by Ashe Barker
I try to reason with her, or at the very least find out something about the nature and scale of this current catastrophe. But from the moment I first hear her voice on the other end of the line, in my heart I know it’s useless—a waste of perfectly good oxygen. It’s always useless. Each time I get myself sorted, set up somewhere, just when I’m doing okay, my mother hits another one of her crises and that’s it. Suddenly it all becomes my responsibility. It’s up to me to sort things out, to save the day. And when I express any opposition to that view, I’m suddenly the ogre. I’m the villain of the piece who’d condemn the little ones, poor innocent mites, to a life in care.
A life in and out of care was pretty much what I got growing up, and despite that, I somehow managed to scrape together a few GCSEs and get myself onto a college course to train as a librarian. My mother earned her living, our living, variously as a lap dancer, a stripper and, on rare occasions, a singer. And she worked as a prostitute when times were hard. Times were often hard. Her occasional convictions for soliciting resulted in a series of short but disruptive custodial sentences throughout my childhood, hence I regularly found myself thrown on the mercy of social services. On the whole the social workers did all right, though to be fair my standards were pretty low back then.
My academic success, relatively modest though it might be, was hard won. It came as a massive relief to me and was a source of some considerable disappointment to my mother, who had another career in mind for me. Joining the family business, you might say. I’d tried it for a few horrible, desperate months when I felt I had no option, but the experience was mortifying. It was quite enough to convince me I had to find a different path. Something, anything, was better than earning a living on my back.
Getting into college was my passport to a better life—a life of my own, away from Barrow—a decent, independent life, a life of self-respect, and best of all, of quiet predictability. And now I know with chilling finality that I have to leave my peaceful billet in Bristol and once more face the chaos that is life in the Jones’ house.
I’m still hoping this is just a temporary interruption when I phone the HR department back. I have to explain to the rather astonished manager on the other end that I need a bit of time to think and won’t, after all, be accepting the offer of the place on the training program immediately. It isn’t easy.
“Can I have a bit of time to consider the offer? Maybe a fortnight? In fact, I’m sorry but I need to take a few days leave as well, a couple of weeks probably.” Hopefully. “Personal reasons.”
She grudgingly agrees, but goes to some considerable pains to also stress that the offer is open for two weeks only. After that time, if I haven’t accepted it, they’ll assume I’m no longer interested in the opportunity and offer it to another candidate. She makes it abundantly clear how fierce the competition is for these places and how lucky I’ve been to have been offered this chance. She leaves unsaid the potentially dire consequences for my current position, but I have no illusions regarding my career advancement potential if I screw this up. Fucking hell!
I leave work early to pack a suitcase. This is a meticulous affair. I carefully fold and arrange a fortnight’s worth of clothes on my bed before placing them in my case. I am meticulous about the order in which they are arranged. Dark colors to the bottom, lighter ones on top and underwear neatly to one end. I have a system for packing. I have a system for most things. I’ve noticed that the more stressed I am, the more systematic I become. Right now, I’m very, very stressed. My suitcase is ultra-tidy.
By half past five in the afternoon, I’m sitting on the platform at Temple Meads station waiting for the next train to Glasgow. I can change at Lancaster, and as long as there’s no delay, I might just manage the last connection to Barrow.
Shit!
The train is delayed by approximately thirteen minutes. The disembodied voice booming over the station platform is apologetic, but the stark fact of this is that I’m not going to make the connection to Barrow tonight. Not to worry, I have a Plan B. Instead of changing at Lancaster, I’ll stay on until the next stop and get off at Oxenholme, on the outskirts of Kendall. I have a friend, Freya, who lives about half an hour’s walk from the station. I can go there. Then I can either borrow Freya’s car to get to Barrow tonight, or maybe stay over with her until the morning then go to find out what unholy mess my mother has found herself in now.
I try countless times during the five hours trek up to Cumbria to get my mother back on the phone, but all my calls are diverted straight to voicemail. I have no idea at all what I’m headed home to.
I growl to myself, somewhat to the consternation of the elderly couple sitting opposite me, as they spread their picnic tea out on the table between us. The woman offers me a ham sandwich, possibly fearing I might attempt to eat her if I’m feeling over peckish. I politely decline and stick my nose into the latest Sylvia Day, an acquisition from the station bookstore in Bristol. Despite the obvious appeal of Gideon Cross, my heart’s not in reading as I contemplate the next few days.
I love my family. I do. I really do. Well, my sisters at least. My mother is a harder sell, in fairness. I totally loathe the family home, though—the mess, the chaos, the general unmitigated untidiness. I like the things around me to be neat, pristine, under control. And above all, I need to feel safe. Nothing, absolutely nothing, about my mother’s household could be even remotely described in those terms.
I stay away as much as possible. Just contemplating the prospect of crossing that threshold again causes my heart to thump harder. I’m close to a panic attack, here on the train, every mile of track bringing me closer.
I dread it every time I know I have to set foot in my old home. I left there as soon as I could, when I was eighteen, and I never willingly return. It’s the scene of my worst nightmares, my absolute humiliation, a place I always felt vulnerable and threatened, as far back as I can remember. I keep in touch—I’m in frequent contact, especially with my younger sisters. I occasionally phone my mum, and she’s always pleased to hear from me—or at least she says she is. But she only ever gets in touch with me when she needs something. Money occasionally, but more often it’s just me she needs—me to help her out, me to rescue her. Me to abandon a wonderful career opportunity in Bristol to come haring the length of the country to Barrow at a moment’s notice. I must be mad.
I’m not, though. It’s simply that the habits of a lifetime are not easy to shake off. I do what I’ve always done, which is to come rushing back here.
I’m not the eldest. I have a brother, Connor, ten years older than I am. He also left when he was eighteen, to join the army, and now he’s a career soldier, currently in Afghanistan. Apparently he prefers to face down the Taliban than deal with the day-to-day challenges and tribulations of life in the Jones’ household. I’m proud of my big brother. More than that, I adore him. He was my rock when I was little, my hero. Now he’s everyone’s hero. But there’s no summoning him home to sort out crises. The Parachute Regiment won’t stand for that. So it always falls to me.
I have two sisters, Lucy, who is fourteen and has Downs syndrome, and Maisie, aged eleven. I suspect we were all accidental disruptions to her life—my mother never plans anything, to the best of my knowledge. I can’t think where I get my attention to detail from.
My obsessive tidiness started when I was ten—the first time I was taken into care. My mother was admitted to hospital, or at least that’s what she told me, and I bought it at the time. I now realize she was more than likely residing at Her Majesty’s pleasure. Whatever, I found myself in one of those community homes. The two littlest ones were somewhere else, somewhere where they send babies or children with special needs. Nothing special about me apparently. I found the experience totally unnerving. I was terrified and spent the entire month I was there desperately pleading to go see my mother. The staff was kind but firm. I couldn’t see her right then, but she’d be home soon, they told me. They also told me not to worry, but I did.
I worried constantly—about me, about my sisters, and about what I could do, anything, anything at all, to stop this dreadful thing ever happening again.
I recall sitting in the room I shared with two other girls and fretting that the books on the bookshelf weren’t in the right order. The biggest ones needed to be at one end, I was convinced of it. It upset me to look at them, to know they were out of place. I itched to sort those shelves out, to put matters to rights. So eventually I did just that. I piled all the books on the floor then re-shelved them, in order of size. My room-mates were baffled. Who cared where the books were or what order they were in? Who cared about books at all? I cared. I cared deeply.
And I found other things to care about too. I began to fret about what order I got dressed in a morning, and what color socks I wore. If it was Tuesday, that meant blue. My red socks were for Thursday. I’d get really, really anxious if, for any reason, the correct socks weren’t where I could find them in the morning. At school, I hated it if anything, anything at all, happened to change the way I thought the day was supposed to go. I’d be completely dismayed if a supply teacher showed up instead of Miss Bates who should have taught us geography, or if rain stopped us playing hockey. I hated hockey, but even so…
As I grew older I got more obsessive. My frantic attempts to impose control, order and predictability began to dominate everything I did. My mother noticed my funny little ways and had absolutely no patience. She thought I was just being picky, or difficult, or both. I knew I was all of that, but I couldn’t help myself.
I went into care again when I was fifteen, and by then the hospital cover story no longer worked. My mother was in prison—again. But on this occasion, I was placed in a foster home, and it was there I met Freya, my friend with a flat in Kendall. My foster mother was a wonderful woman called Margaret Maloney. She lived in Ulverston and was a professional foster parent, which meant she was paid extra money each week to look after problem children such as me. Margaret took one look at my obsessive behavior and instantly knew it for what it was—OCD—obsessive compulsive disorder. Maybe triggered by the uncertainties of my life, maybe it was there anyway. Who knows? At least now, though, with Margaret’s help and that of a therapist she put me in front of, I could start to understand my bizarre ways, maybe find some coping strategies. I could even get back to being normal, or what might pass for it. Certainly that was Margaret’s mission, and during the weeks I spent with her, she helped me to see my compulsive tidying as a response to the chaotic circumstances I found myself in. Once I recognized that, I was like a puppet who looked up and saw the strings. I understood myself. I could even laugh at myself—sometimes. I could certainly control my most self-destructive or upsetting urges, such as the desire to do physical harm to those around me.
I’m still more than a little inclined to insist that things should run in a set order, to go as I expect, according to plan. And I definitely need my stuff to be in good order. My attitude toward packing my suitcase is evidence of that. But these things are minor, under control. I can live with them. They’re part of me, just my quirky little ways. My home and my life generally, is scrupulously tidy, nothing out of place. I keep it that way, because I can. But my mother’s house, now that’s another story. I have no power or control there. I know it, and that just undoes me.
* * * *
It’s nearly eleven thirty at night when I arrive in Oxenholme. I’d normally walk from here to Freya’s, even at this time, but with a heavy suitcase, that’s not such an appealing prospect. I head for a taxi parked outside the station and give her address. Three minutes later, I’m climbing out in front of the entrance to her apartment block. I crane my neck upwards to see if there are lights on in the penthouse. If she’s gone to bed, I’ll have to knock her up. She won’t mind, but I’d prefer not to.
I’m in luck. The light is on in her living room, so I pay the taxi driver and drag my luggage up the front steps to the large double glass door. There I press the buzzer marked F. Stone.
I lean against the wall to wait. A few seconds later there’s a click as the receiver is lifted up there in the flat, but no sound. I don’t expect sound. Freya never makes any sound. She can’t speak, following a childhood illness that permanently damaged her vocal chords. She can hear, though, so I announce myself.
“Hi. It’s me.”
I need say no more than that. Freya knows my voice and immediately the buzzer sounds to tell me to come in. I do, and I head across the carpeted foyer toward the lift, only to find it’s already on its way down. I wait in the foyer, and a few seconds later the lift doors open and Freya hurls herself out. She flies at me, flinging her arms around me. I hug her back, overwhelmed as ever at the heartfelt welcome. It’s been over a year since I last saw Freya, but that doesn’t matter at all. She’s as close to me as either of my sisters, maybe more so as we’re almost the same age, and neither time nor distance make any difference. They never have.
At last she lets me go, only to grab me and hug me again, for good measure. Then the questions start.
With Freya, it’s all done by hand signals. British Sign Language, in fact. BSL. Her hands are flying, demanding to know why, how, when and, most of all, what I’m doing here. I learned BSL when I was fifteen. I may be out of practice, having had no call for it in Bristol, but I have no trouble following her.
“I had a call from my mum. Another bloody emergency, but I don’t know what. Have you any idea?” I answer her verbally, as my hands are occupied manhandling my case into the lift. We can communicate either way. My mum knows Freya. I suppose it’s possible she might have contacted her.
Freya shakes her head.
“Right. Well, it might be nothing, but I’d feel happier knowing. She stopped answering the bloody phone hours ago so I’m going to have to go over there. Could I borrow your car?”
Freya glances at me. “Tonight? Can’t it wait until morning?” Her hands are moving fast as she watches the floor indicator change as the lift ascends.
“It probably could. Knowing my mum, it’ll be that she’s run out of coins for the gas meter or something. But I don’t know…”
“We’ll both go.” Freya smiles at me.
Now it’s my turn to hug her. I didn’t like to ask, but this is exactly what I was hoping for. And if Freya’s with me it’s a reason not to stay in Barrow. An excuse to see what’s wrong, do what we can to fix it then head back to Kendall. Seems like a plan to me.
* * * *
“She’s where? Where?”
I can’t believe what Maisie is telling me. The poor little kid has been worried sick, trying to look after herself and Lucy for the last four days while my mother enjoys a holiday in Benidorm. The next-door neighbor, Mrs Kirk, has sussed what’s going on and has alerted social services. Maisie says there have been two visits, and each time she’s told them that her big sister—me—is looking after them but has just nipped out to the shop. A fast thinker, our Maisie. The only reason my mother actually did contact me was because she’d phoned home to check everything was all right—both Freya and I roll our eyes at that—and Maisie told her that she was rumbled. She panicked when she realized she might be found out, prosecuted, and called to account. She might even be expected to take her responsibilities seriously for once. Her response—to get on the phone to me, regardless of the inconvenience and disruption to my plans, and demand that I drop everything to come back here. She knows I’ll cover for her. No wonder then that she wouldn’t answer the phone again. She knows exactly what I’ll think of this latest scam.
How could she? How could she be so reckless with her children? Daft question. When was she ever any different?
Within ten minutes of arriving at the terraced house in Barrow and taking stock of the situation, Freya and I have the two girls safely belted into the rear seat of her rather splendid BMW coupe, ready to go. We’re taking them back to Kendal. Freya has two spare bedrooms—there’s room for us all, she insists. I don’t take any convincing. Anythi
ng’s better than here.
* * * *
The following morning I phone the social worker at her office in Carlisle and assure her that I am indeed caring for the children and that we’re currently in Kendal staying with a friend. She asks if she can call round to see us. I tell her she’s welcome. Freya and I manage to convince her of our status as upstanding, responsible citizens, eminently suitable to fill the role of temporary guardians for my mother’s young brood. Disaster averted. Until next time.
Chapter Two
Two months later
We wave the taxi off as it carries my mother and sisters away from the front steps leading into Freya’s apartment block. I think it’s safe to say that was one hell of a row. I have never, as far as I can recall, spoken to my mother like that before. Christ, when did I get to be so judgmental?
Oh yes, that’d be when she took to swanning off to Benidorm with her latest boyfriend, a vacuous pretty boy with more intelligence in his biceps, as far as I can tell, than he has in his head. I suppose it’s obvious what she sees in him, but why on earth he wants to be paraded around like a pet poodle by a woman old enough to be his mother, I simply can’t fathom. She’s personable enough, even after four children and forty-five birthdays. Business is business—she needs to keep herself tidy. But even so…
As soon as she was satisfied that Freya and I were looking after the children, she even had the cheek to extend her stay in Benidorm. She took a job in a bar, stayed for two months before deciding it was too hot for her out there after all, and maybe it was time to come home. By then, needless to say, my chance to join the library and archives management development program had become just a memory, and I’d had to resign my job so I could stay in Kendal. I phoned the woman in human resources again, this time to explain that I wasn’t coming back. Then I sat and cried.
