by Fiona Gibson
‘Who are you anyway?’
‘His mum,’ I snap.
‘Oooh, his mummy’s rushed over to rescue him!’ he cackles, thrusting a foil carton in my face. ‘It weren’t stones. It were these.’
I peer into the carton to see a small heap of rather doleful-looking falafel, plus a scattering of shredded iceberg lettuce. ‘You were throwing falafel at him?’
‘Yeah, we were only having a laugh,’ he says, pulling a hurt expression befitting the wrongly accused, before they all make their way in an ungainly clump down the street.
I turn to Morgan, who’s glaring at me. ‘Falafel,’ I exclaim. ‘I wouldn’t have thought that’d be their kind of thing.’
Morgan steps towards me. ‘Mum, d’you have any idea what you’ve just done?’
‘Yes.’ I nod and take my bag of shopping from a rather shell-shocked-looking Kim. ‘I made assumptions about what those men would eat, based on their appearance and behaviour.’
‘For God’s sake,’ he mutters, retrieving a baton from the ground. I scurry to retrieve one that’s rolled into the gutter, and he snatches it from my grasp.
‘Did they hurt you?’ I ask, reaching for his arm.
‘Mum, stop trying to touch me! Leave me alone, okay? No, it didn’t hurt, it was just a bit mortifying, that’s all …’
‘I know, darling, they were outrageous …’
‘I don’t mean them,’ Morgan says, picking up the last baton. ‘They were fine. I mean, at least they were showing some interest …’
‘You want that kind of interest?’
‘Yeah. No. I mean you, Mum, storming over and scaring people off …’ He throws me another furious look. ‘Are you completely insane?’
‘No, I’m not. What am I supposed to do, just stand back and allow that to happen?’
‘I am not seven years old!’
I clamp my back teeth together and glance at Kim, who musters a stoical smile. ‘Morgan,’ she says, ‘I think your mum’s new hair made her a bit too brave.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Tea and Sympathy
Conversation is strained as I drive us home. To break the chilly silence I try quizzing Morgan on the precise type of wall he helped his dad to build: ‘Drystone or cemented?’
‘Cemented,’ comes the curt response.
‘So you learnt how to use mortar, with a trowel? Like a proper builder? Maybe you could get an apprenticeship—’
‘Mum, please stop patronising me.’
‘It was only a suggestion,’ I remark, my stomach twisting uncomfortably. Never mind the behaviour of errant boyfriends. Nothing spears the heart of a middle-aged woman like a cruel remark from her son. ‘So, that stag party group,’ I struggle on. ‘I’d have expected them to be more your chips or kebabs type-people, not wandering around with vegetarian chickpea-based snacks …’
‘Can we leave the falafel now please?’
I glance at him, yet again stung by his sharpness, and rack my brain for something else to talk about. Jenna and the baby are probably too sensitive a topic when he’s still smarting from the street theatre incident. ‘I bought you a giant Toblerone,’ I murmur, as I pull up outside our house, wondering if this, too, might be viewed as patronising. I’m eighteen years old, for God’s sake! I don’t need a massive chocolate bar! But he musters muted thanks as I rummage through my bag on the back seat and hand it to him.
‘Kim thought your act was really good,’ I add.
He looks at me from the passenger seat. ‘How about you? What did you think?’
‘I thought you were great, darling. Very confident and professional.’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘No, I really did …’
He pauses, as if wondering whether to believe me. ‘Um … Jenna’s coming over in a bit, okay?’
‘Really? So, are you two back together?’
‘I’m just letting you know so you can give us a bit of space,’ he remarks, climbing out of the car.
‘Yes, of course I will.’ I scuttle after him and let us into the house, deciding to give him his presents now, instead of holding them back for his birthday; hopefully, they’ll cancel out any bad feelings caused by the falafel incident.
‘Thanks, Mum, this is, er, great,’ he says, wincing at the fake Ralph Lauren scent. ‘Um, Jenna’s on her way now, okay?’
‘Yes, love. I’ll give you some space.’ Exiled to my bedroom, I figure I’m far enough from the living room/kitchen or indeed any other parts of the house where they might wish to hang out, without resorting to sitting in the back yard in the rain. The front door opens, and there’s a tetchy exchange as Morgan lets her in.
‘So how much money did you make?’ Jenna’s voice, sounding shriller than usual, carries upstairs from the hallway.
‘It wasn’t about the money,’ he replies.
‘What was it about then?’
‘It was about developing my act …’
‘You’re always developing your act. When are you going to stop developing and just get on and do it?’
‘Hey, I thought you were on my side! You’re sounding just like Mum …’ Something twists inside me.
‘It’s different now,’ she shoots back. ‘We’re having a baby. We’re going to need more than the few coins people throw in your hat …’ I know I shouldn’t be listening. But as they’re talking loudly, at the bottom of the stairs, it’s impossible not to hear.
There’s more muttering, then, ‘It’s, it’s just a mess, Morgan, and you seem to think it’s all gonna be okay …’ I am frozen, perched on the edge of my bed, wanting to help, but feeling helpless.
‘Mum!’ Morgan yells upstairs.
I lurch out to the landing. He is standing – alone now – in the hallway. ‘What is it, darling?’
He pushes his hair out of his eyes. ‘Got a minute? Jenna wants to talk to you.’ I pause. ‘I mean you can come down now,’ he adds.
‘Oh. Is everything all right?’
He declines to answer as I scamper downstairs and find Jenna hunched on the sofa.
She throws my son a significant look. ‘Morgan?’
‘Yeah, yeah, okay.’ He slopes out of the room; looks like he’s the one being exiled now.
‘Jenna …’ I sit gingerly beside her. ‘Are you okay?’
She picks at her nails. ‘Not really.’
‘Well, I’m not surprised, love. I’m sorry it was so … awkward at your place the other day. I hope it didn’t make things worse.’
She shakes her head. ‘No, that’s just Mum.’
‘She’s bound to be upset. But what about you? You and Morgan, I mean? I know your mum doesn’t want you to have anything to do with him …’
‘Yeah, but I told her, after what you said at our place. I said, it’s up to us whether we’re together or not. Not her …’ She musters a weak smile. ‘Thanks for standing up to her. No one ever does. Not even Dad. Well, especially not Dad …’
‘I couldn’t just sit there,’ I say firmly, realising that, despite her regular visits over the past year, this is the first real conversation we’ve had. Although I’ve tried, it’s been hard to get to know her in any real way when she’s been forever glued to Morgan’s side. ‘Are the two of you back together?’ I ask hesitantly.
‘Dunno.’ She sniffs loudly. ‘He’s driving me a bit mad, to be honest.’ Hmm, I can relate to that … ‘Could you …’ she starts. ‘I mean, I know it’s not easy ’cause he doesn’t want it …’
‘Morgan doesn’t want the baby?’ I gasp.
‘No, not that. He does. We both do. I mean that job, that gardening thing … can you make him do it?’
So this is why she wanted to talk to me. I squeeze her hand, flattered that she believes I can influence him. ‘Well, I’ll try. Short of frog marching him down to Mrs B’s garden, I’ll do whatever I can.’
She musters a smile. ‘Thanks for being so kind to me, Audrey.’
My heart seems to swell. ‘Oh, it’s nothing, sweeth
eart. You know you can can talk to me anytime—’
‘I don’t mean right now,’ she says quickly. ‘I mean letting me come over all the time and hang out …’
‘Jenna, it’s nothing. You’re always welcome here.’
Her eyes well up as she holds my hand tightly. ‘It’s so much nicer here than at ours. You’re such … such a cosy, comforting person …’ She’s making me sound like a onesie, but it’s still lovely to hear. ‘I wish you were my mum,’ she adds.
‘I’d be different,’ I say gently, ‘if I were your mum.’
She manages another smile. ‘So, what’s it like?’
‘You mean being pregnant,’ I ask, ‘or giving birth? Or actually being a mum to a baby?’
She laughs dryly. ‘All of it.’
What can I tell her? That her slender body will change beyond all recognition, and that it won’t be teensie knickers she’ll be wearing but massive mummy pants and a nursing bra? Or that having this baby will change her life forever? That’s the thing: you can never switch off. You might be able to nip away to a motorway hotel, or even take yourself off to de-beard mussels and cock up a custard; but you’re still responsible, still to blame for the reckless microwaving of a favourite T-shirt and the aiding and abetting of the conception of a child.
I put an arm around her shoulders. ‘I don’t think anyone can truly tell you what it’s like. But if there’s anything I can do, anything at all …’
She turns to looks at me. ‘There is something.’
‘Really? What is it?’ My heart soars at the prospect of being able to offer sage advice.
‘Er, my favourite thong. It’s pale yellow, lacy … I think I must’ve left it here. Don’t s’pose you’ve seen it lying about?’
I frown, feigning bafflement. ‘No, but I’ll keep an eye out for it,’ I say.
To give Morgan and Jenna the chance to talk things over, I head over to Mrs B’s. Although it’s not my shift, I plan to drop off her chocolates and catch up with Paul if he has time for a chat. Seeing me arriving at the gates, he clambers off the ride-on lawnmower and strides over. ‘Great hair,’ he enthuses. ‘Really suits you. But why the big change?’
‘The hairdresser reckoned it’s more befitting my age,’ I say with a grin.
‘Oh, I liked you blonde, but I like this more, I think.’ His cheeks colour a little, and I sense mine flushing too.
‘Thanks.’ He looks especially handsome today with his dark hair dishevelled and a smattering of stubble, his tan enhancing his chocolatey eyes. ‘Look, I’m sorry about Morgan,’ I add quickly. ‘He seemed so ungrateful when you offered him some work …’
‘That’s just boys,’ Paul says with a shrug.
‘Yep, anything I suggest, he rejects out of hand. I’ve sent off for course prospectuses and found job ads online and he just says no – it’s his default reaction. So how about you contact him direct?’
‘I’m happy to try,’ Paul says. ‘Could you text me his number?’
‘Sure,’ I say, then make my way through the sun-filled garden towards the house. Pink lupins soar between swathes of white stocks and the rare blue poppies Paul is so proud of. Victoria was right: the woodland area, where his daughters love to play, could be tidier. But it wouldn’t be this garden – all Paul’s work – which I’ve witnessed slowly blossoming into an eye-popping display.
As I knock and let myself in, I spot Victoria’s drab grey mac hanging in the hall. So she’s still here. Of course she is; despite her brusque manner she’s bound to be concerned. I wonder if Morgan will fret about me when I’m 84, and he finds me slumped on the floor in a puddle of Tia Maria.
‘Hello?’ I call out from the hallway.
‘In here,’ comes Victoria’s prim voice from the kitchen. I find her sitting at the table with a fat folder of paperwork in front of her.
‘Hi, Victoria. Hope you don’t mind me dropping by. Just thought I’d pop in and see how your mum’s doing.’
She purses her lips, looking less than delighted. ‘That’s very kind of you, Audrey, but she’s napping at the moment.’
‘Well, if I could just—’
‘Go and see her, then,’ she says briskly. ‘But please don’t wake her if she’s asleep …’
‘Of course I won’t,’ I say, trying to maintain a pleasant demeanour as I leave the kitchen. I find her mother sitting up in bed, her mouth set in a frown, the room heavy with the scent of stocks in a vase at her bedside. ‘Hello, Mrs B,’ I say, perching on the chair beside her bed. ‘I brought you these. I hope you like them.’ I take the box of Kirsch Kisses from my bag and place them on her bedside table. With a start, I remember I still haven’t settled that minibar bill. Christ, I hope I’m not accruing interest …
‘That’s very kind of you,’ she says, sounding rather surprised. ‘Could you put them in my drawer? I don’t want anyone else having them.’
‘Of course,’ I say, wondering if she realises her beloved garden is being tamed, her house being prepared for sale. ‘I heard you had trouble with a fish bone,’ I add.
‘Yes,’ she says, her eyes glinting with mischief. ‘Victoria thought I was imagining it, making a fuss …’
‘I’m sure it was there, if you could feel it.’
‘Of course I could! No one listens to me …’
‘We all listen,’ I say gently, taking her hand. She fixes her gaze on me. Her face, once soft, has become more angular over the past few months, and hollows have appeared beneath her cheekbones. Her wrists are skinny and her wedding ring, which once fit snugly, now shifts easily along her bony finger as she twiddles with it.
‘Audrey?’ Victoria appears in the doorway. ‘I think Mum should have a rest now.’
‘I’m fine,’ Mrs B huffs. ‘I keep telling you, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with me …’
‘Er, I’d best be off then.’ Reluctantly, I get up to leave, and instinctively bob down to give her a quick hug.
‘Oh!’ Mrs B emits a tinkly laugh.
‘Bye, Mrs B. See you soon.’
Instead of saying goodbye in the hallway, Victoria accompanies me outside. I feel stung, as if I am being escorted off the premises in case I steal something. ‘Victoria …’ I pause on the front steps, wondering how to put this. ‘I’ve been thinking, you know, how much your mum loves this place. Is there any way she could possibly stay here?’
‘I’m sorry,’ she says firmly, ‘but I’ve made my decision.’
‘But does she even know what you’re planning?’
Her jaw tightens, and she touches her string of cut-glass beads. ‘You’re making it sound as if I’m doing this behind her back.’
‘Well, aren’t you?’ I’m shocked as the words fly out of my mouth. Maybe it’s my new hair, or seeing Mrs B, shuffled off for a nap in the daytime when she’d far prefer to be sitting out in the garden with her newspaper. ‘She doesn’t seem to have any idea,’ I go on. ‘At least, she hasn’t mentioned the house being sold. Of course, none of us will say anything. But I do feel she needs to know. I mean, it’s her place—’
‘In this case, it’s not,’ Victoria says firmly. ‘It’s actually my house and my decision to sell.’
I blink at her. ‘Your house? But I thought …’
‘We looked at the whole situation a few years ago and decided it would be better, simpler, to sign it over to me.’
I feel as if I’ve been punched. ‘Oh, I see.’
‘And someone’s interested in buying,’ she adds.
‘Right.’ I am lost for words.
‘Bye, then,’ she says, turning back to the house and shutting the door firmly behind her.
I stride towards the gate, pausing only to wave to Paul in the distance. So that’s that, then. A care home for Mrs B, despite the fact that she’s arranged her life in precisely the way she wants it – which, despite her trickiness, I have to admire: that fierce determination to do things her way. Until Victoria waded in, and now it appears that she doesn’t have any choice i
n the matter at all.
Chapter Thirty
Packed Lunch
I am woken by an unfamiliar sound. The insistent droning seems to be coming from downstairs: on and on, sounding like – no, it actually is the hoover, apparently being operated without me having anything to do with it. Maybe there’s been a freak electrical fault and it’s somehow turned itself on. I slip out of bed and pad downstairs in pyjamas to be greeted by the startling spectacle of Morgan dragging the appliance around the living room.
He grunts in greeting as I watch, transfixed. I’d be no more surprised to find him operating on a newborn’s pancreas. There’s a tinny rattle as he sucks up a pen lid and possibly a scattering of loose change. He moves the nozzle towards the surface of the coffee table where a few stray crisps, plus my eye liner – worn down to a stub, but still – fly up the hose. ’Well, this is good to see,’ I manage.
‘Aw, I couldn’t sleep,’ he says, now vigorously raking at the rug.
I smile, deciding not to point out that 8.17 a.m. is officially classed as morning. I’m still awestruck by the fact that he managed to find the hoover and turn it on. ‘Feeling okay, love?’
‘Yeah, I s’pose.’
‘Any plans for today?’
‘Yeah, I’m working, Mum.’
‘Working? What d’you mean?’
He smirks. ‘Aw, y’know, going out and doing a job for money …’
‘Yes, I understand the concept but—’
‘That man, that friend of yours called yesterday and I said, yeah, I’ll give it a go …’ Ah, so it worked! ‘… seeing as I’ve got a bit of time on my hands,’ he adds.
‘You’re helping Paul with the garden? That’s brilliant, darling.’
Morgan sniffs. ‘Just till something better comes along.’
‘Yes, yes, of course. So what time d’you start?’
‘Nine, I’d better get ready …’ Leaving the hoover dumped in the middle of the living room, he plods upstairs.
Well, this is fantastic news. Never mind that he has never so much as watered a pot plant before. My son is entering the world of paid employment! I dart to the kitchen, thrilled at the thought of him learning new skills, perhaps falling in love with horticulture and being able to prune and fix things like that capable teenager at Wilton Grange.
