Another Mother: a gripping psychological family drama

by Amanda James

  ‘Ha!’ Mel slaps a hand on the table, making us both jump. ‘My dad sometimes used to sing a song called that. How funny.’

  Rosie and I look at each other. ‘Called what?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘There was a song in the seventies called “My Brother Jake”.’ Mel looks at our blank faces and smiles. ‘I don’t expect you two to have heard of it. Anyway, sorry, carry on.’

  ‘So, Jake is an estate agent in Penzance. He’s two years younger than me. We get on now but when we were little we fought like cat and dog.’ Rosie laughs and pops the last bit of bread in her mouth.

  ‘I wish I’d had a sibling to fight with. Beats being an only child,’ Mel said, gathering the plates and taking them into the kitchen.

  I was going to agree but then thought that might upset her. ‘I wish I had a brother or sister,’ I whisper to Rosie. ‘It was lonely at times growing up.’

  ‘Well, you have me now, don’t you?’ Rosie gives me a big smile.

  The silence at the start of the main course is a little unnerving.

  ‘Steak okay – not too rare?’ I ask.

  Both Mum and Rosie make appreciative noises and shake their heads.

  Rosie says, ‘No, I’m just savouring it, truly delicious, Lu. What’s the marinade?’

  ‘A bit of this, a little of that, a pinch of the other. I can’t tell you my culinary secrets or I’d have to kill you afterwards.’

  ‘Worth dying for,’ Mel says, her cheek pouched with food. ‘It’s cooked to perfection.’ She washes the mouthful down with a swallow of wine and tops up our glasses. ‘Tell me, do you have boyfriend, Rosie?’

  I watch Rosie’s eyes grow round at the abrupt change of conversation and a deep crimson wave splash up her neck. ‘Er … no, not at the moment,’ she says in a voice so quiet I have to strain my ears to hear above the scrape of metal on crockery.

  ‘A gorgeous creature like you? Madness!’ Mel says, the candlelight catching a spark of mischief in her eyes.

  Though desperate to rescue my friend, I can’t think of anything to say that won’t obviously be changing the subject. Rosie hadn’t been very forthcoming talking about past relationships with me, let alone Mel.

  ‘Thanks for the compliment, Mellyn. But I don’t really do long-term relationships. They’ve not worked and I’m much happier on my own.’

  ‘Yes, same here,’ I pitch in without stopping to think.

  ‘But that’s preposterous! Two lovely young women without a man to warm their bed? I know you said you’d once had a bad experience with a married man, Lu, but it’s time you found someone.’ Mel points a loaded fork at Rosie. ‘You too, madam. I can see I have much work to do here.’

  Rosie and I share a glance. Mine says ‘don’t mind her, she’s very outspoken.’ Hers says ‘please God let her shut the fuck up.’

  ‘Mum, we can’t all be lucky enough to find someone like my dad. It will happen one day, or it won’t,’ I say, and wink at Rosie.

  She looks a little less lobster-like now and manages a weak smile.

  ‘That’s so true,’ Mel says, adding more butter to her jacket potato. She bites the corner of her lip and looks at us, and for one horrible moment I think she’s going to cry. ‘He was my one and only true love. I still miss him so.’

  Rosie dabs at her mouth with her napkin and clears her throat. ‘It’s a shame you never found anyone else to make you happy, I—’

  ‘Oh, but I did, love!’ In seconds, Mel’s face leaves ‘on the verge of tears’ and arrives at ‘insanely happy’, complete with sparkling eyes and a huge grin. ‘My Neil wasn’t Joe, sadly, but he was a hard-working, thoughtful man whose only mission in life was to make me happy.’

  My mouthful of steak suddenly becomes tough and I want to spit it out, along with a few choice words of incredulity, but Rosie speaks before I can.

  ‘Oh, that’s nice. But why didn’t you marry him in the end?’

  Mel looks at her in bewilderment. ‘I did marry him. Only been married once, Rosie. He was so caring and attentive. I didn’t know how I’d cope when he died. In a way it was like being left by Joe all over again …’ She brought the napkin up to her face and dabbed at the corners of her eyes.

  Rosie looks at me, a frown deepening, and I try to warn her with a flash of my eyes not to say more. I’d told Rosie briefly about Mel’s abusive marriage and that she’d lived in fear for most of it and then … and then Mel sits there and tells her such a huge whopping lie. Why?

  I push the steak to the side of my mouth with my tongue, feel my cheeks flush, and my heart picks up a pace. I want to avoid Rosie’s eyes but, if I do, she might just press Mel for an explanation. Damn it! Mel wouldn’t be happy that I’d told Rosie and, if she’s cornered, there’s a good chance she’ll go into meltdown.

  Rosie puts her cutlery down, turns to Mel and opens her mouth. ‘Not sure I understand, Mellyn—’

  ‘More wine, anyone?’ I ask, picking up the bottle. I rest the neck on the rim of my glass and then watch it overturn, the red liquid seeping onto the white tablecloth like a bloodstain at a murder scene. ‘Oh, bloody hell!’ I say through the meat in my mouth. ‘So sorry!’

  Mel and Rosie leap up and apply their napkins to the tablecloth while I run to the kitchen for a damp cloth and to spit the damned steak out at last. I send my voice into the other room. ‘Rosie, can you come and get this cloth while I wet another?’ Rosie immediately hurries in. I grab her arm and whisper in her ear. ‘Don’t say anything about the abusive husband – Mum doesn’t know that you know about Neil. I’ll explain later.’

  A light of recognition dawns. ‘Right, okay, no probs,’ she says and rushes back into the dining room.

  I swirl another two cloths in cold water. Explain everything later? That should be interesting.

  ‘Out of the way, Lu,’ Mel says, coming up behind me. ‘No point in trying to bring the mountain to Mohammed.’ She plunges the tablecloth bundled in her arms into the cold water in the sink.

  ‘Ah, yes, good thinking. I didn’t think – just panicked when I saw the stain.’

  She looks at me, her eyes steely. ‘Not like you to be clumsy.’

  I want to say, ‘Not like you to blatantly lie for no reason.’ But then for all I know it’s exactly like her. The more I get to know my mother, the more I realise I don’t actually know her at all.

  Rosie comes in before I can think of a reply with the near empty wine bottle in her hand. ‘I could run down to the off licence and get another if you like?’ she says to Mel.

  ‘No need, love, there’s plenty more where that came from.’

  The Black Forest gateau and heavy double cream conversely engender a light conversation about the busy tourist season, the weather, and jokes about the Pomp and Vulture.

  ‘Well, you have the offer of a few days in the shop. At least you won’t have to worry with me as your boss.’ Mel pokes me in the arm and grins.

  Rosie raises her eyebrows and I can see her mind ticking over. I hadn’t had chance to discuss working at the shop with her yet. ‘Yes, that’s true.’ I smile, even though it isn’t, and gather the dishes quickly, ceramic on ceramic hopefully drowning out anything Rosie might be tempted to say. ‘Who’s for coffee?’

  ‘That’s great, Lu,’ Rosie says, smiling at Mel and me. ‘No job-hunting worries and you’ll not have to get your hands dirty.’

  Mel holds her hands up, a half smile on her lips. ‘Lu’s not decided yet, Rosie. I don’t want to put pressure on her.’

  ‘Coffee?’ I offer again into the awkward silence. They both accept, and I leave them talking about why silver-backed earrings don’t cause a skin rash.

  Mel and I wave from the door until Rosie turns the corner and disappears into the soft night.

  ‘What a lovely girl,’ Mel says, slipping an arm through mine and leading me inside. ‘Nightcap?’

  ‘No thanks. I’m tired out … in fact I might go up to bed.’ I can’t face a big scene. There’s an empty well in the centre of my ches
t drained of anger and frustration, yet slowly filling with disappointment. Everything had been going so great lately, such a damned shame.

  At the foot of the stairs Mel puts her hand on my arm. ‘You’re upset with me, aren’t you, for mentioning that you could work with me in front of Rosie? I just didn’t think.’

  I look into her eyes for any hint of amusement or artifice. There’s none. Only honesty floats on their blue seas. Concerned wrinkles on her forehead, a woebegone downturn of the mouth and an air of expected forgiveness bring anger and frustration pouring back into the well. ‘For goodness’ sake, Mum. Do you really think I’m upset about that? Yes, it would have been nice to tell Rosie myself, but that’s the least of it!’

  Mel lowers herself to the foot of the rickety stairs and shows me a bewildered face, the lamplight on her hair in the otherwise dark kitchen creating a halo of innocence. ‘I’m at a loss then,’ she says, her bottom lip trembling. ‘Was I asking her too personal questions? I did notice she went a bit red at one point—’

  ‘Yes, that too, but most of all I’m upset about your barefaced lies!’ I don’t intend to yell, but the well has flooded.

  A hand flutters to her mouth. ‘Lies?’

  I blow slowly through my mouth, close my eyes and lean my hot forehead against the stone wall. ‘Lies about Neil, Mum. Lies that you and he were happy, that you were devastated when he died, that his only mission in life was to make you happy. Nothing about him being a bastard, who you hated, who beat the crap out of you.’

  ‘But surely you realised why I said all that?’

  I open my eyes and look at her relieved ear-to-ear grin. ‘No. No, I didn’t. That’s why I’m struggling here,’ I say, trying to calm my breathing.

  ‘To put her off the scent of course.’

  I want to slide down the wall and disappear into the floorboards. ‘What on earth do you mean? You’re making no sense whatsoever.’

  Mel laughs and waves her arms expansively. ‘If she knew the truth about my marriage she might put two and two together and realise that I killed him, silly. You can’t be too careful, you know.’ She stands and switches the spotlights on. ‘Now, how about I make you a nice cup of cocoa? I’ll join you. See how good I’m being – no nightcap.’ She gives me another huge smile.

  She begins to sing ‘Shake, Rattle and Roll’ and I watch her move round the kitchen opening cupboards, taking out a saucepan, cocoa, opening the fridge for milk, and I want to scream but I can’t. I feel like a spider trapped under a glass. I can see what’s happening around me but there’s nothing I can do to escape my fate. The higher I crawl up the smooth sides, the harder I fall. I can’t get a foothold on the way forward … and the way back is blocked.

  21

  I can’t remember if the yo-yo I had as a child was red and yellow, or yellow and green. Advanced moves such as Walk the Dog were beyond me, but I did master a steady up and down, even the occasional out and in; I could keep it going for ages too. It is now my considered opinion that instead of a spider under a glass, I have become a yo-yo.

  Up and down, high and low, my moods and life are directed and dictated by Mel.

  It’s less than twenty-four hours since she’d lied, and I wonder what on earth to do about it – everything is back to normal. Over cocoa last night, Mel explained in a rational manner that she knew it was wrong to lie to Rosie, but she had done so because the shame of what she’d done could be safely hidden under it. She could almost believe the lie to be true if she tried hard enough. I had told her that I understood, and I kind of did, but not really. Then this morning we had breakfast at a lovely café in town and afterwards we had worked side by side in the shop all day, and I’d really had a great time. Not a pretend for show great time, a really great time.

  I listen to Mel chatting to a customer while I string black and white pearls, their perfect simplicity fascinating and incredible – pick up a bead, feel the cool smoothness between finger and thumb, and then whoosh, watch it slide and tap, slide and tap – so therapeutic. Even more so than playing with a yellow and green or yellow and red yo-yo. Yes. Things are back to normal.

  Grey clouds push away at the edges of positivity. Normal? But for how long? Perhaps it’s me that’s mad and not her at all. Mad? Is that what I think Mel is? The customer – a round, middle-aged lady in too-large spectacles and a gingham shirt – doesn’t think she’s mad, hanging on to her every word, real interest in her eyes as Mel tells her about the source of the turquoise in a pendant around her neck.

  Mel doesn’t look mad either, dressed in a green velvet shift dress and low stylish heels, her glossy hair in a ponytail, her make-up expertly applied. The smile that she tips me and the warmth in her eyes are not those of a mad woman as she wraps the pendant for the woman and takes her payment.

  I thread more beads. Dad always said I was too dramatic, that I overreact. In my head I hear his voice of reason: ‘She’s odd, certainly. Eccentric, yes, prone to mood swings, of course, but mad?’ I listen to him. I want to very much believe him, but then my rational voice, indignant and spiky, pokes holes through the calm reason. Cold-blooded murderer, it said. ‘Don’t forget that, Dad.’

  Mel says goodbye to the lady and is about to come over to where I’m sat at the entrance to the back room, but the shop doorbell jingles the arrival of a tall gangly young man whose arms are too long for his jacket. His Adam’s apple bobs alarmingly as he asks if she has anything suitable for a second wedding anniversary, and his skin flares, joining up the dots on his pimply face. Moments later he’s regained his sago and jam complexion as Mel puts him at ease, showing him this necklace, that pair of earrings, and what about this bracelet, while all the time avoiding prolonged eye contact and smiling a lot.

  Mad people don’t have those kinds of skills, do they? Or do they? Perhaps the accepted term is psychosis nowadays, and anyway, whatever I want to call her condition, I haven’t the first real clue of what kinds of behaviour define it, or the experience to deal with it.

  But she’s your mum. You have to stand by her and find a way to help. This is why you’re here. Yo-yo. How many times have you said the same thing though? Pendulum. You had a choice. You couldn’t turn her in; she gave you life, so you can’t take hers. It wasn’t cold blood – he beat her for years and years and … so you’ve made your decision, now stick to it. Rock.

  Rocks are so much more reliable than yo-yos or pendulums and are uncrushable, unlike spiders. Rocks are steadfast, strong and stalwart. I have never been anyone’s rock before, but if anyone needs one, my mum does. I’m not Megan’s victim any more, I’m a strong woman with the guts to change my life. To make Mel’s better too. Perhaps I can find the number of this Doctor Henver she’s seen in the past and try and get help there.

  The man’s face becomes serious as he stands at the window and holds a bracelet in one hand and a necklace in the other, up to the daylight. Is he picturing his wife wearing them? He clenches his jaw, purses his lips, all the time looking from bracelet to necklace and back again. It must be nice to have someone to care so much. The man stops being serious and a look of triumph passes over his face as he turns and presents his choice: the necklace.

  ‘I didn’t want to sway you one way or the other,’ Mel says, placing the item in a gift box. ‘But I would have gone for this, too – so pretty.’

  The man bobs his head and joins the dots again. ‘Just like its soon-to-be owner.’

  ‘I’m sure she’ll love it.’ Mel flashes him a smile. ‘And if she doesn’t, she can come in and exchange it for something else.’

  ‘I’m sure it will be perfect,’ the man says, handing over his card. ‘We will certainly be back at some point though. This is a lovely shop and you’ve been so helpful.’

  As the door closes behind him Mel turns to me and says, ‘I do love my job sometimes. Did you see his little face when he brought the necklace over?’

  ‘I did. He seemed a sweet man, and you were brilliant with him.’

  A huge gr
in stretches her face. ‘Thanks, Lu. I must admit I am a people person and, without bragging, good at my job.’

  I think about that and have to agree. It’s just as well I’m staying put, however, just in case there comes a time when she might not be.

  Adelaide filters into my first waking moments. I open my eyes and a smile in my heart lifts me out of bed and to the window. I draw back the curtains: sunny, blue sky, slight breeze – perfect. A sunny Sunday and Adelaide; everything I could wish for.

  Hunched shoulders, moist eyes and a fake smile wait for me downstairs. I focus on the smile and the words ‘let sleeping dogs lie.’

  ‘Will you be back for dinner?’ she says in a too-bright voice.

  ‘Not sure, Mum. Best not to make anything for me, and then if I am back, I’ll sort myself out.’ I pick up my bag from the back of a kitchen chair.

  She follows me to the front door and watches me take sandals out of the shoe box next to it. ‘I’ll still make roast beef, it’s always nice cold in a sandwich the next day.’

  ‘Yep.’ I slip the sandals on and avoid her gaze.

  ‘So, you’re meeting for breakfast at the Singing Kettle, the café we went to yesterday?’

  She makes it sound like a betrayal. ‘That’s right. You’re so clever finding such a great place.’ I land a light kiss on her cheek and open the door.

  Her cheery voice follows me down the path. ‘Have a lovely time, Lu.’ Then it forgets to be cheery and ends in a wobbly, ‘Love you.’

  I don’t turn, but reply, ‘You too.’ And I suspect that it must be true, because if it isn’t, I’d be hundreds of miles away.

  Two ladies with exactly the same eyebrows sit at a window table in the Singing Kettle. They haven’t noticed me standing just inside the doorway and are sharing a joke. The sight of Adelaide actually laughing is like seeing Santa on a surfboard – most unusual and a little unsettling. A contrast to Adelaide’s slight and grey sits Evelyn’s round and auburn, but their features made sisters of them, and those twin eyebrows wiggle away any doubts anyone might have of their familial provenance.