by Fiona Gibson
To take my mind off the note, I unpack my presents from Kim, Ellie and Cheryl from my voluminous shoulder bag. Gorgeous perfume, a posh palette of lip colours and tiny bottles of bath oil with soothing properties. And here, still in its torn-open envelope, is the letter about my competition win, including a contact number for the organiser: Shirley Michaels, whom I’ve already spoken to about the cash prize.
I lie back on my bed. My room really is tiny: suitable only for a small child, or possibly just coats. There’s space only for a three-quarter bed – no wonder Stevie rarely stays over, he’s six-foot-two – plus a small, rickety bedside table and a chrome rail for clothes. God, that lovely hotel. I can’t get it out of my mind. Lifting my laptop from my bedside table, I Google Wilton Grange. Judging by the pictures on its website, it’s extremely fancy. Without wanting to sound as if I struggle to use cutlery politely, it is far posher than anywhere I’ve ever stayed. We’re talking old-style glamour; all plump sofas, twinkling chandeliers and enormous stone fireplaces decked with the kind of fragile-looking vases you’re scared to walk past in case you create a gust and blow them off. There are oil paintings of glowering old men and galloping horses, and in the restaurant the food comes with little blobs and swirls of sauce. Imagine having your food decorated.
There’s a spa, in which guests are lounging around in white dressing gowns, giving the impression that their lives are totally sorted. While they might stop off at Charnock Richard for petrol or a coffee, it would never occur to them to stay overnight. Their pulses wouldn’t quicken at the prospect of a £5 all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet. They have never endured obsessive voucher collecting to buy their child a perfectly acceptable checked shirt which, it turns out, he hates. A son who, rather than buying his mother a small birthday gift – just a token, a pack of sodding Hello Kitty hair clips would have sufficed – presents her with an extensive list of stuff he wants.
I should have chosen the cookery course prize, I decide, undressing and pulling on my pyjamas. But it’s too late now.
*
Or is it? That’s the thought that spears through my brain when I wake, dry-mouthed from the prosecco, just after nine. I scramble out of bed and grab the letter from my bag and stare at the contact numbers. There’s an office number, and a mobile. I shouldn’t call on a Sunday but what the hell? I tap out the number on my mobile, my heart rattling away as it rings.
‘Hello?’
I clear my throat. ‘Hello Shirley, it’s Audrey Pepper. I’m so sorry to call you at the weekend …’
‘Audrey Pepper? I’m sorry, I don’t think I know—’
‘We, um, spoke a few days ago about the Dinner Lady of the Year award …’
‘Oh, yes, of course. If you’re calling about the transfer, I have all your bank details and was planning to put through payment first thing on Monday …’
‘Um, actually, I just wondered,’ I cut in, ‘could I change my mind? I mean, if it’s at all possible?’
Small pause. ‘You mean you’d like to do the cookery course instead?’
‘Er … yes. Yes, I would.’ Another pause as she clears her throat.
‘Umm … I think it’s pretty booked up, and I’m not sure if I can get hold of anyone today … could you hold for a moment please?’
‘Sure,’ I say, licking my parched lips.
I wait and wait and wait. I glance up at the mottled ceiling; it needs a coat of emulsion, the whole place does. I’ve suggested to Morgan that he might paint it for me, thus acquiring some decorating skills – there’s a line of work that’s always in demand – but he flatly refused to do it without pay. How would he react, I wonder, if I presented him with an invoice for meals cooked, laundry serviced and cleaning undertaken?
‘Audrey? Sorry to keep you waiting.’
‘That’s okay, that’s fine …’
‘Now, I’m afraid the week where we had a place reserved for you is all fully booked …’
‘Oh, I see.’ My heart seems to slump.
‘… But,’ she goes on, ‘the course starting tomorrow has one place free. There are no single or twin rooms free, I’m afraid …’
It’s okay, I’ll camp in the ruddy garden …
‘But there is the honeymoon suite, and seeing as you’ve won your place they’re happy for you to have that.’
‘Oh!’ I gasp. Honeymoon suite? Vince and I didn’t have one of those. We stayed in his aunt’s guesthouse in Whitby.
‘It starts at midday with a welcome reception,’ she goes on. ‘I know you’re in Yorkshire, and it’s an awfully long way to travel down to Buckinghamshire, but do you possibly think …’
Yes, I do. I do possibly think. ‘Er, can I check something and get straight back to you?’
‘Yes, of course,’ she says.
I finish the call and phone Julie who, as ever, is delighted to take on my shifts.
‘So did Stevie come up with something after all?’ she asks.
‘Sorry?’
Julie laughs. ‘For your birthday. I assume he’s taking you away?’
‘No,’ I say, with a dry chuckle, ‘but I am going away – by myself. I’ll explain when I see you, okay?’ Then I call Shirley again, trying to sound level and calm, as if visiting luxury hotels to learn to make tarte au citron is a pretty regular occurrence for me. ‘I can start the course tomorrow,’ I say firmly.
‘Really? Well, that’s great!’ She sounds genuinely happy for me. ‘I know the cash prize was tempting but this is an unforgettable experience, isn’t it? Possibly even life-changing.’
Chapter Seven
Guilt Cakes
Of course I plan to tell Morgan. I’ll do it when I’ve calmed down and feel more kindly disposed towards him. In the meantime, I pull out my wheeled suitcase from beneath my bed, wondering how it’ll feel to be there, on my own – with no Morgan or Stevie or Mrs B making any demands upon me whatsoever. Freedom! That’s what Wilton Grange represents. I’m not even that fussed about the cookery aspect. What is classic French cookery anyway? Steak and frites? Or things slathered in rich sauces? I have no idea. I have never even been to France. We weren’t the going-abroad kind of family but then, hardly anyone was in 1970s Yorkshire.
Plus, I’m not the fancy cooking type. Before having Morgan I pretty much survived on things on toast, and as a mother I’ve been a distinctly workaday cook, intent on providing the kind of meals my ever-ravenous child would approve of. This has tended to involve an awful lot of crumb-coated things to shove in the oven.
I glance at the hotel’s website again. My mild panic about grappling with unfamiliar ingredients is offset by visions of me lying in a huge, claw-footed bath. As for Morgan, it’ll be good for him to fend for himself for a week: a sort of intensive training week in preparation for independent adult life. So in some ways, I’m doing him a favour.
I haven’t told Stevie yet either. As I try to play down the dinner lady aspect of my life, he doesn’t even know about my award; anyway, we haven’t spoken since we said goodbye in the Charnock Richard car park. ‘Crazy busy the next few days,’ was his parting shot. Perhaps, I muse, a little break will do us good. Absence, heart fonder and all that.
As per their custom, Morgan and Jenna spend all morning in his room and, when lunchtime rolls around, they amble downstairs and head out without giving any clue as to where they might be going. I’ll tell him as soon as they come back. I wonder how best to put it? I know you had high hopes for that money, darling, but I’m going to learn to do clever things with mussels instead. Christ, better just get it over with, as soon as he comes home.
I fetch my suitcase and carry it through to my former bedroom, where most of my clothes are stored. So, what to pack for Wilton Grange? Shirley has sent me an email:
Casual, comfy clothes are required in the kitchen (aprons provided)
Flat shoes only
No jewellery please
Long hair must be tied back
Mine needs a cut urgently but unless I hack at it
myself there’s no time for that. I dig out trousers and tops, plus a couple of dresses, all found in the PDSA shop: so much more satisfying than shopping in a regular high street chain and just selecting your size off the rail. I mean, where’s the challenge in that?
Not bad, I decide, dropping in my utilitarian navy swimsuit for the spa and surveying my neatly folded clothes. I add underwear and pyjamas and gather together my toiletries. Silly, I know, as the hotel will provide them, but just in case …
And that’s me, all ready and raring to go. It’s been eerily simple, and unhurried, compared to the last-minute packing I tend to do when Stevie calls. I plan to leave at 6.30 tomorrow morning at the latest, allowing extra time so I’m not the one rushing late into the welcome reception, whatever that is. Now I just want Morgan to come home so I can break the news.
Feeling more kindly disposed now, I drive to our nearest, rather uninspiring supermarket and stock up on enough provisions to nourish my son for an entire month, including Rolos and Fondant Fancies and fruit, which I’m bound to find withered on my return, plus industrial quantities of minced beef. Back home, I make an enormous pot of chilli (Morgan complained that my last batch was ‘too oniony’, perhaps food critic could be another career option?) and another of bolognaise, all to keep him going throughout the week. It feels as if I am preparing for impending war. I know it’s ridiculous but it’s making me feel marginally better about abandoning my child. In the same vein I also shape four burgers, wrapping them individually in greaseproof paper, writing ‘1 burger! Enjoy! xx’ in felt tip across the top. I realise my catering has involved an awful lot of minced beef but at least he’s unlikely to become anaemic.
By teatime – still no reappearance of Morgan – the chilli and bolognaise have cooled sufficiently to be ladled into individual cartons and labelled MON/TUE/WED/THUR/FRI: saves him having to make any tricky decisions over what to eat. We also have chicken nuggets which he’s perfectly capable of putting in the oven … and then forgetting they’re there. Plus there’s the Chinese and chippy if he gets really desperate.
Vince would say I’ve lost my mind. He’d point out that my extensive preparations are a small step from cutting up his fish fingers and tucking in his bib. However, as I plan to make the very most of every moment at Wilton Grange, I don’t want to worry for one second that Morgan is suffering from malnutrition. And now – perhaps I really am losing it – I make a batch of fairy cakes, scooping out their centres when they’re done and making them into little wings as if Morgan were seven years old. Sorry for buggering off like this, my butterfly cakes say. Sorry for not getting you the unicycle tyre and for being a mad middle-aged woman who’s probably having some kind of hormonal collapse.
I while away the evening rechecking my suitcase and willing Morgan to show up so I can tell him. I ping him a message: when u coming home? No reply, unsurprisingly. We’ve passed the stage where he felt obliged to keep me informed of his movements.
I text Vince: I’ve won a prize! A week at a cook school in Buckinghamshire. Leaving tomorrow. M will be home alone all week.
Wow amazing! Very proud of you, comes his swift reply.
Thanks, I type, but M will be ALL ALONE. Am I wrong to be terrified?
His reply takes longer this time: He’s a fully grown man, remember?
Easy for him to say, being spared the daily discussions – ‘naggings’, Morgan calls them – about what our son might do next with his life. Rifling through my purse, I dump a bundle of notes on the table, weighted down with the pepper grinder, for emergencies. Guilt money. The one thing I don’t do is gather up all the stray pants. In fact, and perhaps I really am losing it now, I drag out the plastic box of Morgan’s old toys from the cupboard under the stairs. It’s full of ratty old teddies, plus the Action Man I got for a quid on eBay, which he made into a spy – demanding that I made him a tiny Fedora hat, like the dented one here that was pretty much welded to his head during his entire spy phase, and which I found him sleeping in once. There are dog-eared books on codes and cyphers that I’ve been keeping for … what exactly? And here it is, precisely what I’m looking for: the tub of jumbo chalks he’d used to draw mysterious symbols on the pavement outside our house (only other spies would understand their significance).
Selecting the white one, I creep around the living room and carefully draw an outline around each pair of dropped pants. It’s just a joke, I tell myself. He’ll notice when I’m gone and he and Jenna will have a good laugh about his nutty mum. Only … I’m not quite sure it is funny. In fact, I fear that I am overly obsessing about pants, and that simply picking them up and depositing them into the wash might be an altogether more sensible solution.
I put the chalks back into the box and shove it back under the stairs, and get on with the task of clearing up the kitchen. That’s when I spot it, dumped in the bin: the Christmas present from me, carefully chosen as I thought he liked checked shirts, seeing as he wears one slung over a T-shirt nearly every day of his life. It’s red, blue and white, in soft brushed cotton, and is lying there with a couple of wet teabags sitting on it. He has thrown it away. I blink down at it, wondering why it didn’t occur to him that this might be hurtful to me. I mean, okay, get rid of it – discreetly. Stuff it in a litter bin in the park, hand it to a homeless person or drop it off at the charity shop. But don’t dump it on top of the tuna cans and takeaway cartons and – I notice now – the application form for part-time work at the leisure centre that I picked up for him.
The front door flies open, and I hear Morgan and Jenna tottering in. ‘Hi, Mum,’ he calls out tipsily from the hallway. ‘You there?’
‘Yes, I’m here,’ I mutter, fury bubbling inside me.
‘Been at the pub. Just gonna go up to bed, okay?’
I glance at my cakes sitting all smugly under their glass dome. ‘Fine,’ I growl, scrunching up the empty flour packet and dropping it on top of the shirt.
‘Don’t know what’s up with her,’ Morgan remarks as, giggling, he and Jenna make their way up to his room.
I don’t follow them up, and nor do I inform him of my plans when my alarm goes off with a ping at 5.50 a.m., because a hungover teenager – any teenager in fact – is incapable of conversation at this kind of hour. Anyway, what does he care whether I’m here or not? Instead, I shower quickly and slip into a favourite floral print dress, plus a pair of ballet flats. Then, as quietly as possible, I creep downstairs with my suitcase.
Morgan’s wish list is still lying on the kitchen table. The damn cheek of it, and on my birthday as well. On its blank side I write:
Chapter Eight
Motorway Muffins
I should feel euphoric as I drive south. After all, I deserve this. I should be zipping along, music blaring and a huge smile on my face, like a woman in a movie about to embark on a life-changing adventure. The fact that I’m not is due to one horrible dark thought, currently flooding my senses: I didn’t leave defrosting/reheating instructions. Yes, I’m still angry – but more at myself now for being unable to switch off my maternal concern. Surely Morgan is savvy enough to cope with a Tupperware carton of frozen bolognaise? He’s a bright boy, when he chooses to engage his brain. He’s hardly going to hack away at it with an ice pick. Even so, I keep picturing his crestfallen face as he reads my note, and another alarming thought engulfs me: what the hell am I playing at?
I pull off at a service station – one we haven’t stayed at, I must alert Stevie to this – and buy an Americano and three muffins, one for now and two for later, in case the hotel restaurant’s portions really are as tiddly as they looked on the website. From a small, greasy table by the window I fish out my phone and try Morgan’s mobile. It’s only 9 a.m., of course he’ll still be asleep, I remind myself as it goes to voicemail. ‘Could you call me?’ I say, aware that there’s little chance of him even playing the message. ‘I need to talk to you,’ I add before ringing off.
Next I try Stevie, who doesn’t answer either. ‘It’s me, lo
ve,’ I inform his voicemail. ‘Look, er, I’m …’ I tail off. It’s not the kind of thing I want to explain via a message, especially with my voice sounding terribly loud in the almost deserted café. ‘I’m going away for a few days,’ I explain quickly. ‘I’ll tell you all about it when we speak.’
Feeling marginally better, I pick at one of the muffins and call Kim. ‘I can’t believe you’re doing this!’ she exclaims.
‘I know, I really should have told him last night …’
‘No, not that part.’ She chuckles. ‘I mean being spontaneous like this. It’s so unlike you!’
‘Thanks,’ I say with a dry laugh, although she’s right.
‘Well, good for you, Aud. It sounds amazing. It’ll be good for Morgan too, force him to stand on his own two feet …’
I bite my lip. ‘Um … if you’re passing the house, would you mind popping in to check he’s okay?’
Small pause. ‘What on earth for?’
‘Oh, you know, just to make sure everything’s all right. I mean, it’s your place, I don’t want it burnt to the ground …’ I am only half-joking.
She laughs loudly. ‘Aud, he’s not a baby. Just go away and enjoy yourself, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Okay, okay,’ I say, dabbing at the muffin crumbs on the plate with a wet finger. ‘I will, promise.’
‘Good. So repeat after me: “Nothing’s going to happen. Everything is going to be fine.”’
She’s right: my boy is old enough to get married, to fight for his country or be sent to a proper adult jail. ‘Nothing’s going to happen,’ I repeat, crossing my fingers firmly under the table, ‘and everything is going to be fine.’
*
It’s terribly picturesque, this part of the world. I see no litter or graffiti as I pass through pretty villages, the kind that still have a proper village store, with a tray of penny sweets, I’d imagine, and a kindly lady serving behind the counter. Then the villages fall behind and it’s just winding country lanes for miles until, finally, I round a bend and spot the elegant sign on a high, moss-covered wall:
