by Fiona Gibson
My mouth falls open. ‘I’ve never said I wore brown paper for shoes!’
He laughs, oblivious to a little boy at the table behind us who’s twisting round, clearly enjoying the show. I sip my Coke, aware that I must not overreact – or blow things up – or remind him that I only took a live-in job because my dad had just died, having slammed our car headlong into a parked tractor after downing an entire bottle of Grouse.
‘Mummy,’ the little boy pipes up, ‘why does that lady have brown paper for shoes?’
‘Shush, William.’
‘But why—’
‘It’s what happened in the olden days,’ she hisses, ‘to poor children.’
I look down at my plate and inhale slowly before meeting Morgan’s gaze. ‘So, I take it it’s a no with the gardening, then?’
He bites his lip. ‘Well, what I decided on the train was, if I’m gonna be there for Jenna and, like, support the baby and stuff …’cause she wants us to be together, it was just her mum saying I wasn’t good enough, all that …’
I nod encouragingly. ‘I’m glad the two of you are trying to make it work, love.’
‘Yeah, and I was thinking I really should follow my heart and give it everything I’ve got.’
I stare at him. ‘What d’you mean?’ As far as I can see, there is no it.
‘Street theatre, of course.’
‘What?’ I exclaim. ‘You mean as your actual job?’
‘Yeah?’ he counters. ‘’Course I do …’
For a moment, I’m lost for words. I thought we’d moved on from all this. ‘That’s not a job,’ I exclaim. ‘It doesn’t fall into that category, Morgan.’ A vein has started to pulsate in my neck.
‘What is it then?’
‘I don’t know – a hobby. A thing you do to fill your copious spare time. It’s not a way of earning anything like enough to support a young family. What does Dad think? Did you actually tell him this is what you’re planning to do?’
‘Nah. I will, though, once I get going …’
‘See, you know it’s not viable. You’re living in a fantasy world …’
He glares at me and starts to tear up a paper napkin into tiny flakes. ‘You know what, Mum? It was actually really nice being at Dad’s.’
‘I’m glad,’ I mutter. ‘You should see him more often.’
‘Yeah, I might,’ he snaps, ‘because he’s not always on at me like this. He believes in me. He says positive stuff …’
‘I say positive stuff!’
‘When, Mum? When d’you ever say, “Well done”?’
I stare at him, scrabbling for words and aware of the little boy watching us intently: the young, shouty man and his mum who’s on the verge of crying in sheer frustration. ‘I’ve said it millions of times,’ I mutter.
‘I can’t remember the last time. When was the last time?’
I glare at my cold chips. Actually, I can’t remember. Maybe I haven’t for years. God, isn’t that awful? But what are all these well dones meant to be for? Flushing the loo occasionally? Managing to emerge from his bedroom at some point before noon? We descend into a stony silence. ‘I’m sorry you feel like this,’ I mumble.
‘Yeah, I am too.’
I look up at him, my handsome boy with whom I have managed to fall out when it was supposed to be a fun lunch. ‘Do your street theatre, then,’ I say firmly. ‘It’s your decision.’
‘Yeah, it is. Thanks for that, Mum. Thanks for acknowledging that I do have some choices in life.’ And now he’s up on his feet, throwing his bag over his shoulder with such force, he almost clonks a young girl clearing tables.
‘What are you doing?’ I cry.
‘I’m gonna go and do some street theatre right now. Maybe then you’ll stop putting me down …’
‘But it’s raining! And you don’t even have a proper waterproof coat …’
‘Why are you obsessed with coats?’
‘I’m not. You don’t have your stuff either. Don’t be crazy, Morgan. Sit down and finish your shake …’
‘I’ve got my batons in my bag,’ he retorts, already making for the door. ‘I practised loads at Dad’s, he said I was really good.’
‘You are good, I know you are …’ I, too, am up on my feet, aware of the little boy and his mother gawping at me.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll get a bus home …’
‘Morgan, wait! Please—’
But he’s already gone, catching the eye of two willowy girls sitting at the window table, who nudge each other and giggle as he swishes by.
I look down at our messy plates and pay the bill. And as I leave the diner I catch the little boy staring pointedly at my feet, as if checking whether my shoes really are made of paper. He looks quite disappointed that they’re not.
*
He’s just agitated, I tell myself as I wander around the shops. Not that there’s anything I want to buy. I’m still smarting from our lunch, but try to convince myself that once he’s calmed down he’ll start to see reason and possibly even take up Paul’s offer of paid work.
I meander into a chemists’ with the purpose of buying something small, like a nail polish, to cheer myself up. But there are far too many colours and sparkly decorations to stick on them, which remind me now of Danielle’s embellished nails, so I leave the shop, wondering whether I should have my nails professionally done, and all my body hair ripped off while I’m at it, or just remain unadorned and fuzzy. I’m not sure that looking like an oversized eight-year-old girl down there exactly goes with a middle-aged face.
As for the hair on my head, having glimpsed my reflection in a mirrored shop sign, I realise it desperately needs a trim if I’m likely to be attending job interviews soon. It could do with de-yellowing too. It seems to be turning brassier by the day. I peer into a tiny salon with no customers inside, and a sign that reads ‘Appointments Not Always Necessary’, and venture in.
‘Yes, I can do something now,’ says a young girl with a brow piercing that, to my untrained eye, looks rather angry and is therefore possibly recently done.
‘Just a trim, please,’ I say, figuring that the half hour this’ll take will give Morgan the chance to reflect on his frankly ridiculous tantrum, and decide that I do encourage and believe in him. I’ll phone him when I’m done and we can drive home together and put our tetchy lunch behind us.
The hairdresser lifts a clump of my hair and frowns, as if it might be radioactive. ‘You definitely don’t want colour? I’m doing a special deal today, half-price tints. It’d really freshen you up …’ Like I’m a shabby porch in need of a lick of emulsion.
‘I’m not sure,’ I reply. ‘It’s been lightened a lot, and I’m wondering whether I should give it a break.’
She tweaks it again and purses her lips. ‘Yeah, I see what you mean.’
‘You mean I’ve wrecked it?’
The girl winces. ‘I wouldn’t say wrecked, but …’ She disappears to fetch a swatch of hair samples. ‘Look, instead of your, er, quite harsh blonde, how about toning it down? These are conditioning colours for hair that’s looking a bit frazzled. What d’you think?’
Frazzled! Maybe she’d be better just hacking it off? ‘They’re awfully dark,’ I say.
‘Well, I just think, for the more mature woman …’ Oh, here we go. ‘… More flattering to your skin tones,’ she goes on, ‘and I promise, it’ll take years off you.’
I nod resignedly, doubting very much if it will. ‘Okay, let’s go for it.’
‘Warm brunette? It’s a lovely milky chocolate shade.’
‘Yes, why not?’ Hell, I don’t really have the funds for this either – with a jolt, I realise I still haven’t posted the cheque for the minibar bill – but at least it’s half price.
Without bothering to make small talk she pastes on the colour as if daubing a door frame, then sits me under a heat lamp with a ragged copy of Take a Break. My phone rings: it’s Kim, and in muttered tones I fill her in on my impromptu visit to Stevie’s. �
�God, Aud. She’s 21? What a creep!’
‘And he split up a BHS jewellery set and gave her the bracelet and the necklace to me …’
‘What?’ she exclaims, then peals with laughter, which sets me off. ‘Where are you now?’ she wants to know.
‘In town, just round the corner from that 50s diner, having my hair done. I’ll be finished in about an hour.’
‘Great, I’m in town too. Meet me for coffee, Millie’s at two?’
‘Sure,’ I say, aware of the hairdresser tuning in – now seeming fascinated that a ‘mature’ woman might have these kind of love dramas going on. And from then on, her demeanour changes to one of rapt attentiveness. My scalp is thoroughly massaged as she shampoos off the tint, and I slip into a sort of reverie in which Morgan and I are friends again, and he’s not storming out of a diner but gamely digging horse manure into the borders with Paul.
‘This colour looks amazing,’ the girl enthuses, now combing out my hair. It looks dark, I think: dark and wet. ‘Can we try something different with your style?’
‘Sure,’ I say, still blissed out from the head massage. She beams at me in the mirror and starts to cut. I watch, fascinated, as clumps tumble until my hair hangs at my jaw, sort of choppy and layered and now being blasted vigorously with the dryer. She squirts on some kind of goo and rubs it in, before giving me another quick blast and a ruffle with her hands. She stops and gazes at me expectantly.
‘Well?’ she asks with a hopeful smile.
‘I …’ I meet my own gaze. It’s not ordinary Audrey, who ladles out macaroni and peas and has been shat on from a great height by her boyfriend. It’s a new person, with a younger, brighter face. Even my eyes look more alive. The warmth of the milky brown tint seems to somehow lighten me from the inside, and I realise I am grinning inanely. ‘I love it,’ I exclaim, touching my hair. It no longer feels as if it has been baked.
‘You look amazing,’ the girl says kindly, ‘and, uh, I’m only going to charge you for the cut, okay?’
‘No, really?’
‘Yeah.’ She beams at me. ‘You deserve it and, to be honest, it was me who persuaded you to go for it. I’d never used those colours before, you see. I’m just the junior here – the owner’s out on her lunch break. I just wanted a go.’
‘So I was your guinea pig?’ I say with a smile, fishing out my purse.
‘Yeah, I guess so.’ She blushes. I thank her again, and virtually skip out into the street, feeling light and renewed and no longer frustrated by my son.
When I catch sight of myself again in the mirrored sign, I’m so cheered by what I see that I decide to pick up a few gifts for Morgan’s birthday in a few weeks’ time. What was on that wish list again? Jelly beans (I take care to buy the right kind) and hair stuff (is it the right kind? With the vast array of putties and pastes on offer it’s impossible to tell), plus – veering off-list here – a giant Toblerone which I know he loves. That can be a peace offering. While Ralph Lauren aftershave is pushing it, I find a big bottle of fragrance on a market stall that smells vaguely similar to the one he likes.
It’s lovely, I decide, giving presents – which reminds me, I still haven’t taken in the chocolates for Mrs B. Wonder what Paul will make of my new, choppy, dark hair?
I find Kim already installed in Millie’s where she enthuses loudly over my brand new do. ‘Wow, I love it, Aud. I hardly recognised you when you walked in. You’re so brave!’
‘Glad you like it,’ I say, glowing with pleasure.
‘So how d’you feel?’
‘Brave,’ I say, laughing, and we quickly down our coffees as she’s keen to embark on her favoured activity (shopping). We do the high-end chains – Hobbs, Whistles, which do nothing for me, even if I could afford the clothes – then a couple of charity shops which yield all kinds of treasures, and which Kim tolerates, although I know she objects to the faint, worn-before whiff. In Boots, she brandishes a lipstick for me to try. ‘It’s too bright,’ I tell her, my hand hovering over a subdued pinky-brown.
‘No, it’s perfect for you,’ she insists, ‘with your new hair.’
‘It won’t suit me, Kim.’
‘But it’s cherry red,’ remarks the sales assistant, ‘and that suits everyone …’
‘She’s right,’ Kim says, pulling out her purse and handing over the cash.
‘You don’t need to buy it for me!’
She takes it from the assistant. ‘I already have.’
Back out in the fine rain, we make our way along bustling cobbled streets. ‘Did you ever get in touch with that chef guy?’ she asks.
I grimace. ‘I’m afraid so … when I was pissed. Called him at his pub. Oh God, Kim. It was mortifying. I started ranting on about Stevie and that girl – as if he cared – and then I dropped my phone and …’ I break off. ‘I shouldn’t be allowed to make calls after 9 p.m.’
‘Idiot,’ she says with a grin. ‘At least he knows you know.’
‘Yeah, I’m sure he’s hugely concerned about that.’
‘Oh, Aud. He still sounds like a decent guy. I’m sure he had his reasons …’
‘Reasons I’ll never find out,’ I say briskly, dropping a pound coin into an accordion player’s hat, and figuring that maybe I’ll buy those coveted Calvin Klein boxers from the wish list too, a better class of pant to strew about the living room …
Kim tugs at my sleeve. ‘Look! Is that Morgan?’
I follow her gaze to the paved area in front of the church. She’s right. My gangly boy is tossing batons with aplomb; it’s actually quite an impressive sight.
‘He’s not bad,’ Kim exclaims. ‘From what you’ve said, I thought he’d be awful …’
Was he right, am I always putting him down? ‘He said he was practising at his dad’s,’ I murmur.
‘Let’s give him money,’ Kim announces.
‘No, he’ll hate that.’
‘He hates money?’
‘No, he’d hate us giving it to him. He’d think we were humouring him. He’d find it patronising …’
She laughs and shakes her head. ‘Teenagers are so weird.’
‘In fact,’ I add, ‘he’d hate us watching. Come on …’ I grab at her arm and we shrink back into a disused shop doorway in order to watch more discreetly. Silver batons fly in graceful arcs, each expertly caught. It’s not just his performance that’s startling. It’s also seeing him from a distance like this – standing upright, unaided – rather than lying prone on the sofa. I hadn’t realised how tall he’s grown. He towers over most passers-by. No one is stopping to watch, though, let alone toss coins into the woollen beanie hat at his feet. They’re just hurrying past in the light rain. Hey, I want to shout, stop and watch this guy for a minute. He’s my son! ‘He’ll get soaked,’ I add.
‘He’ll be okay, he’s wearing a jacket …’ Yes, the pathetically thin one he chose, no better than a fly sheet, despite costing £125. A bread wrapper would be more effective at keeping out the rain. I don’t tell Kim this. Nor do I point out that he’s wearing those pitiful canvas shoes that merely draw the moisture in. That can’t be good for his athlete’s foot …
Although he glances in our direction, he appears not to see us, thank God. I shouldn’t be here, not really. It’s like when I agreed to let him play in the park with his mate Dan and then lurked in the bushes, spying, in case a stranger appeared with a bag of sweets and tried to bundle them into a van. Of course, nothing bad happened. I was just being a neurotic mother, as I am now. My poor boy, soon to become a father of a tiny, utterly dependent baby, gamely tossing batons to make some money to buy baby things. My heart aches for him.
A rabbly group of young men – also unsuitably attired for the weather, in tight jeans and lurid fluorescent yellow T-shirts – are making their way noisily along the cobbled street. Looks like a stag party. They are jostling and laughing and taking up most of the street. A tall, stocky man with overly gelled hair buffets into an elderly lady with a wheeled shopping trolley, and she throws
him a look of disgust.
He mutters something at her, then peels away from the others and meanders unsteadily towards Morgan. ‘Lads,’ he calls back, ‘come and watch this tosser!’
I glance at Kim in alarm. ‘For God’s sake,’ I mutter. ‘There’s no need for that!’
The others all amble towards him. While Morgan is all rangy limbs – there’s not a spare ounce on him – these are broader, altogether more solid types. The batons soar higher as Morgan gamely juggles on. The men are sniggering and – I think – teasing him, trying to provoke a reaction. His gaze remains upon the batons as they shoot up into the air. ‘Wanker!’ shouts one of the men.
Something inside me clenches. How bloody dare they? How would they feel, trying to earn enough for a moses basket and a sterilising unit in the bleak Yorkshire rain?
‘You’re shit,’ yells another of the pack.
‘Bastards,’ I whisper to Kim, having to forcibly stop myself from marching over because I know Morgan would hate that, he’d be mortified to see his mother rushing to his aid. Then something else happens, something that pushes away all thoughts of what Morgan would think because one of the men – the tubbiest one, arse spilling over the back of his jeans – appears to be doing something that’s caused my beloved, talented boy to stop juggling. His batons clatter onto the ground and he backs away. ‘They’re throwing stones at him!’ I yell, and before I know it I’m rushing over, forgetting about Kim or my shopping or the fact that my son will probably disown me for this.
I round on the culprit who’s smirking infuriatingly. ‘What d’you think you’re doing? How dare you?’
‘Fuck’s sake, missus,’ he blusters, teetering away and guffawing at his mates.
I indicate Morgan, who’s still backed into the decorative arch of the church. ‘Is that reasonable, to throw stones at a boy who’s just trying to make a few quid?’
‘Stones?’ he repeats gormlessly. ‘They weren’t stones.’
I catch Morgan giving me a pleading look. ‘They looked like stones, from where I was standing. You could have had his eye out—’
