The Brilliant Light of Amber Sunrise (18 page)

Chris looked at the floor and shook his head while Mum breathed out loudly through her nose and kicked the dishwasher door shut. No more was said on the subject and so, optimistically, I took this as a “maybe.”

Speaking of Amber, the saga wasn't quite over yet.

“IT WASN'T HER FAULT!” I wailed as Mum collected her car keys and buttoned up her coat.

“We'll see about that,” she said, opening the door.

“PLEASE!” I begged.

She'd made me text Amber to make sure she had got home all right. Assuming that meant Colette was with her, Mum had decided now was as good a time as any to give them both a piece of her mind.

“Francis, I will be diplomatic to the letter, but this needs sorting,” she said, halfway out the door.

“But you'll ruin everything!”

I pointed out that with each barbed comment from Mum we were being pushed closer and closer toward
Romeo and Juliet
territory. Mum scoffed at this as she closed the door, and muttered something about being as far removed in dignity as could be, which I think was in reference to Colette only ever shopping at cut-price supermarkets.

“She's going to ruin my life,” I told Chris while he selected a roster of soothing tracks and I sprawled on the couch. The drama of the day had been overwhelming, so I'd taken a blanket to the front room and was resting my nerves.

“It'll be fine. Somehow I think Amber's more than a fair match for Mum.”

“Not in this mood.”

“Don't worry. She always does this. Once she stops snarling she can be pretty reasonable.”

To cheer me up Chris got out his laptop and we started looking for Christmas presents that we could buy online. For Grandma we bought a catering-size pack of sugar packets, an apron with a picture of the Tyne Bridge on it, and a small bottle of Baileys. For Colette he ordered a
Best of Bob Marley
CD, which he said was a funny joke that was perhaps better kept from Mum.

We spent what seemed like hours looking for a present
for Amber. It was as if nothing had been invented that could articulate my love for fifteen pounds or less. I suggested an engagement ring and Chris said that if Amber didn't kill me, then Mum would. I could see his point. Toiletries seemed crass and chocolates unlikely. And buying CDs for people is a minefield; invariably your selection says more about you than it does them.

Then, on the last website, just as we were starting to give up hope, the perfect present presented itself.

“THAT!” I said.

Chris said he wasn't sure but I ignored him and pressed Order anyway.

I woke to the noise of two women screaming at each other and sat bolt upright, assuming the fight between Mum and Colette had spanned postcodes.

“You were out for the count so I didn't want to wake you,” Grandma said, looking concerned. (Though not enough to turn the volume down to less than twenty-seven, or to avert her eyes from the TV.)

“I didn't know you were coming around,” I said.

“I wasn't. But I sat on my remote and lost channel 3. I had to catch my programs.”

Chris came through from the kitchen with a pot of tea just as Mum's car pulled onto the drive.

“So it resumes,” he said, and Grandma shushed him.

I checked my phone and noticed several messages from Amber.

The first was all in block capitals and said that Mum was going to kill Colette. The second was to make sure I was okay and to say that she thought I would probably be asleep, so she wouldn't text again. The third one said everyone was friends again, and Colette had cried but in a good way, and that Amber hoped I didn't hate her for getting me arrested for selling drugs
.

I texted her back so that she knew we were still in love, and then waited for Mum to come in shouting and bawling. Only she didn't. She just looked fed up and harassed.

“What's she doing here?” she said to Chris.

“Her telly's broke.”

“For God's sake!
You know they have plenty of working TVs in care homes?
” Mum said, but Grandma ignored her.

“How did it go?” I asked. Mum glared at me, then pointed at Grandma.

“How did what go?” Grandma asked, still not looking at anyone.

“Mum went for a coffee at Colette's,” Chris said.

“Oh . . .” Grandma chuckled to herself, “. . . sooner you than me.”

I asked Mum again how it had gone, and eventually she rolled her eyes and poured herself a cup of tea into the mug
Chris had brought in especially for me. She could be really selfish at times.

“They're coming for Christmas,” Mum said with a sigh.

I beamed and went to hug her. Sometimes she could be the best person in the world, even if she did frown all the time.

“Oh, get off, you soft sod,” she said, pushing me off her.

The news had certainly been enough to snap Grandma away from her programs.

“Oh, Julie, no,” she said, with a look of pure terror in her eyes. “They're not normal. Besides, that's family time.”

“Yeah, well, I'm sure there'll be an obliging soup kitchen if you don't like it.”

Chris gave Mum a secret sort of nod that meant he approved of her actions, and Mum shook her head like she always does when she's the one who has to keep everything together (which is always, if truth be told).

“Right,” she said eventually, taking her cup of tea and a packet of cigarettes from the coffee table. “I'm having the girls around tonight. I need a proper drink after the day I've had. If anyone wants me I'll be in the conservatory. Do not disturb me unless it's urgent.”

Grandma still looked offended but I couldn't bring myself to care. Amber and I were going to spend our first Christmas together. It was as though we were a family already. It wasn't without its worries, though. The tree would have to be perfect this year: color blocked and symmetrical,
like the one on the decorations box. And a single present for Amber wouldn't be enough. I would have to fill an entire stocking for her so that she knew how much I cared.

I opened the laptop straight back up and began to search for more things.

“Are you staying for dinner?” I asked Chris.

“No, flower, I'll be getting back,” Grandma said, having returned her attention to the soap operas.

“Yeah, I'll stay,” Chris said, and gave a proud wink as he poured us both a cup of tea.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

That night Mum stuck to
her word and had the girls around.

Lisa and Lindsay appeared not long after dinner with carrier bags full of wine and beer.

“Hiya, gorgeous,” they both said, kissing me when they found me in the kitchen.

I sat with them for a while. Mum was polite even though I knew she wanted me to go to bed so that she could be debauched. I stuck it out, though, being charming. It was a wise investment. As I made my way upstairs Lindsay downed her third glass of rosé and grabbed me to her bosom.

“You look after yourself, love,” she said, not realizing perhaps that if they weren't so keen on recreating Gin Lane in our conservatory, then Mum might have been in a position to do just that. “And this is from the both of us, for Christmas. Get yourself into town when you're feeling up to it.”

She pressed a fifty-pound note into my fist.

Upstairs I folded it in half like an expensive shirt. I'd
never seen one in real life before. It looked red and dramatic and almost so cartoonish it could have been a fake. I held it up to the light like a shop assistant, trying to spot signs of forgery, but wasn't entirely sure what I was looking for. I made a mental note to swap it for two twenties and a ten at the first given opportunity, lest my efforts had been in vain.

I didn't mind going to bed early, either. The girls frightened me. I'd observed their behavior from the landing at Mum's fortieth. As soon as they got going they became quite inhuman. In conversation they would approach subjects the way a flock of pigeons might a tossed chip, flapping and cawing over one another until said subject was desiccated and of no use to anyone. They also didn't seem to realize that any bottle opened after one in the morning would result in a dramatic crying competition, like at a state funeral or a Beatles concert.

I tried to be as understanding as I could but all night I could hear them, pounding their feet to and from the fridge, slamming doors, glasses being smashed, and Mum shrieking with laughter. I wanted her to have a nice night because of how good she'd been, but at twelve-thirty—three-quarters of an hour into the karaoke session—I was becoming frenzied with exhaustion and possibly also delirious.

I tried banging on the floor with my lacrosse stick, to little avail. Then I made a moaning sound, hoping that some maternal intuition would alert Mum, like Lassie had I fallen down a well.

Once more I was disappointed.

Eventually I sent her a text asking her to come upstairs.

Seconds after I'd pressed send the music went dead and there was a moment's blissful silence. I became quite giddy with authority and thought about sending another text—maybe a song request—just to see how much power I could wield at the push of a button. But then Mum came stumbling in. She had smudged mascara, one shoe missing, and a feather boa around her neck. She looked like the “before” picture in a rehab brochure.

“What is it?” she said, holding herself up in the doorway. “Do you need your medicine? The nurse?”

“I can't sleep,” I said. “It's too noisy.” Mum snorted with laughter, then came to sit on my bed, making an unconvincing job of looking sympathetic and innocent all at once.

“Sorry, love,” she said, leaning awkwardly against my headboard. “It's the girls. I can't keep control of them.”

She grabbed one end of her feather boa and teased it across my face.

This wasn't entirely fair. It was not their unique take on “Bat Out of Hell” that had tipped me over the edge (too easily we forget that the song is within touching distance of the ten-minute mark).

“That's okay,” I said, pretending to be sleepier than I was. “You deserve a night off.”

“Oh, darling . . . I never want a night off from you,”
Mum said, and went to kiss me but ended up face-planting the pillow.

“I'll be fine,” she said, standing up and stroking her palm hard across my face so that my bottom lip stretched down to my chin.

Just as she was about to leave there was a ruckus on the stairs and the girls appeared in my doorway, looking like the Ghosts of Christmas Future. Or a frightening vision of what can happen if you approach middle age without due dignity. At their time of life they should be wearing trouser suits and baking cakes, maybe spending their days penning handwritten letters of complaint to newspapers. Not drinking sweet fizzy alcoholic drinks with crude straws in them.

“Sorry, darling, we'll try to keep it down,” Lindsay said, shaking a bottle in one hand and trying to press one finger to her lips with the other.

“Are you missing your little girlfriend?” Lisa asked, to stifled amusement from the others.

“Here, handsome, you couldn't sort us out with some weed, could you?” Lindsay said, to full-blown hysterics.

“Come on . . .” Mum said from the doorway, “. . . out.”

“. . . do you think we should give him a few tips?” I heard Lindsay murmur as Mum shut the bedroom door and left me in peace.

The morning after the whole house was deathly still. Mum had got up, made sure I was okay, then returned to bed with a big bag of chips and a packet of aspirin. She didn't resurface until almost twelve, which was negligent. I could have fallen and concussed myself, and she would have been none the wiser.

Fortunately Chris had come around to visit so I was not entirely without supervision. I'd tried showing him the empty bottles in the recycling bin but instead of looking horrified he'd been impressed. When it comes to drinking, he and Mum share the self-restraint of Slimer from
Ghostbusters
, so I don't know why I was surprised.

Mum finally resurfaced just before lunchtime.

“Wrath of grapes?” Chris asked.

“You'd know,” she said, opening the letters that I'd fetched from the doormat. “Bills . . . bills . . . bills,” she said, tossing the unopened envelopes onto the couch. “Does anyone want any lunch?”

“We did it,” I said to Chris once we were alone, suddenly keen to share my secret.

“Who?”

“Me and Amber.”

“Oh,” Chris said. He looked at me like I'd picked up an instrument he'd never seen before and had started playing it like a virtuoso. “Congratulations. Is that what we say?”

“I suppose. I was proud.”

“And everything went . . .”

“Fine. Yes.”

“Well, what do you know?” Chris said with a big grin. “Frankie's all grown up now.” He pulled me into a hug.

Just then the doorbell rang.

“I'll get it then, shall I?” Mum hollered as she made her way through the back passage.

The door clicked open and there was a draft of cold air.

“You have got to be kidding!”
I heard her say, before the door slammed shut.

The bell rang a dozen more times before Mum answered it again. She came hurrying into the front room and turned off the video game Chris had been playing before he'd even had a chance to save it.

“Nice one,” he said, getting up to put the game back on.

“Sit down, love. Now,” she said.

Chris did as he was told as soon as we both saw how serious she looked. The doorbell kept ringing and a key rattled in the lock. A man's voice swore from outside when it wouldn't work.

“It's your dad,” Mum said. I felt a wave of nausea pass over me and Chris made a huge sighing sound.

“What does he want?”

“God knows. He's had long enough.”

“Just don't let him in. We can sneak out the back,” Chris said.

“Why?” I asked.

“The last thing you need is upsetting,” said Mum, tucking the credit-card bills behind a cushion. This didn't make much sense, though, as I seemed to be the only one in the room who wasn't in the slightest bit moved by Dad's appearance out of nowhere.

“Julie . . . Julie . . . don't be so stupid!” he yelled through the letter box.

“I'm going to have to let him in. Just stop in here until I've had a word.”

“Well, I don't want to see him,” Chris said.

Mum nodded and went to open the door.

“What the hell do you think you're playing at?” Dad asked.

“Get inside. Now,” she said, slamming the door behind him.

“Is he here?”

“They both are.”

“Francis!” Dad yelled from the hallway.

I didn't answer. Chris started to look nervous and gave my leg a reassuring tap.

“It'll be okay,” I whispered. He nodded but didn't look convinced.

Dad came toward the front room but Mum stopped him dead in his tracks.

“I don't think so somehow,” she said.

“I remember the way. I'll get there before you do.”

“You have
no idea
what we've been through over the last six months. . . .” Mum hissed in the hallway, partly to scare Dad—which probably worked—and partly so we couldn't hear, which didn't. “If you think you can just walk back in here and upset the apple cart, you've got another thing coming.”

“Give it a rest, Julie.”

“So help me God, Keith, if you upset either of those two lads I will kill you myself, do you understand?”

“Nice to see you've mellowed with age,” he said. Then Mum called him something so rude Chris choked on his soda and it came trickling out of his nose.

“I'm warning you. We'll talk about this later,” Mum said.

When Dad came into the living room I was shocked to see how old he looked. I think being an adulterer and an absentee father must have taken its toll on him. It was no wonder he and Mum went their separate ways. She was still reasonably well preserved for her age. He would have embarrassed her up at business functions and wedding receptions. Even his suit looked creased.

“I'm in the kitchen if you need me,” she yelled, and Dad grimaced.

No one said anything. Chris had gone the opposite way to Dad. He looked like a little boy. An angry and sullen one, but a little boy nonetheless.

I think Dad had assumed there would be an emotional reunion. I think he'd pictured one of us crying. Maybe all of us. And then there would be hugs and apologies and promises that we'd never leave it so long again.

None of which happened. I wasn't angry. I wasn't sad. The only thing I felt was a nagging concern that, with all the drama, Mum's promise of lunch might have slipped her mind. That and the fact that for the first time in my life I felt as though it was I who should be looking after Chris.

“Hiya, lads,” Dad said cautiously.

“Hello,” I said.

He made his way over to the settee and then sat down on the footstool, like he wasn't planning on staying for any length of time. I craned my neck to see if he had left a suitcase in the hallway.

The fact that he hadn't made me relax a little.

“Chris,” he said.

“Right, I'm off.” My brother got up to go but I held on to his arm.

He looked at Dad, and then at me, and eventually sat back down, heavily, like he was being punished.