The Not So Perfect Life of Mo Lawrence

by Catherine Robertson

  Aishe barely drank at all these days, though she had done her fair share of wild drinking in her teens. She suspected she might have been less wild if her father had been around. As it was, it was mostly Anselo who’d rescued her. Picked her up from outside clubs and bars, and once — first and last time — from the local police station. Aishe popped the top off her beer bottle and silently toasted her distant brother. Thanks, Anse. Now that I think about it, I suppose I owe you one …

  A clatter and thump of footsteps sounded on the stairs, and a smirking Gulliver slouched into the kitchen.

  ‘Hi there,’ said his mother and, because she couldn’t help herself, added, ‘What’s so funny?’

  Gulliver made a beeline for the tacos, rummaged in the bag to find his and started to eat it straight from the wrapper, shedding grated cheese and shredded lettuce onto the floor.

  ‘Plate!’ ordered Aishe.

  ‘Why? You just give me shit when I leave it lying around.’

  ‘Then don’t leave it around.’

  Muttering, Gulliver opened the dishwasher and retrieved a plate. Seeing Benedict in the doorway, he got out a second plate and handed it to him.

  ‘Here. Don’t leave it anywhere.’

  Benedict took the offering. ‘Understood.’

  Look at that smug little smile, thought Aishe furiously. I hate that.

  Benedict caught her look. ‘What have I done now?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Aishe was both irritated and embarrassed at being caught out. To cover it, she asked, ‘Want a beer?’

  ‘Sure. Thanks.’

  ‘Can I have one?’ said Gulliver.

  ‘What do you think?’ Aishe said, as she extracted a beer from the refrigerator and handed it to Benedict.

  ‘Bet you drank when you were my age,’ Gulliver muttered.

  ‘You’ll never know, will you?’

  Aishe got a plate for herself and placed a taco on it. She moved to sit down at the small kitchen table and the other two followed her.

  ‘What was so funny?’ she asked again.

  Benedict and Gulliver exchanged a puzzled glance. ‘Funny?’

  ‘You were both cackling away when I came in.’

  ‘Oh, that.’ Gulliver paused to take a bite of taco. ‘It was just Romeo and Juliet.’

  ‘Romeo and Juliet is a tragedy. Tragedies are not normally funny, hence the name.’

  Gulliver screwed up his face. ‘It was just this bit where Benvolio says “Why Romeo, art thou mad?” You know, like “You mad?” Like the Troll?’

  ‘Ben-Trollio,’ said Benedict, deadpan, and to Aishe’s extreme irritation, Gulliver gave a snort of laughter.

  ‘I have no idea what you’re on about,’ she told them. ‘And I can’t be bothered to—’

  The phone pealed.

  Aishe glanced at her watch. ‘Fucking telemarketers,’ she muttered. But she got up to answer it.

  As she left the room, she heard Gulliver say, ‘Problem?’ and he and Benedict started snickering again.

  The phone was on the couch, where she had expressly forbidden it to be left, as it invariably got lost behind a cushion. She snatched it up.

  ‘Yes?’ she snapped. ‘What? Who—?’

  Then she said, ‘You’re kidding me.’

  ‘Who was that?’ Gulliver asked when she returned to the kitchen.

  Aishe sat down in her chair, picked up her beer and took a long swig.

  ‘It was a woman whose best friend is going out with your uncle,’ she replied.

  ‘Well,’ said Benedict after a pause. ‘That clears that up.’

  Aishe had got used to spending the evenings alone. After dinner, as soon as Benedict had left, Gulliver sloped off as usual to his bedroom to do whatever he did up there. One evening, compelled by a curiosity that she justified as responsible parenting, Aishe had barged on in without knocking. Gulliver had been lying on his bed, reading an Alex Ryder book. Aishe had felt oddly let down. If it had been her at that age, she thought, with access to everything they have now — social sites, texting, online shopping — she would have been getting into all sorts of trouble, and probably debt. Actually, that’s not true, she thought. I wouldn’t have even been in my bedroom.

  Aishe raised her head to listen. Gulliver was practising the bass. He didn’t hook it up to the amplifier in the evenings, but she could still hear the resonant thump-thump of his fingers on the strings. He had a natural talent for it; could listen to songs on his iPod and after a few attempts got them sounding if not slickly professional then pretty much right. Aishe was too far away to identify the song he was currently working on.

  Before Benedict arrived on the scene, Gulliver had been playing around with the bass lines of Pink Floyd and Fleetwood Mac, the kind of music Aishe preferred. Now all he seemed to play were short, sharp punk-rock numbers, which pissed her off no end. The music itself wasn’t bad; she’d always liked the verve, the anger of punk. What annoyed her was the way Gulliver had happily abandoned music he’d been fond of just because some meringue-faced posh pretender thought he knew better than her what was cool.

  As if Benedict Hardy had ever been to a punk concert in his life, thought Aishe scornfully. Whereas she had been up front in the mosh-pit of several Norwegian death-metal concerts, usually surrounded by drunk, black-t-shirt-wearing, mullet-sporting Teutonic idiots, who soon learned that if they crushed or fondled Aishe without her express permission, they’d get an elbow in the nuts. Though that wasn’t always the best tactic, Aishe admitted to herself. If she hadn’t been agile enough to duck back and hide in the crowd, God knows what damage that huge, enraged Finnish guy would have done to her. Jonas used to despair, she recalled. ‘Me and the band boys might be mild-mannered sweethearts,’ he’d say, ‘but some of our fans are strung-out meth-addled psychos. How about you err on the side of caution?’

  How about that, Jonas? Aishe thought. What would have happened if she had taken that advice?

  The music from upstairs had stopped, Aishe realised. Gulliver was probably settling down in front of the computer, or with a book. In any case, she would not see him again this evening. She couldn’t see the point of spending money on cable, so all the television was really good for was watching DVDs. Saturday night, she and Gulliver usually watched a DVD together, although even then she couldn’t be sure that he’d join her.

  It’s no different to when he was little, she thought. When she would have him tucked up in bed by seven …

  To her surprise, she heard footsteps on the stairs. Gulliver mooched into the room in that way he had, elbows akimbo, thumbs hooked in the front pockets of his jeans — a stance that made his shoulder blades stick out behind him like the wing-buds of a new-born bird. Jonas, his father, was a big, strapping man, so Aishe assumed Gulliver would fill out in much the same way. She was glad that Gulliver didn’t look like his father any more. He was enough of a reminder as it was.

  Gulliver went through into the kitchen, and Aishe heard the tap run. He was probably drinking straight out of it, she suspected. Sure enough, he was wiping his lips with his forearm when he came back into the living room. He plumped down onto the armchair, and Aishe waited for him to speak. She found her senses switched on to high alert. She assumed he had only come down because he had something to say — or ask. And the kind of questions Gulliver might want to ask her were almost certainly ones she wasn’t yet ready to answer.

  But after a few moments’ silence, he got up out of the chair again. Aishe breathed a small inward sigh of relief — until she noticed where he was headed. To the shelf with the family photographs.

  Aishe felt a cold fist clench in her gut. She knew this moment had always been likely but until now, he’d made no sign of being interested, and she’d held out the faintest hope he never would. But the moment had come, and she had better deal with it.

  Gulliver picked up the photo of the Herne children and came over to squeeze down next to his mother on the two-seater. Hold on tight, thought Aishe. Here we go …
>
  Gulliver pointed to the young Anselo. ‘What did you and he fight about when he came over?’

  ‘You remember that?’ his mother asked, surprised.

  ‘I wasn’t a baby. I was, like, six or seven.’

  ‘Yes. So you were …’

  ‘So? What did you fight about?’

  ‘They thought it was time I came home. I disagreed.’

  ‘They? I thought only he came over.’

  Aishe offered her son a quick, wry grin. ‘We’re all agents of The Family.’

  Gulliver goggled at her. ‘The Family? You mean, like the mafia?’

  Aishe laughed. ‘No! Although sometimes I do feel like Al Pacino in The Godfather: “Just when you think you’re out, they pull you back in.” Anse — your uncle — wasn’t the first to try to get me back home.’ Her smile dimmed. ‘But I suppose I can be grateful he was the last …’

  ‘So who’s they? Who’s The Family?’ Gulliver tapped the photograph. ‘This lot?’

  ‘That lot is only a drop in the bucket,’ his mother informed him. ‘There’s hundreds of us Hernes. Not to mention those who marry in: Kings, Bowers, Bucklands — the list goes on and on.’

  ‘Like a Scottish clan,’ said Gulliver thoughtfully. ‘A Gypsy clan.’

  ‘I suppose …’

  ‘Is there a head? A leader?’

  Aishe glanced at her son, surprised. ‘Why do you want to know that?’

  Gulliver’s expression was wary but determined. ‘They’re my family, too.’

  Slowly, she nodded. ‘Yes, they are. And yes, there is a head. Your Uncle Jenico. Well, he’s your great-uncle, really.’

  ‘Do you have a picture of him?’

  Aishe frowned, thinking. ‘I’m not sure …’ She hopped up from the two-seater. ‘Let me look.’ She went upstairs and deliberately opened and shut a few drawers to disguise the fact that, despite her apparent doubts, she knew exactly where to look. When she came down, she was holding a smallish flat box that had once contained chocolates.

  ‘I don’t know why I’ve kept this.’ Aishe blew out a breath as she sat back down. ‘For you, I guess. Here—’ She handed the box to her son. ‘Fill your boots.’

  The first photograph that Gulliver drew out was of a young man of about eighteen wearing a zipped leather motorcycle jacket not unlike the one Benedict wore. But while on Benedict the jacket was clearly no more a fashion statement, anyone could see that on this boy it was a whole different kind of statement. The teenager was standing with arms folded across his broad chest. He had close-cropped dark hair, dark eyes and a strong-featured face that was not strictly handsome but magnetic with confidence. Even in this slightly blurry photograph, this boy exuded charisma and danger. He was the kind of youth you’d instinctively cross the street to avoid.

  ‘Wow,’ said Gulliver. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘That is my first cousin — and your whatever cousin — Patrick,’ replied his mother. ‘Great photo, isn’t it? He was in what we used to call his Wild One phase.’

  ‘Phase?’ Aishe noted Gulliver’s look of disappointment.

  ‘Oh yeah. He grew out of it. Stint in jail when he was nineteen helped — scared him witless, I gather. And then Uncle Jenico and the other men got on his case, which scared him even more. He’s a super successful London property dealer now. Legitimate, I might add. Before you get any ideas.’

  ‘So he’s a Herne?’

  ‘No, Patrick’s a King. His mother was a Herne. She was your great-aunt. Don’t try to remember all the family connections — you’ll go insane. Patrick’s father wasn’t Roma, though. He was a Traveller.’

  Gulliver smirked. ‘Like in Ghostbusters?’ He assumed the voice of what appeared to be a five-thousand-year-old female chain smoker. ‘“Gozer the Gozerian, the Destructor, the Traveller has come!”’

  Aishe gave him a look. ‘Not a lot like that, no. Travellers are Irish Gypsies. Not our kind. True Roma look down on them a bit. Call them Pikeys.’

  ‘Until we marry them.’ Gulliver flipped through a few more photos. ‘Then they’re—’, he emphasised the capital letter, ‘Family.’

  His mother gave him a smile. ‘I think you’re getting the hang of this.’

  Gulliver retrieved another photo, this one of a woman in her mid-thirties. She was sitting on a garden chair, in front of a large bush with pendulous purple flowers. The photo seemed to match in date to the one of the Herne children. It had the same white border, same washed-out colours, but its composition was askew and its focus slightly blurred as if it had been taken by an amateur, or a child. The woman wasn’t looking at the camera, but smiling up with delight and affection at someone standing close by. She was slim, dark-haired and handsome. Aishe saw Gulliver’s eyes flicker from the face in the photo to her own.

  ‘This is your mum,’ he concluded.

  Aishe gave the photo the briefest glance. ‘Yes.’

  Gulliver noticed then that the white border was on only three sides. ‘Someone’s cut this,’ he said. ‘They’ve cut out the person she’s looking at.’

  ‘One of us probably used it for a school project,’ said his mother. ‘Jenepher, most likely. She’s always been into the art stuff.’

  ‘Who got cut out?’

  Aishe shrugged. ‘No idea.’

  ‘Could be any one of our million relations, by the sound of things.’ Gulliver shuffled through the few remaining photos. ‘You don’t seem to have any photos of your dad.’

  There was a pause. ‘He didn’t like having his photo taken.’

  Right at the bottom of the box, Gulliver found a piece of paper that had been folded roughly and shoved underneath everything else. Unfolded, it proved to be a laser printout of a digital photograph, a group shot that appeared to have been taken at a wedding. There were no women in the photo, and the overriding impression was that these men had been selected because they were, in family terms, important. These were the leaders, the big men. In at least two cases, literally.

  ‘That’s him again, isn’t it?’ Gulliver pointed to a tall, broad man standing at the back. ‘Only older. That’s Patrick.’

  ‘Yes,’ his mother confirmed. ‘That was taken last year. Patrick would be about forty-four, forty-five now, I guess.’

  After a short hesitation, she pointed out a second man, equally tall and broad as Patrick but older again. He had the same dark red hair as Gulliver. ‘And that’s your Uncle Jenico. It was his daughter who was getting married …’ Aishe watched Gulliver stare at the picture for what seemed to her like an eon. There was no expression on his face except a mild curiosity, but still, Aishe found the whole experience unnerving. They are his family, she told herself. I can’t deny it, and it’s never really been my intention to hide it from him. But what now? Will he be content with a few photos? Or will he not?

  ‘That’s your brother,’ said Gulliver. ‘The one who came over, the one you fought with.’

  Aishe looked down at Anselo. He wasn’t smiling, but then you had to catch him unawares to have any hope of capturing his smile on film. In that respect, thought Aishe, Anselo and his father — our father — were very similar. In other respects, too, she supposed. Both were serious, thoughtful, careful — unlike my bone-headed other brothers, who wouldn’t look twice at a thought even if it appeared written in a bubble over their heads. Ironic then, Aishe decided, that my older brothers were the ones who got Dad’s looks. Anselo, Jenepher and I take after our mother.

  She studied the printout. Though they’d been nothing like each other growing up — Anselo so slight and Patrick so large — they were not dissimilar in looks now. Anselo was the better looking of the two, truly handsome, but despite having bulked up considerably, he still lacked Patrick’s physical presence. Primarily though, Anselo lacked the self-confidence that gave Patrick such magnetic appeal.

  Aishe wondered about the woman who’d rung. More accurately, she wondered about the woman’s best friend, who was apparently Anselo’s girlfriend. Was he happy with her? Were
they getting married? They might already have children together for all she knew.

  ‘Was this emailed?’ Gulliver waved the laser printout.

  I could lie, Aishe thought. Put it off for just a while longer …

  ‘Yes. Uncle Jenico sent it. Well, one of his kids, I imagine. One of your four million cousins.’

  She saw Gulliver hesitate before he asked, and braced herself. ‘Can I email them back?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk to them!’ It was too abrupt. She softened her voice. ‘But as long as you know that …’

  ‘Cool,’ nodded her son. Then he said, ‘What time is it in England?’

  9

  DARRELL: So, what did you think of her?

  LADY MO: I hate her.

  DARRELL: Jeepers! Really?

  LADY MO: Well, I hate the fact she’s one of those lucky-bitch women who manage to be incredibly slim but still have decent boobs instead of two raisins on a tray. So unfair. She says she does no exercise, either. Just relies on her inner bile to burn off the calories.

  DARRELL: You liked her then.

  LADY MO: She’s terrific! Impatient, rude, temper on a constant knife-edge — everything I look for in a friend, in other words.

  DARRELL: I’m not like that at all!

  LADY MO: You’re my nice friend. I have to have at least one. If I surrounded myself only with women like me, it could swell to a bitch-storm of such biblical proportions, it’d vaporise everything in its path. We’d be like the evilest of all evil powers, flaying the weak with our acid sarcasm and sacrificing them to our trans-Atlantic uber-bitch queens, Joan Rivers and Julie Burchill!

  DARRELL: O-K.

  LADY MO: Yes, I did like her. I like it even better that she has a son who is willing to babysit.

  DARRELL: Um — has he actually MET Rosie?

  LADY MO: He has! Rosie loves males of all ages, and behaves beautifully around them, the little pill. It’s only me she plays up for. And guess what? Do you know where they live? Just down the freaking road!