‘What’s Captain Clean up to?’ he kept saying. ‘Where’s Scourer Man?’
Her mum had tried to ignore him but eventually snapped, ‘Will you just leave me alone.’ She’d thrown down her paintbrush, splattering Hessian Blush all over the floor of the spare room. ‘Or better still, leave us all alone. Sixteen years we hear nothing from you and now all of a sudden you’re everywhere I look. You’re like a virus.’
‘You weren’t complaining when I was doing your tiling,’ Lipsy heard her dad say in what she thought was a very sulky voice. She was standing in the doorway, en route to the bathroom to carry on with the cleaning after Joshua had been sent elsewhere. The door was half open and Lipsy was trying hard not to spy.
‘I would think,’ her mum replied huffily, ‘that the least we are entitled to is a bit of tiling. Not that it can make up for the years and years of maintenance payments you’ve missed, nor all the birthday and Christmas presents Lipsy has missed out on. So you did a bit of tiling. Whoop-de-fucking-do.’
Go for it, Mum, thought Lipsy. She hardly ever heard her swear, didn’t know she had it in her. She supposed she should feel a bit sorry for her dad, he was obviously trying his best. He was sorry that he’d been out of their lives for so long, he’d told her so. But then again, his explanation for
why
he’d been out of their lives had been a bit sketchy, and Lipsy still couldn’t shake the feeling that if he didn’t still have the hots for her mum (which anyone could see he did), and if he wasn’t living in a dingy bedsit without a life of his own, he might not still be hanging around.
Then there was Paul. She knew he and her mum had been friends, like, for ever, and he was her mum’s boss and all, but Lipsy really liked Paul; he was clever and funny and cool in a way her mum’s boyfriends were almost never cool. Part of her wished that the two of them could get together. It was pretty obvious to her that Paul’s feelings for her mother went further than just friendship. Not that her mum saw it that way.
‘Don’t be silly,’ she’d said when Lipsy had voiced her thoughts after the decorating party. ‘It’s not like that at all.’
Lipsy had shaken her head and told her, ‘You’re wrong, Mum. I saw the way he kept looking at you today. And the way he looked at Dad. Like he wanted to punch his lights out or something.’
‘Well, you might be on to something there. It’s no secret that Paul doesn’t like your father, but that’s only because of what he saw me go through when he left. No, I can assure you, Paul’s feelings for me do not lie in that direction. Trust me, I know.’
‘But how can you be so sure?’ Lipsy had pressed.
A shadow seemed to pass over her mother’s face before she answered. ‘I just am,’ she’d said. ‘I just am.’
Lipsy wasn’t convinced, though. ‘I’m telling you, Mum, you’re wrong. I
saw
him. He was looking at you like – like he was starving and you were the best dish on the menu.’
Anyway, Lipsy thought now, whatever happened she wished her mum would just tell her dad to back off – and mean it. Otherwise, who knew where they’d all be by the time the baby was born.
She took the pen that she’d been absently chewing (that was probably on the list of things she shouldn’t put in her mouth too) and turned back to her diary. She had promised Rob she’d start a list of all the things they needed for the baby. “Clothes” she wrote and then “Nappies”. What else was there to buy, really?
***
I’m getting into my car after a Sunday shift at Café Crème when the call comes through from my mother. As soon as I see her name on the display my heart sinks. We haven’t talked properly since before I went to visit my dad. Even at the decorating party, while she was in my kitchen playing hostess with the mostest, I was assiduously avoiding being alone with her.
What is it with my family? Why can’t they just leave well alone? They got what they wanted, Billy and my mum – I went to see my dad. Was that enough for them? Oh, no. Now they want a complete run down of how it went: How do I feel about it? How did he seem? Am I going to go again?
OK, maybe I haven’t received this third degree in reality but I’ve had it in my imagination and that’s just as bad. When my brother dropped in to see me today at the coffee shop I knew that while he appeared to want to moan about being thrown out of Paul’s and having to move back home, his real motive was to pump me for information about my visit. And this was probably at my mother’s instruction.
‘Sod off,’ I told him. And, ‘It serves you right Paul kicked you out. You’re a liability and I don’t know why he let you stay there in the first place.’ I still haven’t forgiven him for running out on us all. And his excuse for not making it to the decorating party – he had a new job. Ha! That’ll be the day.
I look at my phone now and consider not answering it. But, like the good daughter I would so like to be, I pick up and say a weary, ‘Hi, Mum.’
All that meets my ears is sobbing and sniffing. ‘Hang on,’ I tell her. ‘I’m on my way.’
I arrive in Shenley Church End five minutes later. It doesn’t strike me as odd at first that the curtains and blinds are still shut. It is only when I let myself in the front door that I sense it. Call me melodramatic but I know something bad has happened. Maybe it’s the silence. My mother hates silence; she always has the television or the radio on in the background no matter what she’s doing. She even plays music low when she’s sleeping. I think it’s her way of drowning out the voices in her head but, hey, what do I know?
I make my way down the hall, sticking my head into the dining room and the lounge as I go. Finding no signs of life, I carry on into the kitchen where I make a shocking discovery. The room is a complete mess – not so much “farmhouse” as “pigsty”. This is so unlike my mother I immediately imagine the worst: kidnap, alien abduction, personality transplant.
Now I definitely know something is wrong. She is usually so house-proud she cleans all day long, except when she’s shopping of course. Not in an obsessive way like Joshua: she just likes to keep it nice, she says, in case anyone comes round. Nobody ever does.
Feeling a little panicked, I climb the stairs, passing all the doors to the other bedrooms and bathroom before I arrive outside my mum’s. I pause. Should I knock or go straight in? I can’t remember the last time I went in there. It could be as far back as when I was a kid. I have a mental picture of pink curtains heavily patterned with roses and a kidney-shaped dressing table draped with fabric and topped with a lethal slice of glass. The dressing table was always covered with coloured bottles, boxes of powder and brushes, thick with hair.
I open the door and step inside.
The pink curtains with the roses have gone, only to be replaced with a spookily similar pair in cerise and white with a frilly pelmet and trim. The rest of the room is just as I remember, right down to the dressing table – they might even be the same bottles, they certainly look dusty enough. Not so house-proud in here then. Maybe she doesn’t expect anyone else to see it.
My attention is drawn to the bed where I spot a mother-shaped lump underneath layers of covers. Thankfully, even from the doorway I can see that the lump is breathing.
‘Mum,’ I whisper, creeping over to the bed and sitting gingerly on the edge. As I sit I hear a clanking sound by my feet and I lift up a crumpled blanket to reveal an empty wine bottle and a half-empty bottle of gin (bottles of gin are never half full).
It seems I’m not the only one who’s had a bad day.
‘Mum,’ I say a little louder.
I try to pull back the covers but she’s clutching them tightly to her face. She is also crying, a faint but unmistakeable sound like the mewing of a kitten. At least she’s conscious. I look down at the bottles, thinking how much worse this could have been.
I tap the lump lightly. ‘Mum. What’s wrong?’
Still no response. The mewing continues softly, muffled by covers. For some reason my mother has decided to forgo the benefits of the duvet and stick with an arrangement of sheets and blankets and something she calls an eiderdown. When we were kids and our beds were made this way I suffered panic attacks when I was tucked in at night. The weight of all those layers on top of me felt suffocating.
‘Mum, come on now. Come out of there and talk to me. Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad.’
I pause and wait. The mewing stops, which I take as an encouraging sign. ‘Something’s happened to upset you and you’ve had a bit of a drink. It’s not the end of the world. You just need some painkillers and something to eat.’ My stomach rumbles right on cue. I think about the shepherd’s pie sitting in my fridge and am glad I remembered to text Lipsy and tell her to eat without me. This could go on for some time.
I make myself comfortable and tell the lump that I’m not going anywhere until I find out what’s going on.
‘Bloody hell, Mum,
you
phoned
me
,’ I grumble. ‘And now I’m here you’re hiding under the covers!’
Eventually my mother begins to emerge. First one eye, then the other. Next a snotty nose, followed by a mouth, blurred from crying.
‘Hey!’ I say cheerfully. ‘They said the Loch Ness Monster was a myth.’
She smiles feebly and sniffs. I fetch her some tissues from a box on the dressing table and make to open the curtains.
‘No,’ she shrieks, ‘leave them closed. I look terrible.’
‘It speaks!’ I joke, but do as she says and leave the curtains alone.
While she sorts herself out I go downstairs to make a drink and find some food – I won’t be a help to anyone if I starve to death. When I come back with a tray of tea and biscuits my mother is sitting up in bed and has at least managed to stop crying. She has also brushed her hair and blown her nose. There is a growing pile of tissues by the bed; this crying thing has clearly been going on for some time.
I pour the tea and she takes it from me with shaky hands.
‘Come on then. What’s happened?’
‘I can’t tell you, Stella. You’ll be so angry.’
‘Have you gone ahead and ordered that new bathroom suite?’ I say, maybe a little harshly.
She shakes her head and rolls her eyes. ‘No, it’s nothing like that. For goodness sake, Stella, is money all you ever think about?’
Well, excuse me! The unfairness of this statement renders me momentarily speechless.
‘Alistair has moved out,’ she says, sniffing. ‘He left yesterday. When I came back from the shops he’d packed all his stuff and just gone. No note, nothing.’ She plays with her teaspoon, stirring the tea one way and then the other. She won’t meet my eyes.
‘But isn’t that a good thing? You said I’d be angry. I don’t understand – I was the one who told you to kick him out. Why would I be angry that he’s gone?’
‘Stella, promise you won’t shout?’ I nod my head mutely, although a promise like this is made to be broken. She carries on in a small voice. ‘You were right about Alistair.’ Well, duh! ‘He hardly ever paid rent, always said he’d have it for me next week, next week. It wasn’t just the last two months like I told you, it was longer than that. And he ate so much food! Never contributed to the shopping budget, even when I asked him to, which wasn’t often, I admit.
‘The truth is, Stella, I liked having him around. He was a good laugh and it was just company for me, that was all. Lipsy was always off with that fella of hers and you have your own life. I’ve got no one. Don’t you think I get lonely sometimes?’ She thrusts her face into mine. ‘Do you ever think about that, Stella?’
‘What about your friends? Anna and Janet from up the road? All the people you used to have lunch with when you went to the gym or played golf?’ I know the answer though. I only say it to mask my own embarrassment.
She is right. I have never thought about the possibility she might be lonely. I would argue that it isn’t my job to worry about her social life but that argument seems a bit pointless now.
‘Those people stopped being my friends two years ago. I haven’t gone to a gym or played golf for a long time, Stella, and you know it. You just chose not to think about it, just like you chose not to think about your father rotting away in prison all this time. Well, I have been lonely and I make no apologies for it. So what if I’ve been a bit of a soft touch, a bit of a mug. Alistair was a laugh, he was good company, he was …’
I grab her arm, spilling tea all over the eiderdown. ‘You’re not saying … please don’t tell me you … with Alistair?’
‘Of course not!’ she shouts over the sound of my retching. ‘I wouldn’t do that to your father. But yes, I was a little flattered, who wouldn’t be? Don’t you judge me, madam.’
Through new eyes I look at my mother and wonder if she’s telling me the truth. Would she have responded to Alistair’s advances? Was she that lonely and susceptible? Maybe she really was just flattered, a middle-aged woman, to all intents and purposes alone in the world. Maybe that was the reason she liked having him around – the only reason. It would explain why she’d tolerated his rent-free presence. It would also explain the smug smile on his face and why he’d thought he had the right to interfere in our arguments, even though he had been the cause of them half the time.
I have no choice but to believe her. And as the slimy toad has gone now it doesn’t really matter anyway. Her love for my dad can’t be questioned. She still cries over photographs of him, still shops obsessively for that one elusive object that could give her so much pleasure it might take away the pain of missing him. I notice, possibly for the first time in my adult life, that my mother is really quite beautiful: her face heart-shaped with high cheekbones, her eyes, although red and puffy from crying, still clear and expressive.
‘Mum,’ I say, passing her yet another tissue, ‘I just don’t understand why you’re so upset. OK, you maybe feel like a bit of a fool, being taken for a ride and all that. And I guess this brings up some feelings, some stuff, that is quite painful.’ But I don’t want you to tell me about it, I nearly add. ‘All that’s understandable. But why are you crying like your world has ended? Unless you were in love with him or something …’ She howls a denial and I wave my hands to calm her. ‘OK, OK. Not that. So what, Mum? What’s so terrible that you’re still in bed on a Sunday evening with half of Thresher’s under the blanket?’