked the time off work, and decided I didn’t want to disrupt things by going back. Is that all right with you, Mrs Bossy Pants?’