The Woman Who Upped and Left

by Fiona Gibson

  ‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘Look, I’ve got to go. Speak to you soon.’

  Paul smirks. ‘So how are things with Motorway Man?’

  ‘Oh, you know.’ I shrug. ‘I’m not sure where we’re going, really.’

  ‘Down the M6, probably,’ Paul chuckles.

  ‘Yes, I know, I must be mad.’ I turn and open the cupboard, reeling back as a crinkly packet tumbles out. I snatch it from the floor. ‘Snacks from the hotel minibar,’ I go on, feeling faintly ridiculous as what seemed so exotic and thrilling at Wilton Grange now just look like … well, crisps. ‘I brought some back for you,’ I add as Morgan’s music thumps on.

  ‘Thanks,’ Paul says, looking genuinely pleased as I gather up the packets and hand them to him. ‘That was so thoughtful of you …’

  ‘There are chocolate liqueurs for Mrs B,’ I add. ‘I must take them next time—’ I stop abruptly as Morgan saunters in, stopping abruptly at the sight of the stranger. ‘Morgan, this is Paul,’ I say quickly. ‘He’s the gardener at Mrs B’s. Paul, this is Morgan, my son …’

  ‘Hi, Morgan,’ Paul says easily. ‘So, what’re you up to?’

  ‘Just this and that,’ Morgan says with a shrug.

  ‘Working at the moment?’

  ‘Nah,’ Morgan says levelly. ‘I’m kinda looking, though.’ Really? That’s news to me …

  ‘Ever done any gardening?’

  Morgan shakes his head.

  ‘You’ve done a bit,’ I prompt him, ‘at Dad’s …’

  ‘Oh, yeah. He’s got, like, a small farm with pigs and chickens and stuff. He makes me help out and he pays me a bit …’

  ‘Well,’ Paul says, gathering up his crisps, ‘I might be looking to take on some extra jobs.’

  ‘On top of working at Mrs B’s?’ I ask.

  He shrugs. ‘You know what it’s like. There are school trips to pay for, all the stuff they need at birthdays, Christmas …’ He gives Morgan a big, blokey smile. ‘Maybe I could give you a call sometime, if you’re still looking for work?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Morgan says airily. ‘I’ll see what I’m up to, okay?’

  ‘But Morgan,’ I retort, ‘you’re not up to anything.’

  ‘Look,’ Paul cuts in, ‘I’ll leave you to think it over, okay?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Morgan grunts, throwing me a curt look.

  Paul turns back to me. ‘Well, thanks for the crisps.’

  ‘And thanks for the lift and the veg,’ I add. ‘Um, I’ll see you out, Paul.’ We step out into the cool evening. ‘I don’t know why he said that,’ I add. ‘It’s not as if he has a crammed schedule.’

  He laughs and clambers into his van. ‘Well, the offer’s there. It’s up to him if he wants to take it.’

  ‘Yes, I know, and I really appreciate it. Thank you.’ I wave him off and head back into the kitchen, where Morgan seems to have emerged from his gloom.

  ‘God, Mum,’ he splutters, ‘what were you giving him crisps for?’

  ‘As a present,’ I say defensively.

  ‘Is that a thing, then? Giving people crisps?’

  ‘No, it’s not a thing. They were in my minibar at the hotel and I thought he’d like them.’ I sense my cheeks simmering.

  ‘You’re bright red, Mum. You look like your face is gonna catch fire.’

  ‘I’m just hot,’ I bluster, plunging my hands into the bowl of washing up and aware of him smirking behind me.

  ‘Why’s that, then?’

  ‘Probably my hormones,’ I say lightly. ‘My oestrogen’s dwindling, darling. I can feel it draining away, day by day …’ That’ll make him drop this line of questioning.

  ‘Ugh, God.’ He clears his throat. ‘So, does this mean you’ve got rid of Stevie?’

  I turn around to face him. ‘No, why d’you say that?’

  ‘’Cause you just brought him round …’

  I laugh stiffly. ‘I told you, love, he’s the gardener where I work. And I didn’t bring him round, he just gave me a lift with that heavy box of veg …’

  Morgan snorts. ‘Is this, like, an old people’s ritual then? He brings you cabbage and you give him crisps?’

  ‘It’s not cabbage, it’s globe artichoke …’

  ‘Whatever it is, don’t expect me to eat it.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t force it on you, darling.’ He pokes through the box, seemingly disappointed to discover yet more vegetables: broccoli, runner beans and carrots. ‘That job offer, though,’ I add. ‘I really think you should consider it.’

  ‘Mum,’ he snaps, ‘I’ve just got a lot on mind right now, okay? I’ve said I’ll think about it …’ He rubs at his face.

  ‘Okay, love.’ I blink at him. ‘Look, are you okay about this thing at Jenna’s tomorrow?’

  He shrugs. ‘’Course I’m not! I don’t see why we have to do it.’

  I start unloading the box. ‘It just feels important. I’d just like Jenna and her parents to know I – I mean we – are fully supportive, you know? I want them to know we’re all together in this, as a family.’ He nods glumly. ‘Would you like Dad to be there?’ I ask hesitantly.

  ‘Er …’ He glances at me, as if trying to gauge my reaction. ‘Yeah, I would actually.’

  ‘You think it’d help?’

  Another nod. ‘Yeah. It’s just, you can be a bit …’ He gnaws at his lip. ‘Y’know.’

  A bit what? I want to ask. Concerned, in precisely the way a mother should be?

  ‘You tend to blow things up,’ he mutters. I’m about to say, what does that mean exactly? But instead I text Vince, willing him to say yes.

  No prob, comes the swift reply, I’ll be with you by ten.

  ‘Dad’s coming tomorrow morning,’ I tell Morgan, with a sense of relief.

  He nods. ‘Aw, okay. That’s good.’

  I study my son, wishing he’d open up to me more, and tell me how he really feels about this baby. But clearly, he doesn’t feel he can. ‘You really think I blow things up?’ I ask gently.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Like what, love?’

  ‘Well, like, er …’ Ah, he can’t think of a single example. ‘Like the pants thing,’ he announces, triumph in his voice. ‘Drawing round them, I mean, with chalk.’

  ‘Ah, you did notice then. I wondered if you had.’

  ‘Yeah, ’course I did. Very mature, Mum. All you had to do was ask me to pick them up.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Breakfast at Natalie’s

  Vince arrives dead on time in his grotty old pick-up truck. He has clearly made quite an effort, as he looks spruce in a navy needlecord shirt plus smart black trousers (grubby jeans and raggedy T-shirts are his usual attire). He looks, I decide, interview-ready. ‘We can’t turn up at Jenna’s in that,’ Morgan declares, peering at his father’s vehicle through the living room window.

  ‘Why not?’ Vince looks genuinely hurt.

  ‘’Cause it smells, Dad. It smells of animal and we’ll take it into their house with us.’

  I chuckle. ‘You mean it’ll stick to us?’

  ‘Yeah!’ Morgan says, looking appalled.

  ‘I think that’s the least of our worries,’ Vince says, clearly teasing, which Morgan fails to notice.

  ‘Yeah,’ he says hotly, ‘it’s gonna be bad enough without us walking in being the Stink Family.’

  I catch Vince’s eye and we smile. ‘The Stink Family,’ Vince muses. ‘I quite like that.’

  ‘And my car still smells of gravy,’ I add. ‘We don’t want to take that in with us either. We don’t want to be the Bisto Family. Maybe we should walk? That way, we won’t pick up any terrible smells at all.’

  ‘Nah, let’s not walk,’ Morgan says, looking quite rattled at the thought.

  I glance at him. ‘You don’t want to be spotted walking through town with your parents?’ Again, it occurs to me that he may not be up to the task of winding a colicky baby in a few months’ time.

  ‘It’s not that,’ he insists. ‘It’d be okay normally. It’s
just, y’know, we’re gonna have those looks on our faces like we’re going to, I dunno, court or something.’

  ‘You think you’re going to be put on trial?’ Vince asks, raising a brow.

  ‘No, but …’

  ‘C’mon, love,’ I say, touching his arm, ‘we’re both here for you and I’m sure Natalie’s parents are going to be perfectly reasonable.’

  ‘You reckon?’ Morgan exclaims. ‘How was she on the phone?’

  ‘Er … reasonable,’ I fib.

  ‘Yeah, bet she was.’

  ‘What’s she like?’ Vince asks. ‘I mean, have you any idea what we’re in for here?’

  I pause, wondering how to put this. ‘Well, okay, she’s hardly going to be cracking open the champagne. She’s stressed and worried, of course she is. But I’m sure she’s a perfectly decent person and we’ll manage to sort everything out.’ I turn to Morgan. ‘What’s she like, love? I mean, you know her better than I do …’

  ‘Not really,’ he says with a shrug. ‘I mean, we’re hardly ever there, Mum. We prefer it at ours.’ Hmmm, no wonder. Natalie doesn’t strike me as the sort who’d tolerate mugs and Coke cans and salami being scattered about.

  ‘Come on, I’m sure she likes you, darling. You were invited to their party at Christmas and she always seems friendly …’

  ‘Does she? Like, when?’

  ‘Erm …’ I try to dredge up an example. ‘Remember when I was asked to gather all the prizes for the bottle stall?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ Morgan asks.

  ‘Well, some people handed in rubbishy bubble bath but she donated a bottle of sangria shaped like a bull.’

  Vince barks with laughter. ‘Oh, right. So obviously, everything’s going to be okay.’

  We drive in my car (gravy rather than farm) because Morgan seemed to be genuinely freaking out about us being spotted with ‘court faces’, and I didn’t want to add to his stress. I, too, am a little agitated as I ring the bell of the immaculate detached house at the end of Jenna’s quiet, affluent cul-de-sac. There’s a small front garden, with pansies planted equidistant apart, and the glossy red panelled front door has a stone surround, with a pointed bit on top, possibly to make it look Georgian. Do not be intimidated by a door, I tell myself as it opens.

  Natalie appears, wearing a resigned expression, as if we have come to check her home for rot. ‘Hello Natalie,’ I say, forcing a smile.

  ‘Come in,’ she says flatly.

  ‘This is Vince, Morgan’s dad,’ I add as she leads us through the living room, in which an L-shaped beige leather sofa runs along two entire walls.

  ‘Hello, Vince,’ she says without turning round.

  We glance at each other. ‘Good to meet you, Natalie,’ he says, his easy charm faltering as we arrive at a formal dining room with a polished table and the kind of high-backed chairs that force you to sit bolt upright.

  I glance at Morgan, who is peering down at the porridge-coloured carpet as if he has never encountered such a floor covering before. Natalie has yet to acknowledge his presence. ‘Please sit down,’ she says, pushing back her short, dark crop and adjusting her tortoiseshell glasses. She is wearing a crisp cream blouse and smart black trousers. The room smells strongly of Mr Sheen. The three of us sit in a row, with Morgan between us, as if we are protecting him from attack. ‘Tea, coffee?’ Natalie asks primly.

  ‘Coffee would be lovely, thanks,’ I say.

  ‘That’d be great,’ adds Vince.

  She looks at our son. ‘D’you drink coffee, Morgan? Or would you prefer, er, a fizzy drink?’

  ‘Yes please,’ he mutters, blushing wildly.

  She blinks at him, and I have to stop myself from saying, He means he’d like a coffee. He’s old enough to make a baby, for crying out loud. He doesn’t need me to speak for him. He doesn’t want me to squeeze his hand under the table either, which I desperately want to do. ‘So … which would you like?’ She fixes him with a cool stare.

  ‘Coffee please,’ he croaks. I’m conscious of my heart rattling away as Natalie disappears to the kitchen.

  ‘You okay?’ I whisper to Morgan.

  ‘God, Mum,’ he mutters. ‘I didn’t think it’d be like this …’

  ‘Feels like a job interview,’ Vince adds, although Morgan is unfamiliar with the concept. We fall into a gloomy silence punctuated only by the distant tinkle of crockery in the faraway kitchen.

  ‘D’you think Jenna’s going to join us?’ I ask.

  ‘Dunno,’ Morgan growls, ‘you set this up.’

  I inhale deeply, trying to quell the jitters inside. ‘Hi, Morgan.’ We all turn to the source of the small, breathy voice in the doorway.

  ‘Hi, Jenna.’ Morgan smiles unsteadily.

  She looks tiny in her vest top and frayed denim shorts. It hardly seems possible that she’s pregnant. She takes a seat at the far end of the opposite side of the table, so as not to be facing any of us directly. ‘Jenna,’ I start, ‘this is Vince, Morgan’s dad …’

  ‘Hi,’ she says sweetly, getting up as he reaches to shake her hand across the table.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I ask, wanting to go round and hug her, but not sure how her mother would view that. Her wide blue eyes water as she nods. ‘I just thought it’d be good for us to all get together,’ I add, trying to sound reassuring as Natalie reappears with a tray of coffee, plus, disconcertingly, a plate of terribly sticky-looking iced Danish pastries. Not that any of us are likely to eat anything. ‘This looks lovely, thank you,’ I manage as Mark, or Mike, or something else beginning with M, appears in a striped blue shirt, a shiny purple tie and office trousers. He looks around nervously, as if wondering what it is he is expected to do.

  ‘Pour the coffees, please,’ Natalie commands. He duly obliges as she takes the seat next to their daughter before lurching straight in. ‘So, we’ve made our decision and we’d just like to run through it with you, if that sounds okay?’

  The three of us gawp at her. ‘Your decision?’ I ask weakly.

  ‘Well, yes.’

  My breath seems to have caught in my throat. I had it all planned out, what I’d say: that I’d like Jenna and Morgan to feel fully supported in whatever they decide to do. Now my voice won’t work properly. Neither Vince, nor Mark/Mike/another M-name – it’s too late to ask now – has spoken either.

  ‘… Jenna very much wants to continue with the pregnancy,’ Natalie explains, her voice devoid of emotion, ‘and we’ll support her, of course, although it’s not what either of us would have wanted for her …’ She turns sharply to her husband. ‘Is it?’

  ‘No,’ he says hurriedly, bobbing down onto the seat next to her and taking a noisy slurp from his cup.

  Natalie twiddles her daisy-shaped earring. ‘… So, what we’re proposing is …’

  ‘Sorry to butt in,’ I say quickly, turning to Jenna, ‘but that’s what you’ve definitely decided, is it?’

  Jenna presses her lips together and nods.

  ‘Well,’ I say gently, ‘that’s fine.’

  Natalie widens her eyes at me. ‘I think you’ll find it’s far from fine!’

  ‘No, what I mean is—’

  ‘What Audrey means is …’ Vince cuts in.

  ‘Vince, just a minute please.’ I’m surprised by the forcefulness of my own voice. ‘Natalie,’ I start, ‘I don’t think it’s fine, of course I don’t. I mean, they’re only eighteen, it is very young, but it’s happened and I think we need to accept it and help both of them as much as we can, even if they’re not together …’ I glance at Jenna. Tears are now spilling into her cheeks. I’m not sure if her mother has noticed, or is too preoccupied to comfort her. I glance at Morgan, who throws me a pleading look, as if silently requesting instructions on what to do.

  ‘Well, that’s part of it,’ Natalie says. ‘We have decided, as a family, that Jenna won’t see Morgan any more, or have anything to do with him. We’ll take care of—’

  ‘But what d’you think of this, Jenna?
’ I cut in.

  She looks at me, too choked to speak. I feel a surge of sympathy for a daughter who’s not even mine.

  ‘That’s the thing,’ Natalie charges on. ‘It’s not really about their relationship or whatever it was …’

  ‘Of course it’s a relationship!’ I blurt out, at which Morgan kicks me under the table.

  ‘Yes,’ Natalie continues, ‘but that’s not the issue now. We’re keen for Jenna to continue her education, and we’ll do all we can to enable that to happen – on the condition that Morgan is out of the picture.’

  For a moment, I am too stunned to speak.

  ‘But …’ Vince starts, ‘what about these two? Shouldn’t we see how they feel about it? And about each other?’

  Natalie emits a sort of gasp. ‘Maybe, if you had a daughter, you wouldn’t be quite so laissez-faire about it all.’

  Something ignites in me then, as I run my gaze over the mute husband, the distraught daughter and, in the middle, Natalie, in full flow again: ‘I will not have it, do you understand? I want my daughter to have a happy, fulfilled and successful life with someone who deserves her.’

  I stare at her, realising how idiotic I’d been to assume this would be okay, just because she donated that manky old sangria to the bottle stall and which, actually, was returned unopened to the next community centre fundraiser. I imagine the disgusting stuff is still in circulation now. ‘That’s a very disparaging thing to say,’ I say firmly, glancing at Morgan who seems to have shrunk to his eight-year-old self. ‘And,’ I go on, ‘I think it’s extremely unfair. We’re not even giving Jenna or Morgan a chance to speak, to say how they feel …’

  Natalie sniffs. ‘We should have stopped this, nipped it the bud …’

  ‘But they’re eighteen,’ Vince reminds her. ‘How were we supposed to nip it exactly?’

  She glares at him. ‘Well, there’s not much you could have done. I gather you’re not really around …’

  ‘Can we stop this please?’ I blurt out in a voice which, although it’s apparently coming from me, doesn’t seem to be mine. ‘It isn’t helping at all. Look how upset Jenna is – and I can’t even imagine how Morgan’s feeling right now. And you know what? It’s not about us making rules and deciding whether they can or can’t be together. It’s not fair. It’s not the way the world works. They love each other – anyone can see that – and what’s happening here, this laying down the law, feels so wrong and I won’t be a part of it.’