Something Only We Know (30 page)

‘Oh, could I? Just a quick call to see how she’s doing. That would be great.’

‘As long as it is quick.’

‘Yeah, yeah. She comes out of hospital today—’

My boss raised a hand to tell me to stop. I saw she was checking her own mobile.

I took myself into a corner and tried my sister, who had booked the day off so she could be there when Mum got back. Hel picked up straightaway.

‘They home yet?’

‘No. Dad said it would be after eleven before she was discharged, and then there are those roadworks at Bankburn, that’ll hold them up.’

‘Have you vacuumed round?’

‘Vacuumed, dusted, mopped the kitchen, wiped the windows. Oh, and descaled the shower head because I know she hates it when that’s all chalky.’

‘Have you hidden the little stepladder?’

‘Mrs Harris has taken it and stored it in her shed for us.’

‘Good. We don’t want Mum straining after cobwebs or de-fluffing lampshades. She mustn’t have any excuse to exert herself.’

My mother was being let out of hospital under strict conditions. She was on a cart-load of drugs, for one. Also, she’d been signed up to a cardiac rehabilitation programme where
she’d be taught to reduce her risk of another heart attack. From now on she’d have to get regular flu jabs and watch her diet and take particular note of any pain or breathlessness when
exerting herself. She’d be off work for two to three months.

‘You’ve been lucky,’ concluded the surgeon who did her angioplasty. ‘Because we got to you quickly, there wasn’t much damage to the muscle. But your family history
puts you in a high-risk group so we need to be on top of that in future.’

The rest of us had just looked at each other. Family history?

Turns out her mum and her aunt had both been victims of heart disease. The aunt had moved to Australia and died before I was born, so her health problems were well off our radar, and Hel and I
had always assumed it was old age killed Grandma Lyons. Apparently not. Mum’s arteries were furred up with cholesterol, and that meant a new regime of low-fats and statins. ‘It’s
time to let your family take care of you for a change,’ the consultant had finished, leaving Hel and I skewered together on our own guilt.

Across the other side of the room, Rosa’s phone snapped shut. ‘Finished, Jennifer?’

I said to Helen, ‘Got to go. I’ll ring you later, find out how she’s gone on.’

‘If you want. But
don’t
be late back tonight.’

‘Obviously.’

‘Because Mum’ll want us all together and Ned’s coming round and I’m cooking a—’

I pressed End Call quickly.

‘He’s still not here,’ growled Rosa. ‘As if we didn’t have enough to get through today. I told the manager ten thirty. Ten thirty, I said. And
we
were here
on the dot. It’s common courtesy to be punctual.’

I said, ‘Shall I fire up the laptop again so we can see the latest rankings?’

She shrugged, so I took that as a yes. I brought up the Take The Mike webpage with its rows and rows of video uploads. Competition-wise, the first nine finalist places had been assured via the
reader coupon system, but there was another week of voting for the tenth, plus a wildcard to be chosen by us (my idea). We’d ended up with a good spread of talents, and no one pushed to the
top who was awful. My favourite was a six-year-old ballet dancer with ebony skin and hair scraped into high, fat bunches like Minnie Mouse ears. But I also liked a skinny teenage boy comedian with
a broad Liverpudlian accent, and a floppy-fringed girl who played classical guitar. Gerry’s favourite was a high-stepping, baton-twirling majorette, while Alan’s money was on a kid of
twelve who did tricks with a football.

I scrolled through the most recent uploads.

‘What’s that there?’ asked Rosa, pointing with a plum fingernail. She really does have an unfortunate tone at times.

‘It’s a lad doing close-up magic.’

‘He’s in a wheelchair.’

Full marks for observation.
‘And?’

‘That’ll pull in some interest. Does it say anything about his background?’

‘Only that he’s been interested in magic since he was tiny, and that his favourite performer is Dynamo.’

‘Do we know why he’s in a chair?’

‘I don’t think so. It doesn’t say.’

Rosa looked thoughtful. ‘Hmm. Well, I think we could do something with this. Get more info, for a start. Make him a feature. And isn’t there another disabled entrant?’

‘On Monday we got sent that clip of the two brothers who perform an extract from a film. One of them has Down’s syndrome.’

‘Really? Excellent! How did I miss that? Then we should definitely make a feature. It would be better if we had at least one more performer, though. Are you sure there’s no one else?
Have you been right through them, biogs and all? It doesn’t have to be an obvious disability. A prosthetic limb would be great. Even someone with a skin disease, or mild hearing loss,
something like that. If they weren’t
that
disabled we could always play it up. Then maybe we could have a special section during the performance.’

I gaped at her. Sometimes she was so offensive it left you temporarily speechless.

‘Or alternatively, Rosa, they could compete on an equal platform and be placed in the competition on their own merits without anyone patronising them.’

She shook her head in exasperation. ‘The trouble with you, Jennifer, is that you don’t see the possibilities. People like a sob story.’

‘Who says either of these is a sob story? Because these performers are disabled, you mean? No. Not acceptable, Rosa. See our magician: he’s there because he’s skilled at magic.
The wheelchair has nothing to do with anything. The boy with Down’s syndrome is in a proper drama group. He performs professionally; his mum says he’s auditioned for TV. The point is,
he’s a good actor.’ I saw her brows come together in a frown as she processed what I was saying. ‘
You
might want to run a Tragic-but-Brave narrative, but it’s
old-fashioned, it’s not relevant here, and it could be construed as really insulting. Hauling these kids out specially and patting them on the head – there, there, well done you –
it’s naff. Can you not see that?’

Her lips were tight with annoyance. It wasn’t like me to stand up to her with such force. I wasn’t even sure where that speech had come from. I was glad I’d made it,
though.

We were spared any further discussion by the arrival at last of the hotel manager, a buzz-cut, sharp-suited guy who looked not much older than me. He looked familiar too, and when I read his
name badge I realised he’d been head boy at St Thom’s two years above me. Not that he’d remember a lowly Year 11, as I’d have been. Unless he’d been among the group of
prefects who’d reported us for our spontaneous foam party in the sports block toilets. His head girl partner had gone on to find brief and local fame on a reality TV show set in a Chester
gym,
The Bod.
I’d done a piece about her last year, just after I started at the paper.

Rosa took charge, as I knew she would. The manager was all apologies for keeping us waiting, all your-humble-servant, which is what she likes, and they immediately got down to layouts and
formats and timings and how many perks
The Messenger
could squeeze out of the deal in return for some hotel promotion. I stood by and took notes as I’d been primed, and wondered how
Mum was getting on. I remembered how she’d been after her op, how she’d looked up at us woozily and said, ‘Sorry,’ as if her having a heart attack had been some deliberate
inconvenience. A chock inserted in the family mechanism for devilment. Then her eyes had refocused and, hooray, she’d begun telling me off for having a hole in my sweater. Hel and I
hadn’t stayed long that visit because we were frightened of tiring her; we’d left her with Dad for a spell. As we were leaving the ward I’d glanced back and he’d been
stroking her hand, and it was amazing because that was the most intimate gesture I’d seen him make towards her in a long time.

‘That won’t do,’ my boss was saying. Her powerful shoulder muscles moved under her cobalt blouse as she pointed at the stage, swept her arm around the seating area, tapped the
brochure. I thought with a pang of envy how easy her life must be, barging through each day untormented by any personal doubt or inadequacy. Life was gilt-edged for Rosa. According to Gerry, her
suitor kept a holiday house in France, somewhere on the coast. Well of course he did. Probably had a private jet to take him there. Alan thought the guy might be a solicitor, although last month
Rosa had gone to a fundraising dinner at the Nuffield along with a bunch of surgeons . . .

The consultant’s face popped into my mind again, his gold-rimmed glasses and beaky nose. ‘Will she be OK now?’ my sister had asked him as soon as Mum was out of theatre.
‘She will if she’s sensible,’ was the reply. ‘She’s had a warning and she needs to take notice. You need to take notice.’ Cue evil eye at me from Helen. And then
there’d been that horrible drive home from the hospital, Hel with Ned (thank Christ), me in Dad’s car feeling so churned up and ashamed, I’d had to have the window rolled down in
case I threw up. Home to a dark, motherless house that smelt upsettingly of pee, and the sense that nothing in our family would ever be the same again.

‘OK, OK, I think we can do that if you can get hold of some better lighting, and if we can look at bringing down the cost of drinks – maybe do some sort of voucher system as part of
the ticket price.’ Rosa turned her head to me, imperious. ‘I hope you’re getting this down, Jennifer.’

And I dropped my eyes to my notebook where I hadn’t written a thing.

As soon as we returned to the office, she sent me out again, this time for a bottle of champagne. ‘For a client,’ she said. Behind her back, Gerry mimed a
glugging-out-of-the-bottle action. I couldn’t have cared less. It was a walk in the cool sunshine to M&S, past the flirty
Big Issue
vendor and the street stall selling scarves,
and the Christian evangelist and the scented doorway of Lush cosmetics. I was wondering whether it was too soon to ring home and enquire after Mum, or if I should leave it an hour till she was
settled, when someone plucked at my jacket from behind. I spun on my heel to find Vikki, looking apologetic.

‘Sorry,’ she panted. ‘I’ve been trying to catch you up. You can’t half move quick.’

‘Ah, well, I’m on a mission. Rosa’s sent me to fetch champagne.’

‘Yeah? Coincidence. I was just off to buy a bottle myself.’

‘Really?’

‘Er, no.’

We stood for a moment while she got her breath. She’d braided her hair across her scalp, Heidi-style, and it suited her. Under her jacket she was wearing a red T-shirt with ‘Sisters
of the Revolution’ written across the chest together with the bookshop’s website address. She saw me looking. ‘Do you like it? We’ve just had them printed. There’s a
“Brothers of the Revolution” too. I can get you one if you want.’

‘Yeah, go on. Why not? I’ll wear it to work.’

‘I bet you will.’

We smiled at each other.

‘Anyway,’ she went on, ‘how are you doing? Because I saw some messages on Facebook. About your mum. She’s not well? Is it something serious?’

I exhaled noisily. ‘God, Vikki. Yeah. Since you ask, it’s been pretty awful. My mum’s recovering from a heart attack.’

‘Oh, my God.’

I shepherded her to one side, out of the main flow of pedestrians, to where we could talk properly. Then I told her how it had been for us, the events of the week, and how we were going to have
to change and look after her better. I gave the impression that we were pulling together. I did not say that my sister and I were speaking to each other through gritted teeth and that my head was a
seething mess of fear, resentment and desperate, desperate longing. That when I wasn’t worrying about Mum having a relapse, I found myself consumed by replays of Ned’s kiss, and heated,
shameful fantasies of us getting together, overlaid with towering fury that Hel should ever even think about playing away, let alone with a git like Joe Pascoe. Shame too that I’d played a
part in rekindling that relationship. This narrative was so loud in my head, there’d been occasions when I thought I’d open my mouth and simply shout out the truth and damn the
consequences. But for now it was vital I kept everything to myself. No boats must be rocked while my mother was still so fragile or Lord knows what doom I’d unleash on the family.

Vikki was shaking her head. ‘That’s terrible. Poor you. I wish you’d let us know.’

‘I would have, if Owen and I were still . . . It’s tricky, the way things are.’

‘You know, he sent me today to look for you.’

‘Then why didn’t he come himself?’

‘He was worried how you’d react.’

Somewhere in the background the Christian evangelist was shouting that each new day was a gift. It is
precious
, he was yelling. It is an
opportunity
. It is
granted to you
through God’s love
.

Vikki said, ‘Look, I don’t want to put you on the spot. But could you just call him? Update him. He wants to know you’re OK, that’s all.’

‘
Is
that all, though?’

‘You need to speak to him, Jen.’

‘And if I don’t want to?’

‘That’s up to you.’

And every day that dawns is a
promise:
that through His grace,
you can be washed clean and start again.
No matter
what
came before. Begin again
spotless.
That
is God’s offer to
you.

I said, ‘So much is happening. I don’t know where I am.’

‘We miss you, though. Sometimes I watch the shop door because I’m convinced you’re going to come walking in any minute.’ She touched my arm sympathetically.
‘It’s such a shame how things turned out. Bloody Chelle.’

‘Yeah, bloody Chelle.’

‘You know she told him she was going to help out in an orphanage in Phuket? Turns out she’s met this guy and is just hanging around the beach bars with him instead. Scrounging off
ex-pats. Owen was very disappointed in her. Gutted, actually. It’s made him question a lot of things.’