by Kitty Wilson
Mum has made it clear my whole life that I am her whole life and she won’t have it any other way. I can’t be on the other side of the world when she has news that will rock her very being, shock her out of a future she imagined she had years before she had to face the disease that had taken her mother, her grandmother.
‘I don’t want you making a fuss about the … well, you know … but you could come and help us eat some supper. I can’t quite fit everything in the fridge and I’m The Mont’s Jenga Champion you know, five years in a row.’ She namechecks the local pub. She’s lived in Montpelier since I was born, back before the area was as chi-chi as it is now.
‘I do know that. Unbeaten, I believe.’ I can practically hear her smile down the phone, picture the upwards curve of the corners of her mouth. ‘Right, I’m going to jump into a taxi so, traffic willing, I should be with you within the hour.’
The loud shriek of a small child, haring into the Marks and Spencer outlet in Bristol Airport Arrivals, interrupts my thoughts.
‘Perrrrcy Pigs!’ It sounds as if she’s about to launch a pirate attack, so firm is her intent and I can feel the grin cross my face. Small children are terrifying. I’ve always thought that if marauding hordes from days gone by had lots of small children with them they could have achieved their levels of destruction much quicker than mere battle-hardened men with swords.
I stand on the spot for a minute, the return to these shores after five full years away hitting me. I had always hoped for a life with children, lots of them, running around, playing football in the garden, barbecuing, helping them learn to read. A life where I would stick around, be involved as a father, prove myself a product of my environment not my genes. Turns out that isn’t for me after all, and that’s okay.
I hope the girl gets her Percy Pigs. I see a woman with dark wavy hair bomb into the shop behind her, calling her back and trying to persuade her to swap the seven odd packets of sweets in her hand for a Musical Biscuit Tin that’s shaped like a Christmas tree. I can only see the back of the woman but I don’t fancy her chances; that child has devilment shining from her eyes all the way over to where I’m standing.
The two of them are against a backdrop of poinsettias, and my memories resurface, causing my full Scrooge to break out. I am transfixed as I watch the child shake her head furiously, her grasp on the sweets tightening. There is something familiar about her.
I send an email to Nick Wilde, confirm I have landed and will be available tomorrow, and move towards the taxi rank. Standing and staring fixedly at a small girl is never a good look for a grown man.
An email whizzes back. Nick will be at home with family tomorrow but is happy for me to call in. An address accompanies the email, one that I am already aware of and unlikely to forget. A quick glance back at the store – I don’t know why – leaves me surprised. The woman has won and the small girl is cradling the Christmas tree tin as if she has found a chest of buried treasure, its tinny rendition of White Christmas causing her to pause in bliss.
Belle.
I won. Marsha swapped the sweets for the tin and she was so full of joy with the music coming from it that she managed to wallop Luisa lovingly in the face with her jagged-edged gift the minute her mother came through the arrivals gate and scooped her up. And now I am home for a couple of hours. Blessed relief.
In theory.
‘Yes, yes, like that, that. Oh my God.’ I roll my eyes as the sounds coming from my flatmate’s bedroom flood the living room. Again. This has been going on since I arrived home, with only very short breaks in between. She’s in there with a pilot she picked up at work and I don’t know what they feed them at British Airways but it obviously has an impact on stamina. My legs would have failed me by now, my vagina would be begging for mercy and I’d just want some sleep, whereas they seem to be back on for round three.
My phone starts to ring and as I glance at the caller ID I roll my eyes. I knew this would happen today. I may be over thirty, living independently and mooching through life in my own way, but my parents are still firmly of the belief that a) I’m still a child, b) I have absolutely no coping mechanisms or adult skills whatsoever, and c) I need reminding of every tiny thing. They’d message me to remind me to brush my teeth if they weren’t so scared of encouraging any level of intimacy. Because of this they manage to limit their nagging to things that are important to them.
‘Hi, Dad. How are you?’ I answer the phone whilst scanning the laptop screen in front of me. My attention is really on Leontes, I love this final scene so much – Turn good lady, our Perdita is found – and I know why my dad is calling anyway. I tell you, Perdita had it pretty good with the whole foundling thing.
‘Harder, harder, harder.’ Chardonnay is a woman who knows what she wants.
‘Oh, I didn’t expect you to pick up so quickly.’ No hello then.
‘Uh-huh…’ There is no point contradicting him. Passive neutrality is a great parental tool.
‘I don’t have time to chat. I just needed to remind you about lunch on Friday, your mother’s birthday.’
‘I’m going to… I’m going to… I’m going to…’ Chardonnay bellows as she bangs on the wall.
‘Yes, Dad. I know. I’ll be there. Like I promised.’
‘Where are you? Sounds like some sort of orgy.’
‘Don’t know what one of them sounds like. I’ll have to take your word for it.’ I smirk. Maybe my parents have a point, I do turn into a fifteen-year-old whenever I hear his voice.
‘You may mock but when I was young… Eyes Wide Shut, I practically lived that. I know sex noises.’
I grimace and faux-vomit.
‘Oh my God!’ A scream follows and the walls practically shake.
‘Goal!’ Ooh, yuk. Not that one again. Clearly the pilot has some football issues.
‘Yep, you’ve been telling me that since I was twelve. It gets no less disturbing.’
‘Lots of people would be happy to have such glamorous parents. You’ve always been so resentful. But look, the other thing I wanted to talk to you about…’
Best not to speak. Lots of people would be happy to have… is one of his stock phrases, followed with a quick but low blow. It doesn’t need a wordy response.
‘…it’s your mother. I just thought I should remind you that she’s still feeling pretty vulnerable, so if we could not mention the thing then that would be great.’
Seriously! My dad is telling me not to upset my mum. I pick up a cushion and nuzzle it for a second and grit my teeth, leaving the phone on speaker on the table.
‘I expect it’s her age,’ he continues. Remarkable. You think he can’t get any worse and then boom! ‘And because I know you’re not very … well, emotionally aware … it is a difficult time for me too at the moment…’ Yeah, because the whole nation is learning what I’ve had to live with from a very early age – that my dad may be a national treasure but he is also a complete arse. Plus, he is a man that should never use the words ‘me’ and ‘too’ together, never ever, ever. He lost those rights some time ago.
Neither a borrower nor a lender be,
For loan oft loses both itself and friend,
* * *
December Second.
Rory.
Should I admit to enjoying spending time with my parents? It has been a while and I hadn’t realised how much I missed it. Yesterday was great, we did lots of eating and catching up, reminiscing about childhood – we always skip uni as if any mention of my time there will cause some kind of catastrophic meltdown – and silly giggling.
Inevitably, Mum talked at length about how well I look, how tanned I am and how I must be beating off Australian women with a stick. I managed to side-step it this time but know an interrogation won’t be far off. I hate it. As much as I love my mum, this constant assumption that I should start dating again makes me angry. Angry, misunderstood and somehow at fault. Jess and I may not have stood in front of a vicar and made vows – although that had always been th
e plan – but we whispered vows to each other, our heads side by side on a pillow, her hair fine as silk stretching out and weaving in with mine. Those vows do not lose power because she has gone, and to break them would disrespect the bond we shared, the lifelong commitment we made to each other. I know there will be a time in my life when I can both honour Jess and move forward but that time is not now.
But morning is here, Mum, Dave and I have done the nice catching up bit and Jess and my refusal to date are not on the agenda. Now we need to discuss reality. I love my mum but this is serious and I cannot indulge her. I’m not taking any prisoners. I need to focus and take control of this.
‘Thanks, Mum, I needed that.’ I drink the tea she has made for me. ‘No, thanks, I really don’t need another biscuit. Will you come and sit down?’
She puts the biscuit tin on the table and takes the lid off, of course she does.
‘Now, can we talk about the elephant in the room?’
‘That’s no way to talk about your father.’ She has always referred to Dave as my father rather than step-dad and I’m happy with that – he’s earnt it far more than the man that walked away before I was even born – but she isn’t getting away with deflection, no matter how big the grin on her face.
‘Right! I know this is unpleasant and you would probably rather not talk about it, but I love you and I need to know what exactly is happening.’
‘Of course, I’m so grateful you’re here but you mustn’t worry. We can’t always change the hand life deals us but we can choose how to deal with it.’
‘Hmmm.’ It is true but I’m not here for philosophy. ‘Look, I’ve lined up an appointment with a consultant and thought we could maybe all go along together.’
‘That’s good of you.’ Dave pulls out a chair and joins us at the table.
‘But not necessary. I have a perfectly good doctor on the NHS,’ Mum answers.
‘Yes, but this one is good too. I did some research, she’s local to Bristol and one of the leading oncologists in the country. Here, take a look.’ I pass her the details of the appointment I’ve booked and she scans it quickly.
‘She’s already my doctor. We don’t need to pay a fortune to see her again. I don’t believe in private health care, never have, never will, and it seems stupid to me to pay out for something I’m getting just the same and for free. My surgery is lined up for the week before Christmas and that timing suits me really well. The NHS have been very quick to respond and I have no need, or desire, to queue-jump. I won’t do it.’
‘I just want to help. I didn’t realise it was the same doctor. It’s not a crime for me to be concerned is it?’
‘No, it’s not, and I love you and I understand your need to have things go the way you want them, I do. But this, this you can’t control and you need to stop trying. Let me do this my way, I promise I’m going to do it right and I’m not going to take any risks. Having you here is lovely, but you can’t come home and take charge. Come to my appointments, spend time with me but let go of the reins. You can’t control the world, love, you just can’t.’
My sigh, although unintentional, is so forceful it ruffles the piece of paper with the doctor’s details on it. I know that since Jess’s death I have been trying even more than usual to control the world around me. That maybe I need to relax a bit more, let go. But the thought of losing Mum as well… Now is not the time to chill.
‘But what you can do is tell me all your news. I noticed you dodged my question last night.’ She scrunches up her shoulders, and her nose, her brow furrowing with excitement and she shoots me a broad grin. ‘So any young ladies on the horizon?’
‘Mum … please…’ I don’t know how to say it clearly without snapping. I don’t know how to say that even looking at a woman makes the guilt rise up in me, gurgle in my throat, bitter like bile. That even thinking of it makes me feel as if I’m cheating. I don’t know how to say that I don’t believe it’s possible to find someone else who will understand me like Jess did, that being that lucky twice in life wouldn’t be fair. I certainly don’t dare tell her that I can’t risk falling in love with another woman and disappointing her as I did Jess. I can’t say those words out loud and I can’t listen to her tell me I can do no wrong. I want to tell her all the whirls of feeling scooting around inside me but I cannot tolerate the answers I know she’ll give. The lies she believes to be true.
I hope to God she can’t see the tear pricking in the corner of my eye as, pasting the fakest smile ever across my face, I beam at her and reach for the biscuit tin and try again to explain how busy I am with work.
Belle.
Three more times. Three more times that night. Goal has been followed by Score, and most alarmingly Boot it. I’m not surprised the pilot hasn’t found his forever partner yet. I really hope it’s not going to be Chardonnay.
I hadn’t got to sleep until gone four and by that time I was considering hacking the pair of them to death with the set of kitchen knives my dad had bought me when he realised we were being followed into Harvey Nichols and getting papped. One of the good things about my father’s utterly shallow fuckwittery is that when the cameras are on him he is remarkably generous. When the cameras are off he struggles to remember my birthday and for Christmas one year I received his latest cookbook, complete with wine stain on the cover. But still, it was better than the chlamydia he had lovingly gifted my mother.
I have a big meeting at work today and as it’s common knowledge that the company is in trouble and as I was the last person in, I’m nervous about what today may bring. I’m not married to this job, I’m an office assistant and do little more than answer phones, respond to emails, provide hot drinks and smile. But still, I’m both bleary-eyed and anxious as I fill my reusable cup and prepare to leave.
‘Morning! Glad I caught you. That smells gorgeous.’ Chardonnay nods at my coffee. ‘So, just wanted to say that your rent came through okay and … ooh, this is awkward, but no sign of that money I lent you a couple of months ago.’
Oh shit, I had forgotten about that. That is actually a serious fault. Pure me messing up right there. Again. Every month I mean to and every month something comes up or I forget. I hate myself a little bit right now, and my bad temper at her sexual meowings disperses as I realise I’m guilty of a far bigger crime.
‘Oh, Chardonnay, I’m so sorry. I’ll get to that.’ I had promised her she’d have it back before Christmas and now I am zero paychecks away from the happy day, my wages had all zoomed out pretty much as soon as they had zoomed in, and I have no clue what the hell I am going to do. I don’t need to look at my banking app to know that I’ll be making gifts again this year.
‘Yes.’ I can see her discomfort and am cross with myself for putting her in this position. ‘Thing is, Belle, I really need the money.’
How much can you get for a slightly ropey kidney these days?
Hell is empty,
And all the devils are here.
* * *
December Third.
Belle.
I am now officially unemployed. The creditors have been pushing and pushing and the company I worked for has been forced to file for bankruptcy. Whilst I’m grateful that they managed to pay us this month, I have no idea where next month’s money is going to come from.
I’ve spent the afternoon in the job centre, the evening on indeed.com and at gone midnight, when Chardonnay’s pilot pitched up again, I had jumped in my car and driven back to my parental home, unable to face another night of football-themed aural fun.
I quite like sneaking into my parents’ house in the early hours of the morning. There’s something forbidden about it, but it also gives me a couple of extra hours to enjoy the house without having to say hello to them first.
I may struggle with my family but I love this house. It was Nana’s and when she died it passed to Mum and we all moved in. It was before Dad had become super well-known and they were still besotted with each other. We have photos of moving day and
the way he looks at her, and at the house, it’s as if he can’t believe his luck.
I particularly love my bedroom. It is tucked up at the very top of the house, where you have to twist and turn up narrow sets of stairs with aged, faded carpet, a feel of secret passageways and Agatha Christie novels accompanying you. A million coats of lead paint on the bannisters. It’s the one part of the house that is pure me, its closest contender being the room that Dad pretentiously calls the library but is in fact the old dining room lined with books that he has never read, their spines unbroken by any hand other than mine and Nana’s.
As you open the door to my room you see posters of epic performances blu-tacked on the walls, Fiona Shaw as Richard III, Jüri Järvet as Lear, Brooks’ Dream, Gielgud’s Prospero, and they make me smile every time my eye catches them. Nana had worked in the wardrobe department at the RSC before getting married and moving to this house. The Tempest in 1957 at the Stratford-on-Avon theatre had been the last production there she had been involved with, so the Gielgud print was close to her heart and thus extra close to mine. I haven’t made it there yet, but one day I will.
I had toyed with moving the posters with me but until I have a permanent spot they can stay here. They help me when I have to come home and they keep some small part of Nana alive in this house, her house, where most evidence of her has been expunged, replaced with sleek surfaces and symbols of Dad’s success. With the posters here in my room, it feels like an extension of her and me. Special, just to the two of us.
There are secrets in my room, obvious ones like inside the wardrobe doors where I had spray painted peace and anarchy signs. My old bear, One Eye, still hidden between the mattress and the fabric struts of my bed after my mother had given him to my sister and whom I had stolen back, withstanding slapped legs and a week of high dudgeon. Plimsolls I’d refused to throw out after winning the egg and spoon race in them at primary school – my only sporting glory.
