by Julie Shaw
And a scant ten minutes later her gloomy predictions came true.
She’d not known who to expect – the midwives did the clinic on rotation, apparently – but on first seeing Sister Rawson her spirits lifted again. She’d not forgotten the midwife’s tenderness towards her after Joey had been born.
But Sister Rawson’s expression made it abundantly clear that Christine was in for a ticking off. And that was what she got. ‘I’m not very impressed with you, young lady,’ she said, as Christine shuffled in with a now disgruntled Joey in her arms.
It made Christine’s hackles rise, that ‘young lady’. It reminded her too much of her mother. Sister Rawson indicated that she should take a seat and shook her head.
‘I explained to the social worker,’ Christine said, sitting down on the indicated chair, feeling defensive. ‘I haven’t been able to make it down because of the weather – not having a rain cover, or a decent pram, and that.’
‘So I hear,’ Sister Rawson said, looking not in the least impressed.
‘But we’re here now,’ Christine continued, ‘and, as you can see, Joey is doing fine.’
Sister Rawson held her hands out – the same pink podgy hands that had brought Joey into the world. She handed him over, thinking what a thing it must be to be a midwife – to be the first human touch for so many newborn babies. Did Joey have a bond with her too, because of that?
Apparently not. Sister Rawson took him across to a flat plastic cot – well, more like a cross between a cot and a baby bath – where she stripped him of his clothes and, despite his furious bucking and crying, proceeded to assault him just as Josie had described, yanking his limbs around, putting an obviously cold stethoscope to his naked chest, weighing him and generally making him furious.
Christine felt a powerful urge to wrestle her off but remained in her chair. It’s completely natural, that, Josie had assured her, when she’d confessed to such feelings. Just the normal maternal instinct coming out.
It felt anything but natural, but Sister Rawson’s manner seemed to change then. ‘Oh, for goodness sake, there’s no need for all that noise,’ she chided Joey. She chucked his little cheeks, and glanced back at Christine, her smile warm now. ‘The sooner you stop fussing, young man, the sooner you’ll be back with your mummy!’
Your mummy. Christine still marvelled at being called that by other people.
‘Here you go, love,’ she then said. ‘D’you want to pop his nappy and vest on while I write up my notes? Leave the babygro.’
Christine went over to the cot and began dressing Joey, while Sister Rawson returned to her desk. ‘Well, be it by accident or design, Christine, he seems to be doing fine. He’s a good weight and he’s got a good pair of lungs on him. Which I imagine he’ll soon be exercising. Bring him over when you’re done, love, so I can give him his jab.’
Despite knowing to expect this bit, Christine was no better prepared, and as the needle went into Joey’s arm, and as predicted he screamed blue murder, she felt her own eyes flood with tears.
‘It’s just the shock,’ Sister Rawson said. ‘He’ll have forgotten it in an instant.’
Christine wasn’t so sure. He looked up at her as if he couldn’t quite believe his own mummy would have allowed that to happen. She hurried to dress him again, turning her back so Sister Rawson wouldn’t see her snivelling.
But perhaps she didn’t need to. ‘So,’ she said, her notes completed and the needle disposed of. ‘Everything else. How are you coping generally? Any problems you need some help with?’
Christine shook her head. ‘Everything’s fine,’ she said.
Sister Rawson’s gaze bore into her. ‘Really, Christine? Everything?’
‘So far,’ she said.
‘And what about your living arrangements? Any progress with the housing?’
‘Not yet,’ Christine said, realising she probably knew everything. That the social worker would have come back and described it all in detail. The ratty flat. The dirt and squalor. Her own state of dishevelment. But maybe that had been a good thing. Perhaps they might have put a word in.
‘And how about your mother?’
‘My mother?’
‘Have you managed to patch things up with her?’
Her voice was gentle, concerned, and Christine sighed inwardly. So she knew all about that too. But then, why wouldn’t she? The way her mother had kicked off, it would have been the talk of the ward. ‘Have you seen anything of her?’ Sister Rawson said when she didn’t immediately answer. ‘You know, Christine, she might be regretting things. But she might feel she can’t make an approach to you.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Christine said, feeling a rush of irritation. Sister Rawson obviously didn’t know the half of it. But she seemed keen to keep on, even so.
‘You know, my love, whatever water has flowed under the bridge you’re not in the best kind of circumstances right now, are you?’ She paused, as if keen to press that point home. ‘Now, I don’t know all the circumstances,’ she went on, ‘but a lot of things that are said in haste are repented at leisure, and while I’d never suggest you put you or Joey in harm’s way, I’d definitely counsel trying to patch things up if it’s feasible. It’s not good to be where you are – either practically or emotionally. Bad blood and all that … You so vulnerable.’
Christine didn’t know what to say to that. Her instinct was to tell Sister Rawson she was living in fairyland. But that tone she was adopting – there was something about it. What was she hinting? Vulnerable to what?’
‘She hates me,’ she heard herself say. ‘She’s disowned me.’ She dropped her eyes to Joey. ‘And I can’t blame her, can I? I just need the housing to –’
‘I know, my love,’ Sister Rawson interrupted, nodding. ‘And under the circumstances I understand that. Of course I do. I’m just suggesting that it’s probably not the whole picture, that’s all. That you shouldn’t discount the option of trying to mend things. That’s all I’m saying. For Joey’s sake,’ she added, offering a finger, which he took in his tiny fist. ‘For his sake, my love. That’s all I’m saying.’
The sun was shining out of a clear blue sky by the time Christine came out of the clinic, Joey once again settling to sleep and armed with the date of Joey’s next appointment, which was written in pencil on a small card. This was for his booster, but Sister Rawson had made a point of reminding her that ‘doing right by’ Joey involved her coming down every week to have him weighed and measured. That she should ‘be extremely mindful of her situation’.
Christine ran through everything Sister Rawson had said to her – that included – and felt anxiety stirring inside her. Her choice of words, her expression, her keeping on calling her ‘my love’; all of it conspired to make Christine scared rather than reassured. She was being watched, she felt sure of it. That was it. She was on some sort of list. It was tantamount to them telling her she’d better be careful, because they were onto her. Sister Rawson had probably only stopped short of actually saying so because she didn’t want to frighten her.
But she was frightened even so. She headed back up Little Horton Lane, glancing up at the Brigella Mills clock as she passed, which was still working, despite the factory itself having been closed down for years. It told her it was still only half past eleven – not even half the day gone – and the thought of returning to the flat on such a bright, hopeful day felt all wrong. She thought she might walk round to Josie’s; tell her the things Sister Rawson had said to her. It had been almost a week since she’d seen her, after all. And would doubtless have done so, had she not turned into Louis Avenue and seen June, Josie’s mam, walking towards her.
June McKellan was a larger than life figure on the estate. She bore the maiden name of Hudson, so it went without saying. And, in Vinnie, she was also mum to one of the most notorious local heroes; currently incarcerated at Her Majesty’s pleasure, he was still as well known, and well loved, as he’d ever been. June herself was as hard as a whole box o
f nails and for all that she’d thump anyone who said or did a thing against her Josie, they’d not had the easiest of mother–daughter relationships down the years either. She was also thick as thieves with Christine’s mam.
Christine could, therefore, think of happier encounters she might had had, and felt her stride growing shorter, almost as if by itself, as she pushed the pram up the pavement towards her.
June waved and smiled as she saw her, however. ‘Hello, love,’ she said, as she got within a few feet. ‘You on your way to our Josie’s? If so, you’re out of luck. She’s just left for the community centre. Took our Paula down to that new play group thing they’ve opened.’
June peered into the pram and Christine could smell her distinctive Charlie perfume. It was as much a part of her as her bleached hair and deep crimson lipstick. Where her own mam had always embraced all the latest fashion fads – often appallingly, to Christine’s mind – June, like her sister Annie, who also lived on Canterbury Estate, still modelled herself on Marilyn Monroe.
‘Ooh, he’s a stunning little bleeder, he really is,’ she pronounced. ‘Funny how half-castes are always so good looking, isn’t it?’
Christine cringed. But June had no side to her. It was a genuine observation. And she was right. His caramel skin did make him stand out. Make him handsome. Especially among the pasty-faced type you usually saw in Bradford – the legacy of everyone being holed up in factories all day, and there being fuck all, most of the year, in the way of sun.
June now turned her gaze to Christine herself. ‘And how about you, love? How you doing?’
Christine shrugged. ‘I’m okay.’
‘You look it too,’ June observed, casting her gaze over her. Christine had made an effort for the clinic and, with Sister Rawson’s scrutiny, she’d been doubly glad she had. Washing her hair, despite there being no hot water. Putting some make-up on her face. Even finding the prehistoric iron under the sink in Brian’s kitchen, and ironing her one decent blouse, on a towel draped over the coffee table.
She was glad of it now, too. That she looked like she was coping. She couldn’t shrug off this idea that everyone was waiting for her to prove them right and fail.
‘How’s my mam?’ she asked June, the thought prompting the question.
June, to her surprise, shook her head. ‘Not good,’ she said. ‘I don’t mind telling you. Not good,’ she said again. She glanced back into the pram. ‘Look at him,’ she said, continuing to stare down at Joey. ‘Her only grandson. You’d think, wouldn’t you … that …’
‘Not good how?’ Christine asked her. ‘In what way?’
‘She’s just not herself.’ Now June looked back up at Christine. Even in the heels that were as much her trademark as the hair and lippy, June was a good two or three inches shorter than her. She sighed. ‘You don’t really need me to tell you, love, do you? She’s not taken it well, this.’
Christine didn’t have an answer for that because she didn’t need telling. Instead, she shook her head. ‘Not a lot I can do about that now, is there? Not sure there’s much I want to do about it either, the way she’s treated me,’ she said. She lifted her chin. And she thought she meant it. But there was still this ache she couldn’t shake … She was a mere couple of streets away but so far from home. The closer she was to it, the worse the feeling seemed to be.
And Sister Rawson’s words still lingered. It wasn’t just about her, was it? Wasn’t just about her or her mam. It was about Joey.
‘What about Mo?’ she asked June.
‘Mo? Oh, she’s given him his marching orders.’
‘Really?’ Christine was shocked to hear this, and not at all sure she believed it. But June seemed very sure.
‘What do you think?’ she added. ‘He’s a lying, cheating bastard and thank God she’s finally come to her bleeding senses. Oh, make no mistake, love. He’s history.’
Christine tried to digest this. Which was not to say her mam didn’t still blame her, utterly, but, given what she had said to her at the hospital, this news was the very last she’d expected to hear. She’d had this whole picture sorted – of her mam and Mo, carrying on as they always had, both discarding her as easily as if she’d never existed. Was that not, in fact, the case? Could Sister Rawson have been right? That her mam did want to patch things up? Get to know Joey?
June stopped short, as Christine knew she would, of telling her to go and see her mam. June wasn’t daft. She knew her friend well enough, and also long enough, to know what kind of row Christine might still expect. Lizzie Parker was not a mam in the sense that most mams were – even by June’s less that earth-motherly standards. But as she said goodbye, Christine resolved that she’d walk round there anyway. She had nothing to lose, after all – her mam’s ranting couldn’t hurt her. But if it was true – that she had, unbelievably, sent Mo packing – then perhaps she’d come to realise that he did bear responsibility. And that she did want a relationship with her grandson after all.
Christine reassured herself again. Going round there couldn’t hurt her, even if her mam kicked off royally. Sticks and stones, that was all. And given that there was no sign of a council flat in the offing, she should perhaps heed Sister Rawson’s well-meant but thinly veiled threats.
She should try again with her mam. For Joey’s sake.
Chapter 9
Though it felt strange to be knocking on her own front door, Christine did just that, before stepping back self-consciously and waiting, jiggling the pram handle absentmindedly.
The front looked as it always did – ignored. Dismissed. Written off. Wholly short of a bloke’s attention. No neatly tended garden, or car out front, like at Josie and Eddie’s. They always talked about a ‘woman’s touch’, but there was a man’s touch as well. Which they’d never really had, especially since Nick had left.
She stiffened as she heard the catch moving, braced for the probable explosion, but when her mam appeared from behind it, all she did was stare. First at Christine, then at the pram, and then back to her daughter.
‘Christ, tell me this is a fucking dream,’ she said eventually.
Christine was shocked by the look of her. It had been weeks since she’d seen her mam, and she could understand what June meant now, because the first thought that came to mind was that her mother looked like shit. She had no make-up on for one thing, though she was dressed as if to go somewhere, and beneath the baby-blue fluffy jumper – a jumper? In this weather? – and a pair of drainpipe jeans, she looked insubstantial and gaunt.
She looked so un-mam-like that any normal, sharp response seemed unthinkable. ‘I just saw Auntie June, Mam,’ she said.
‘Oh, you did, did you?’ her mother drawled at her. She opened the door a little wider and stood there glowering, with a hand on each hip. Christine wondered if she was drinking herself into oblivion every night.
‘Yes, I did, and she told me you’re done with Mo now. Look, Mam … Look at Joey. Just come out and say hello to him at least. He’s got grandad’s hair. It’s so thick …’
She knew she’d started to gabble. Couldn’t seem to stop herself in the face of her mam’s withering glare. And something else. She was finding herself increasingly transfixed. To beyond her mam, now the breeze had pushed the door further open. To the hall, in which a sun shaft arrowed down onto the carpet. To the brightness beyond, where the kitchen was. The back door to the little garden. The ache intensified. It was that simple; she wanted – needed – to be home.
‘It’s thick because he’s half bleeding West Indian, you stupid dolt,’ Lizzie barked. ‘And look at him? Look at him? Be reminded of that fucking low life? You’ve got more chance of plaiting fog, you silly mare!’
She almost snarled then, seeming to make a point of looking anywhere but at the pram. ‘Just piss off, Christine, will you. Go running off to him, why don’t you? I’m done with him. You’re welcome to each other.’ She took a step back, lifted her arm behind her and gripped the door catch. ‘And we’re done as w
ell, you and I. You got that? So why don’t you piss off back to that brother of yours and his dozy mate.’
Despite the sting of her mother’s words, Christine stood her ground. She couldn’t not. ‘Mam, you’ve got to stop this! I don’t care sod all about Mo – you know that! I’m done with him too! I was always done with him. It was …’ she exhaled. This was pointless. Her mam’s hand was still on the doorknob. She seemed to be needing the door for support. She really did look like shit.
‘Mam, you okay?’ she asked.
‘No, I’m fucking not okay,’ came the swift response. ‘Would you be in my shoes? I’m fucking not okay! Now piss off. I’m sick of looking at you.’
It was the tears, mostly, that made Christine step forward. Her mother’s tears. She was actually struggling not to burst into tears. She, who shouted, but never cried – not in front of Christine.
But she had to snatch her outstretched hand away before she caught it in the slamming door. A breath of scented air followed the bang. It smelled of home.
‘Bollocks to her!’ Christine said to herself as marched back up Quaker Lane. ‘You hear that, baby? We’re on our own now and that’s just fine by me.’ And it was, she decided, sending the longing back where it belonged and slamming a determined lid on it. If her mother wanted to cut off her nose to spite her face then it was up to her.
Joey gurgled his delight at her stream of animated chatter, kicking out his legs and pumping his arms up and down. ‘Exactly. Bollocks to her!’ she said again, just because she could.
She headed straight back to the flat. Despite the sunshine the day had lost all its light and hope. It was all very well going to baby groups and parks and all that, but when your insides were churned up it was pointless. No, better be back with Nicky – who at least she knew loved her, and who wouldn’t mind listening. And that was all she really wanted. To be listened to. For someone to care. And it was now approaching one, so he should be up and about.
