by Mo Fanning
‘I’ll clean up,’ Sue says and Mam gets to her feet.
‘I’m off upstairs for a wash before Panorama comes on. There’s Battenberg in the cupboard, help yourself, but make sure you leave me a slice for breakfast.’
‘You can’t have cake for breakfast,’ I say. ‘It’s full of sugar.’
Mam smiles and cups my face in her hand.
‘Sweetheart,’ she says. ‘I’m 72. If I want a slice of cake for my breakfast, I’ll fecking have one. No doctor or health visitor is going to tell me otherwise.’
At the kitchen door she stops.
‘Is Amy coming over tonight?’
Sue nods. ‘She said she will.’
‘I suppose she’s bringing him?’
‘Glen is her husband.’
Mam’s face changes. ‘Tell him to take his shoes off. I’ve just mopped.’
I wait until I hear the taps run upstairs before saying anything.
‘What was that all about? Has she fallen out with Glen or something?’
Sue looks embarrassed. ‘It’s nothing.’
‘It didn’t sound like nothing.’
She looks through the window. ‘Talk of the devil, here they are. Amy can tell you herself.’
Glen gathers me up in a big manly hug and tries to include Amy in the circle, but she shrugs out.
‘Where’s Mam?’ she says.
‘Having a wash,’ I say. ‘She said to tell you to take off your shoes.’
That’s when I notice Glen’s footwear. A pair of large court shoes, ivory with a golden bow.
‘They’re easy to drive in,’ Amy says quickly. ‘How about we go through to the good room and you can tell me all your news.’
She more or less shoves me down the hall.
‘Don’t mention Glen’s shoes to Mam,’ she says as she closes the door.
‘I wasn’t going to, I didn’t even ...’
‘It’s not what you think,’ she starts to say, but then stops. ‘Hang on, what do you think? What’s Mam been saying?’
‘Nothing. Sue said to ask you what’s been going on. Mam seems to have a bit of a downer on Glen though. What’s he done, forgotten to mow her lawn?’
‘It’s more than that.’
‘What then?’
Glen puts his head round the door. ‘Is everything OK in here?’
‘We’re fine,’ Amy snaps. ‘Go make tea.’
I wait for him to leave us before tackling Amy for facts.
‘What’s going on?’ I say.
‘Mam thinks he’s wearing them for charity.’
‘Wearing what?’
‘The shoes,’ Amy says. ‘She thinks it’s for some am-dram thing. I told her he was a huge fan of Robert de Niro and wanted to try being a method actor.’
‘And that’s all?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘It’s just that Mam seemed really pissed off about something.’
Amy shuffles awkwardly.
‘You know Mam,’ she says. ‘When did she ever need an excuse to fall out with someone.’
I nod. Amy’s right. Every one of us has been singled out for her wrath at some time. Usually without warning and almost always without reason.
When Glen reappears, he’s changed into old man slippers.
‘Where did you put those shoes?’ Amy looks anxious.
‘In a carrier bag under the stairs.’
‘I can’t have them in the house. Take them out to the car.’
‘It’s raining.’
So take an umbrella.’
‘Fine,’ he says and heads back to the hall. ‘Sue says to come back through to the kitchen for tea, you know you can’t have cups in the good room.’
Almost on cue, there’s a voice from upstairs.
‘Who’s got the light on in there without the curtains closed. I don’t want every Tom, Dick and Harry knowing what goes on in my house.’
We’re ordered out and any chance of interrogating Amy further will have to wait.
Sue pours tea and we gather round the old kitchen table.
‘Isn’t Lisa a site for sore eyes,’ she says with a beam that lights up every part of her face. ‘I’ve missed you so and I do worry about you being up there alone.’
‘I’m not alone,’ I say. ‘I share with Andy and Manchester is only a couple of hours away.’
‘You know I don’t travel well, Lisa, not since that time I slipped on the ice getting the milk in. I can’t sit in one position for more than half an hour.’
‘That was ten years ago,’ Sue says.
‘And all of a sudden my eldest is a medical expert,’ mam counters and Sue folds her arms, as if ready for a fight.
‘Doesn’t Lisa’s hair look nice,’ Amy says by way of distraction.
‘It’s still too short,’ Mam huffs. ‘I’ve always said.’
On any other night, I’d have taken offence and bitten back, but tonight it feels wonderful to be here with the people who love me the most.
‘It’s grand having the three of you together again,’ she says. ‘I’m not so sure tea is right for the occasion. There’s a bottle of brandy in the top cupboard behind the biscuit tin. Maybe one of you could reach it down.’
‘I’ll get it,’ Glen volunteers.
‘Yes,’ Mam mutters darkly. ‘I dare say you will.’
We raise glasses to remember Dad and my eyes prickle. It’s only Bertie nosily letting off that breaks the moment.
‘Christ, what has that dog eaten? Amy roars. ‘He smells like burning tyres.’
‘I’ve got him on a special diet,’ Sue says. ‘It’s supposed to reduce wind.’
‘You’d be better off buying him a fecking kite,’ Mam laughs and Bertie jumps up to bark and join in the fun.
‘Glen, go get another bottle from the off licence,’ Amy says. ‘And see if they have any orange juice. I’ve a mouth like Gandhi’s flip-flop.’
‘Right you are,’ he says and grabs his coat.
‘Mind you leave your driving shoes outside,’ she calls after him. ‘Mam’s just mopped.’
After he’s gone, Mam seems to relax. There’s certainly something going on, but it feels the wrong time to ask. Mam however turns her attention onto me.
‘Isn’t it time you thought of getting married,’ she says. ‘You’re 40 now, it’s a bit on the old side to be single. In my day they used to call women like you old maids.’
Everyone laughs.
‘I’m not seeing anyone right now,’ I say, then for some reason add, ‘But watch this space.’
Mam puts down her glass.
‘Thank you Jesus,’ she says and crosses herself. ‘We were all after thinking you’d die a spinster. Tell me all about him, love.’
‘I’d rather not go tempting fate,’ I say. ‘It might be nothing. It might all be in my head.’
‘Fate or not, it’s good that you’re thinking in the right way,’ Mam says. ‘Diana down the road was telling me the other day about her daughter Suzie. She only took an overdose because she was fed up of being alone.’
‘Shit, is she OK?’
‘They had to pump her stomach. She’s dating the anesthetist, so I suppose something good came of it.’
I take a deep breath.
‘Maybe I won’t be on my own for much longer.’
Why am I saying this?
I’m a modern independent woman. I don’t need a man to validate my existence.
Mam’s face is alight. Just as I’m about to crack and conjure up a tall dark stranger who has been admiring me from afar, Glen comes back in, his hands covered in oil.
‘Bloody car won’t start,’ he says. ‘I’ll have to ring the AA.’
Mam’s face turns to thunder.
‘Make sure you leave some money on the side if you’re after using my phone,’ she says and pours what’s left of the brandy into her glass.
‘Shall I take Bertie for a walk and see if I can get a bottle?’ Sue suggests.
‘Do what you like,’ Mam says. ‘At least one of my daughters has more sense than they were born with.’
Amy’s face grows tense. Something is going on. They’re all in on it, but I’m being cut out.
‘Lisa, what’s this young man’s name?’ Mam says pleasantly enough.
‘Brian,’ I say without thinking.
And with one word, I implicate my boss. From this day forth, I must make certain my family never meet him. Worse yet, some day soon I’d need to find a boyfriend called Brian or at the very least someone happy to be called Brian within earshot of Mam.
The thing that matters now is to avoid going into detail. Keep things vague. If they don’t have hair colour, eye colour and the like, I can hire an actor. If I tell them too much, I’ll limit my options.
And yet, details are coaxed with consummate ease. Mam mysteriously finds a second bottle of brandy and tops up my glass. By the time Sue gets back, I’m merrily regaling all with tales of how six foot tall, dark-haired, brown-eyed Brian has been in my life for years. How we’d always thought of each other as friends until something happened at the staff party that changed everything.
‘So he’s someone you work with?’ Mam says and I’m suddenly sober.
‘Will he be coming to the wedding?’ Sue asks.
‘Of course he will.’ Mam says. ‘And he can even stay here with us. He can sleep in Amy’s old room.’
The doorbell goes.
‘I’ll get it,’ I say more to escape than anything else.
I need time to think. Maybe Brian could have a terrible car accident. Not the real Brian of course, made-up Brian. The one they think is my boss. Oh heck, this is such a bloody mess.
I open the door to a tall, slim and smartly-dressed woman. She has her back to me, but when she turns around, I cry out.
‘Helen. Thank God you’re here.’
She gathers me in a hug.
‘Let me guess,’ she says. ‘Families. Your Mam has chewed your ear off about boyfriends and one or both of your sisters are getting slowly pissed and saying inappropriate things to egg her on.’
‘It’s sort of that,’ I say and step back to take her in.
‘My God, you’ve changed,’ I say.
The last photo she sent was two years back. That was when she went through some sort of late 30s crisis. A last-flush-of- youth punky phase, dyed her hair jet black and slathered on heavy eye shadow and bright red lipstick. About-to-be-married Helen has lost a shed load of weight and let her dark brown, naturally curly hair grow, she’s also stopped toweling on the make-up.
‘You look fabulous,’ I say.
‘Combination of a crash diet, a brutally honest hairdresser and nerves.’
We hug again and two years of awkward distance melt away.
‘Mum’s getting some stuff out of the car,’ she says
I look over her shoulder and see someone messing around in the boot of a Ford Fiesta.
‘Come on in,’ I say take her coat.
Helen’s mother takes forever and has to ring the bell. I open it and jump back when the all-too-familiar hard-faced features of Ginny Baker greet me.
‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost, dear,’ she says. ‘Shut your mouth, it isn’t a good look. People will think you’re missing a chromosome.’
She brushes past and links arms with Helen.
My Helen.
‘Is the kitchen through here?’ she says. ‘Most of these little backstreet terraces have the same basic layout, don’t they?’
I can only nod.
Helen’s Mam is next through the door, weighed down with heavy boxes and bags.
‘Hello, Lisa love, how are you? You’ve let your hair grow. It suits you, you’ve got your mother’s bone structure.’
We try to kiss, but a hat box gets in the way.
‘I didn’t realise you were coming tonight,’ I say as I take half of her bags.
‘Ginny’s idea. I was all for leaving things until tomorrow, thought you’d want to catch up with your family first. But her ladyship reckoned it’s best to get things done now in case we have to make changes. You know how it is over Christmas and the New Year, we all put on a few pounds.’
‘We certainly do.’
Ginny is back and looking me up and down.
‘Now come and tell me about this Brian I’ve been hearing all about. I thought your husband’s name was James.’
Her face contorts into the sickliest sweet grin as she leads the way back into the kitchen.
Sixteen
In the hallway, I perch on the bottom step and take deep breaths. I’m being silly. This girl poses no threat. I’m a grown-up.
Having pulled myself together, I push open the kitchen door and all heads turn.
Confusion written large.
‘What’s all this about a husband?’ Mam says.
My face glows.
Ginny watches, her face full of contrived innocence. Helen is next to speak.
‘His name is James isn’t it, Lisa? Bit of a hot shot in the legal field? And did I get it wrong or are you trying for a baby?’
Ginny savours every moment. With each word, my shoulders slump.
‘Lisa?’ Mam’s voice sounds heavy with concern. ‘What’s going on?’
My stomach bubbles with fear. Fight or flight.
Flight. Definitely Flight.
I grab my coat and wrench open the front door and run out into the street. The rain is really pelting down and I don’t know what to do next. I reach the end of the crescent.
Across the road is the pub where I managed to spoof the bar staff into selling me bottles of cider at the age of sixteen. Back then, it was a spit and sawdust back-street boozer. Now it’s a gastro-pub, serving over-priced tasting plates to people with more money than sense. I can’t go in. I look a mess with my hair stuck to my face wearing clothes creased from travel.
I shelter under a tree on the wall outside the house that once belonged to Agnes Brown. One of Mam’s friends. She’s long since moved on or died or something. The lawns, once her pride and joy have been paved over. Three cars stand in the drive. How I long to curl up in my armchair and talk to Dad about why I’ve lied to everyone. He’d know what to do.
Maybe I could brave the pub. People go out with wet hair. It’s a thing isn’t it? I’ve seen it often enough on buses and trains. But then I remember all my money is still at Mam’s. I can’t go back there right now. The shame of it.
Fuck fuck fuck.
‘Room for a little one?’ I look up. It’s Helen. I nod and shuffle along the wall.
‘Remember how Aggy Brown used to shout at us for sitting on this wall?’ she says. ‘We must have spent hours here, talking shite.’
I still don’t really know what to say. The two years out of touch gulf has re-opened. She’s almost a stranger. Part of me worried that our friendship was long gone, just like all so many others I’ve let drift. Another part of me blames her for the mess I’m in. If it wasn’t for Helen and her wedding plans, I wouldn’t have allowed myself to cross over from relative sanity to madness. I would never have needed to write all that stuff about being married.
‘Look,’ Helen says and points to where I once used Mam’s front door key to scratch my initials into the brickwork. Years ago.
Helen’s initials are just below.
‘God,’ I say. ‘I remember that day. Dad had found out about Sue’s school report. He hit the roof when he found ou
t she’d been bunking off maths. I came out here to hide until things calmed down.’
‘You bought us TipTops with your pocket money.’
‘Actually,’ I say. ‘I nicked five pence off the kitchen table. Mam blamed Amy. I’ve still never put her right.’
Helen throws back her head and laughs.
‘You know,’ she says. ‘I reckon if you told your mum that now, she’d be more upset about it than this husband nonsense.’
My face burns and I can’t look at her. God, but I feel such a stupid cow.
‘All that stuff about being married,’ I say. ‘I’ll understand if you’d rather Ginny took over the hen night. And if you made her matron of honour. I probably don’t really need to even be there. I mean …’
Helen puts her hand on mine.
‘You’re my friend.’
‘But...’
‘No buts.’ She stares at me for a minute. ‘I know how it feels, you know?’
‘How what feels?’
‘Being alone, thinking you’ll never find anyone.’
‘I’m not alone,’ I say automatically. ‘I’ve got friends.’
Even I can pick out the wobble in my voice.
‘Fancy a drink?’ Helen says.
‘I don’t have any money on me.’
‘My shout.’
‘I could murder a vodka and tonic.’
‘Me too, let’s go.’
‘Thanks,’ I say.
‘What for ? Buying you a drink? I think it’s the least I can do for my matron of honour.’
‘I meant thanks for not making me feel stupid.’
‘You’re not stupid, Lisa, far from it.’
She leads the way into the bar.
The Snooty Fox of old has been consigned to history. They’ve torn out the rickety wooden benches that gave you splinters if you wore too short a skirt. Punters lounge on smart brown leather sofas arranged around sturdy polished oak tables. There’s an open fire and a warm hum of conversation over a backing track of tinkling piano. The last time I was here, I head-banged to Motorhead and drank bottles of cheap cider. The only cider now on sale comes in designer bottles. You’d need a small mortgage to get the sort of moldy drunk Helen and I managed at the age of seventeen.
