The Mum Who Got Her Life Back

by Fiona Gibson

  ‘Blended spinach, basically,’ he crowed, a bit tipsy by now. ‘More fool us for falling for this shit!’

  No matter how successful he becomes, and how many glittering red carpet events he’s invited to, he can’t stop waggling his ‘working class’ card; rough tough Danny Raven who drinks beer and wears ratty old jeans and T-shirts, forever the professional scruff. ‘Didn’t you tell me you’d love me to look smarter occasionally?’ he asked when I baulked at the thousands he’d spent on that blasted Reservoir Dogs suit.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘but I just meant, maybe you could get a nice suit out of Marks & Spencer’s for when we go somewhere posh?’

  He’d snorted at that. ‘If you wanted a Marks & Spencer’s man, then what the fuck are you doing with me?’

  Anyway, the fuss about the green juice mark-up dampened the mood somewhat, and as result of all this, I came home tonight and studied my face for far too long in the bathroom mirror. Was the ageing process accelerating all of a sudden? Was that why Kiki had been so insistent about sorting out my shrivelling skin? And now I’m in bed – alone, naturally – reflecting that a short while ago, I felt so revived and youthful, relishing my new life as an empty nester. I could see Jack when I wanted, have sex in the daytime and eat my lunch standing up, wearing only my knickers if I felt like it, whilst thinking: Well, I realise I’m supposed to feel redundant now the kids have left home. I know I should be texting them every ten minutes and weeping over their childhood teddies and old family photos when they were so little, but actually … isn’t this bloody great?

  And now I have a pee-smelling bathroom and Alfie complaining loudly to Molly, directly outside my bedroom: ‘See these vitamin capsules Mum got me? I’ve been taking them for three days and I’ve just read the ingredients and the casings are made out of milk!’

  Well, excuse me for caring about his nutrition. Call the Vegan Police and shoot me dead.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Jack

  Monday morning arrives, and with it Mags’s announcement that a box of new donations contains what she describes as ‘one of those dolls that does all the baby things to stop teenage girls getting pregnant’.

  ‘Like what?’ I ask, glancing round. We are in the shop’s back room, sorting donations; Mags is clutching the rather sinister-looking life-sized doll whilst eating a Magnum ice cream at 10.30 a.m.

  ‘You know. It cries all night and screams till you cuddle it and you have to change its nappy.’ She pauses. ‘Or it’s meant to. I think this one’s broken inside.’

  ‘Ah, well, we’ll probably still get a couple of quid for it,’ I remark. ‘Your Magnum’s dripping, by the way.’

  Without responding to my comment, she plonks the half-eaten ice cream on the worktop and bobs down to delve further into the box. ‘Look at this!’ Now she’s brandishing a painted ceramic clog.

  ‘Very nice, Mags …’

  ‘And this!’ She caresses a carved cherrywood elk. One by one, more items are lined up on the floor while she muses over their potential resale value.

  ‘Maybe something’ll just turn up for the auction?’ she asks, finishing her Magnum, having left a sticky brown smear on the Formica.

  ‘I doubt it,’ I reply. ‘But Nadia’s asked her ex to put the word out, so that might help.’

  ‘Nadia?’ She frowns.

  I nod. ‘Yeah, you know. You’ve met her …’

  ‘Her ex is going to put the word out? What can he do?’

  ‘Well, he’s a film director …’

  ‘Is he now?’ Mags mutters, and I can sense her mood darkening, a situation that lingers on as the morning progresses.

  Out in the shop, I glance over at her as she dusts the bric-a-brac unnecessarily, wondering what’s got into her now. I’d have expected her to be positively sparkling, with Iain not being around (he’s still too busy looking for Pancake to come in at the moment). But the huff continues and, even though she is usually eager to help a customer, she pointedly ignores Jean Cuthbertson when she comes in for an update on the lost wedding ring situation.

  ‘I’ve been through my whole house and it’s not there,’ she announces, looking pointedly around the shop as if it might be sitting on a shelf with a price tag attached.

  ‘Jean,’ I start, indicating the ‘lost ring’ note attached to the wall, ‘we’re doing everything we can …’

  ‘How am I going to tell my husband?’ she asks sharply. ‘He keeps asking where it is. How am I going to tell him it was in the pocket of those trousers?’

  ‘I really am so sorry …’ Now, out of the corner of my eye, I see Mags crouching at Iain’s bookshelf, which she seems to be ‘rearranging’ (i.e. wantonly muddling crime and romance with no other purpose than to upset him).

  ‘Have you hoovered the shop lately?’ Jean wants to know.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I reply.

  ‘It might’ve been hoovered up then. When did you last empty the bag?’

  ‘Er, quite a while ago, I think,’ I say, catching a waft of Jean’s overly sweet perfume and taking a step back.

  ‘Can you sift through the bag, then?’

  ‘Not right now,’ I say, with as much patience as I can muster.

  ‘Could you do it later?’ she asks.

  ‘Jean,’ I start, ‘I’m pretty sure it hasn’t been hoovered up. Someone would have noticed …’

  ‘Not if it was that simple boy, they won’t.’

  I stare at her, hackles rising. ‘Simple boy?’

  She nods. ‘The one who’s, you know …’

  ‘I’m not sure who you’re talking about,’ I say curtly.

  ‘Yes, you do,’ she insists. ‘The one with the funny flat hair. Sort of dirty blond, wears an old man’s cardigan. You know who I mean. He’s a bit …’ She winces.

  ‘Okay,’ I say tersely, indignation welling up in me now.

  ‘Two months’ wages, that ring cost our Tony.’

  ‘Yes, Jean, I do understand that it’s very—’

  ‘He had it engraved on the inside!’

  I wait for her to catch breath. ‘Yes, well, as I said before, we have your number and I’ll be sure to call you if it turns up. Now, I’m really sorry but I have an awful lot of stuff to get on with.’ I smile tightly, and as soon as Jean has shuffled out of the shop, Mags flutters over, wafting her heavily mascaraed eyelashes at me. ‘Ooh, Jack,’ she murmurs, clutching a cow-shaped butter dish, ‘I love it when you’re all masterful like that.’

  I laugh uneasily. ‘Thank you, Mags.’

  She beams. ‘I’ve had a brilliant idea …’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Maybe the wedding ring was hoovered up?’

  ‘Oh, I really don’t think …’

  ‘I’ll take care of it,’ she exclaims. ‘I did it at home when my diamanté earring flew up the tube. You know what to do?’ I shake my head, baffled. ‘You just get some newspaper and wet it, and you tip all the stuff from the bag onto it. Everything – all the fluffy, hairy stuff – kind of settles onto the wet paper …’ God, she’s making it sound almost relaxing ‘… and then you pick through it and find your thing.’

  ‘Right.’ I smile at her.

  ‘I am helpful, aren’t I?’

  ‘You really are,’ I say.

  ‘Am I more helpful than Iain?’

  ‘Everyone’s helpful,’ I say, which isn’t entirely truthful, but that’s how it is here. In the back room now, we flatten out a newspaper and douse it in water and, under Mags’s watchful eye, I tip the contents of the hoover bag onto it.

  ‘Keep looking,’ she instructs, breathing over me as I pick through the mass of dirt and bits, the odd foil sweet wrapper or drawing pin catching my eye and giving me false hope.

  ‘No ring,’ I say finally, wrapping up the damp mass in the newspaper and dropping it into the bin.

  ‘Worth a try, though, wasn’t it?’ she asks brightly.

  ‘It’s actually a really handy tip to know about,’ I enthuse, at which s
he grins broadly.

  ‘That’s me. Full of handy tips.’ And she beetles off back into the main shop, where she swoops upon a customer who’s perusing the summer dresses. ‘Try on anything you like. Changing room’s over there, I’ll guard it if you like …’

  I watch Mags for a moment from the back room doorway, relieved that our rummaging session through the hoover bag seems to have cheered her up. It gets me sometimes, how much this shop means to some of the volunteers, and how important it is to feel useful and needed. Perhaps it’s no coincidence that a lot of our regular helpers don’t have children or families of their own – or even friends, in some cases. In a way, perhaps this place fills that void. Yes, we fund animal sanctuaries all over the UK, but it’s more than that. Strangers walk past, and I know many of them think, ‘It’s just a charity shop full of junk.’ And of course it is, but it also offers structure and the company of other people, those things that many of us take for granted, but which help to shape all of our lives.

  Later, when almost everyone else has gone home, I spot a small box of chocolates sitting on the fridge in the back room. There’s a note on the box, written in wonky capital letters:

  DEAR JACK,

  THOUGHT BLACK MAGIC BETTER THAN MILK TRAY, FOR A MAN. YOU DESERVE THEM! YOU WORK V V V HARD. THANK YOU FOR BEING MY FREIND. LUV MAGS XX.

  I clear my throat to get my emotions in check. God, that was sweet of her. It’s unlike a volunteer to show me any appreciation; quite rightly, it tends to go the other way, as they’re the ones who show up day after day without pay.

  It’s only Sally, one of our older volunteers, and me who are left in the shop. ‘Ooh, chocolates?’ she remarks with a smile, popping her head around the doorway.

  ‘Yes, would you like one?’

  ‘Mmm. Don’t mind if I do …’

  ‘They were a present from Mags,’ I add, whipping off the cellophane layer and offering her the box.

  ‘Ah, that figures,’ Sally says, her eyes glinting mischievously now.

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  She laughs as she pops a caramel into her mouth. ‘You do realise Mags is in love with you, Jack?’

  I splutter. ‘Don’t be crazy. She was just being sweet!’

  ‘Believe that if you want to, but everyone knows.’ She smiles wryly and squeezes my arm before heading for the door.

  Oh, Jesus Christ. It’s my own fault, of course; Elaine reckons I get too involved with the volunteers and customers, but then, who wouldn’t in this kind of job? When I worked at Gander Books, my role was clear-cut. It was hard graft, and office hours simply didn’t exist – but there were boundaries. I could walk out of our cramped fire hazard of an office, and that was that; there were no lost dogs or wedding rings, no hospital visits or besotted volunteers.

  It’s Mags I’m thinking about later when I pull on my trainers at home and set off in the light drizzle.

  Like Iain, she lives in a flat on her own – only I know less about her living situation than I do about his. I suspect, though, that she has few genuine friends. She talks about her ‘favourite lady’, Karen, who works on the checkout at her local Sainsbury’s, as if they’re genuine mates: ‘Karen fell off her bike yesterday on her way to work.’ ‘Karen was saying yoga’s really good. I might go along!’ As if yoga is a new thing, virtually unheard of, when you cannot move through the streets of Glasgow these days for bouncy people carrying rolled-up mats.

  It seems tragic, in this huge city of ours, in which hundreds of thousands of people are all going about their business, meeting friends and looking forward to the weekend, to live the way Mags seems to. Hoping it won’t be interpreted in the ‘wrong’ way, I vow to make a special effort to be appreciative of her efforts in the shop over the next couple of days. And of course, I decide, as fine rain starts to fall and I loop back home, I’ll thank her profusely for the chocolates.

  As the week goes on, we are deluged with donations. Sales are healthy, and there’s a spirit of efficiency and optimism in the shop. Still no celebrity donation, though, which is worrying – especially with Dinah’s constant updates. Today – Wednesday – she texted me a photo of a stripy apron with the caption ‘Can you match this??!’ She then called to announce – gallingly – that the apron was donated by Kevin Masters, a certain celebrity chef/professional bully whom Lori enjoys on TV. Apparently the brilliant Inverness shop manager managed to persuade him to offer it up for auction.

  ‘Haven’t you managed to get anything yet?’ Lori asks dryly, when she comes home from drama club that evening.

  ‘No, not yet,’ I reply, in a but-I’m-working-on-it sort of tone.

  She gives me a look more befitting a disappointed teacher. ‘What’re you doing about it?’

  ‘Well, I’ve fired off tons of emails to agents and managers,’ I reply.

  ‘Has anyone got back to you?’ She arches a brow.

  ‘Er, no, not yet.’ I pause. ‘Maybe I haven’t prioritised it enough. To be honest, Lor, it always feels like there are far more urgent things to do.’

  She gives me an unimpressed look over her bowl of pasta. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like ploughing through the donations so we can get things on sale and actually function as a shop!’ I pause and exhale noisily. ‘Anyway, apparently Danny Raven is on the case about the auction. So maybe he’ll come up with something …’

  ‘Does Nadia still get on with him?’ Lori asks.

  ‘Seems like it,’ I reply with a shrug.

  ‘Hmm.’ She sighs and dumps her fork in her bowl. ‘You are still seeing her, aren’t you?’

  ‘Of course I am, love. Things have just been a bit hectic now her kids are back …’

  ‘Definitely going away together?’ she asks.

  ‘To Barcelona? Yes, it’s all booked.’ I study her face as she pokes at her dinner.

  ‘What is it, Lor?’ I ask, sensing her ill humour.

  ‘You’ve put broccoli in this sauce,’ she mutters.

  ‘Oh, I just thought we should be eating more vegetables.’

  ‘I’m not five, Dad,’ she says, sounding sharper than usual. ‘You don’t have to hide vegetables anymore.’

  ‘I wasn’t trying to hide them, I just didn’t flag them up.’

  At least this provokes a flicker of a smile as we clear the table. Lori insists that everything’s ‘fine’ as I make us a pot of tea, and I know better than to keep asking and probing as we settle down to watch TV.

  She never told me the real reason she wasn’t allowed to go to the school Christmas dance all those months ago, or why she didn’t even mention the history department’s trip to the Highlands that most of her friends seemed to go on, and which I only heard about afterwards. Whenever I ask whether she has homework these days she tells me it’s ‘kind of optional’, and she claimed she ‘totally forgot’ to tell me about the last parents’ evening, or give me the letter about it (and no, she hadn’t told her mother either, so neither of us had gone).

  How the hell is a parent supposed to find out what’s going on in their teenager’s life? It’s sodding impossible.

  After copious flicking with our numerous remotes, Lori finds an episode of the Kevin Masters show that we haven’t yet seen. As we sip our tea in silence, I hope that his verbal assassination of a ‘gritty’ cheesecake might perk her up, but no, she remains morose and apparently unaffected.

  ‘Lor,’ I venture, ‘are you okay with Nadia and her kids coming to our thing on Sunday?’

  ‘’Course I am,’ she declares, gaze fixed on the TV. ‘I suggested it, didn’t I?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ I say hesitantly. ‘I know you did. I thought that was lovely of you. But you just seem a bit—’

  ‘I’m all right, Dad. Really.’ She pulls up her bony knees and hugs them to her chin.

  As we fall back into silence, I glance at her. I thought it was odd, actually, her asking them along; almost as if she was overly keen to show how absolutely fine she is with everything. She can be unfathomable s
ometimes.

  ‘You don’t mind me going away with Nadia, do you?’ I venture, as Kevin Masters makes a gagging motion when appraising a contestant’s lemon tart. ‘I mean, you would say, wouldn’t you, if you didn’t want me to?’

  ‘Why would I mind?’ she asks sharply. ‘You’ve been away plenty of times before, haven’t you?’ Without her, she means.

  ‘Um, yes, I suppose so.’ It’s true; a bunch of us went to Prague for Fergus’s fortieth, and to Berlin last October for no reason in particular. My ex Zoe and I had a terrible week in Croatia when she shunned my suggestions for exploring the area, insisting instead on frying herself on the beach. I’ve never been a lying-on-the-beach kind of person, but went along with it while Zoe chain-smoked, grinding her cigarette butts into the sand and ignoring my warnings that she was burning. ‘I’m slathered in sunscreen, Mr Health and Safety Man,’ she retorted. ‘Relax, live a little …’

  A few hours later, she was lobster pink and vomiting into the washbasin in our tiny apartment. ‘Don’t you dare say I told you so,’ she raged as I held back her hair.

  Now Kevin Masters’ round, profusely sweating face has filled the screen as he announces this episode’s winner. Usually, Lori has a strong opinion on his choice, but tonight she seems preoccupied. ‘You can phone or text me any time, you know,’ I remark, as the show’s credits roll. ‘When I’m in Barcelona, I mean. Even when I’m abroad you can still—’

  ‘I do know how phones work, Dad,’ she snaps.

  I glance at her. ‘Okay, love … So, um, are you looking forward to our trip?’ I ask, referring to the week in Majorca we have planned for late August.

  ‘Yeah, of course I am.’

  ‘Just the two of us this year!’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ She clicks off the TV and we sit in silence for a few moments. I knew better than to quiz her on why her friend Shannon didn’t want to come this year, as she has previously, but I gather it’s because she has a boyfriend now, and his parents have invited her on their holiday. How can poor Lori compete with a boy with oddly swept-over hair (she has shown me photos) who somehow manages to be a DJ who’s ‘mainly known for techno’ at fifteen years old? I mean, how can he be ‘mainly known’ for anything when he’s not even old enough to buy a lottery ticket?