Mother's Story (10 page)

The Deanes' house had a large, square kitchen with fancy blinds all pulled to the same height on the three windows, a big bulky stove from which Margaret would feed friends and family with her fabulous bakes, and a big noticeboard on which were pinned seed packets, interesting snippets from newspapers, the odd photo and notes written in block capitals as if to give the message added importance. At the rear was an acre of perfect rectangle with a magazine-quality striped lawn. His dad fed it with a special mix he pumped from a plastic bottle strapped to his back, a chore he evidently enjoyed because he always grinned as he harnessed up and made for the back door. There was also a front garden with a circular driveway and a couple of nudey women statues.

The ‘best' room they used only on special occasions. A rather neglected space, in my opinion, it always smelt slightly fusty, like it needed a good airing. The pale walls were packed with pictures of Matthew at various stages of his life, from his naked baby shot, which I loved, to him standing proudly in his graduation gown. There was a large fireplace, where a stack of logs sat next to a wicker basket full of kindling. Folded tartan rugs were thrown over the arms of the neutral-coloured chairs and copies of
Homes and Gardens
were neatly stacked on the low coffee table.

I know Margaret thought she had impeccable taste, but I found everything a bit dated, a bit old-fashioned. All the rooms had ivory five-arm chandeliers with candle bulbs that reminded me of the lights you might find in a pub, although I never said that to her. His dad had a grand workshop at the end of the garden where he framed pictures and did ‘bits and bobs' – I think that was code for ‘hide from Margaret'. Matthew said he had a chair out there and a radio, which was permanently tuned to the cricket during the season. I always thought it strange that in that big old house, Anthony needed his fancy shed to escape to, whereas my mum and dad, who don't have enough space in their little house, are happy to be side by side like a couple of bobbins in a box, as my nan used to say.

I remember arriving with Matthew for a dinner party at his parents' one time and hearing Margaret shout at Matt's dad, ‘Right, Anthony, chop, chop!', pointing at the bottles of wine like he was the waiter. I couldn't believe the tone she used. Anthony stood to attention and saluted her. ‘Yes, sir! Understood! Right away, sir!' Then they argued, as if Matt and I weren't there. I didn't know where to look. ‘Oh, don't start!' she screamed. Matt just smiled, used to it, but I found it unsettling. I felt like I was watching a play and couldn't help wondering what my mum would have made of it all. She and my dad rarely exchange so much as a harsh word and there were these people bawling and swearing in front of me. Half of me wanted to phone my mum and tell her that just because you lived in a detached house with criss-crossed windows, it didn't mean you knew how to treat each other; and the other half of me wanted to say nothing and preserve the dream for her. I gripped Matt's hand as the row took its course. And I knew I wanted different for us, better. I made a vow that we would never argue or fall out like that. At least that's what I thought.

It was dark by the time she pulled up in front of her mum and dad's house in Hillcrest Road. Jessica noticed that the longer she stayed away, the smaller and shabbier her childhood home seemed when she did return. There was however something comforting about the gnome in Mr Fraser's front garden and the neatly trimmed shrubs of Mrs Parrish's opposite, familiar sights from her childhood that welcomed her back.

Her mum answered the front door and placed her hand on her chest, worry etched on her forehead. Her immediate response to any unplanned visit was to assume it meant bad news.

‘Hey, Mum!' Jessica smiled broadly and gathered her mum to her, trying to reassure her that all was well. She inhaled the familiar scent of soap, fried food and worry.

‘Oh, Jess, I wasn't expecting you! Is everything okay? Have you eaten?' Coral burbled without taking breath. She pushed some stray locks of grey-flecked hair behind her ears and wiped her hands down the cook's pinny that Jess and Matthew had bought for her last birthday. Matthew had joked that there was no point buying Jessica one as domestic goddessery wasn't exactly her thing. He didn't know how hard she tried.

‘Yes, yes, I'm fine. And don't worry about food, we are getting a takeaway later.' She watched her mum's shoulders sag with both relief and disappointment.

Jessica stood in the hallway and let her eyes rove over the threadbare patches of carpet in the middle of the stair treads and the sheet of wallpaper behind the telephone table that had begun to peel away. A flush of guilt spread from her toes to the roots of her hair. Living with Matthew in his world meant she forgot how carefully her parents had to budget. A new carpet for the stairs would mean a year of planning, saving and going without. They constantly juggled things to balance the pennies. Picturing her beautiful shoe collection and all the presents from her wonderful husband, Jessica wondered how much carpet all her new possessions would buy.

‘Come in, come in! You don't need telling!' Coral ushered her along the hallway. ‘You look tired and I wish you'd cut your hair!' These were two of her mum's staple comments. Jessica ignored both. ‘Matt okay?'

‘Yeah, he's great. Working hard, you know, knackered as usual.' Jessica shrugged, feeling the usual flicker of embarrassment at mentioning her husband's fatigue when he got to sit in a plush office every day and return every evening to their luxurious home.

She stepped into the cosy kitchen, where her dad was sitting at the table, cutting into a pork chop. She had also forgotten how early they ate.

‘Hello, Jess! I thought I heard you.' Roger wiped his lips with his fingers, swallowed his mouthful and placed his cutlery on the table as he stood to embrace his daughter. ‘Well, this is a lovely surprise. Matt not with you?' He looked over her shoulder as though his son-in-law might be lurking there.

‘No, he's just got in from work. I've left him at home.' She pictured her excited husband secretly texting his friend with their news and smiled.

‘Cuppa?' Coral was already filling the kettle.

‘Finish your supper, Mum!' Jessica pointed at the abandoned plate on the table and wished she had said tea, not supper.

Coral made a dismissive gesture with her hand. ‘No, no. I wasn't enjoying it anyway, only eating it for the sake of it.'

Jessica nodded, noting how easily the white lies slipped from her mum's mouth; anything to smooth a situation, ease a conversation or avoid having to tell the truth.

‘Everything okay, love? We don't usually see you midweek.' Roger smiled and Jessica filled in the gaps: we don't usually see you unless it's prearranged and always on a Sunday, when we come to you.

‘Yeah, everything's good. Great.' She smiled, feeling suddenly self-conscious about her pregnancy and having to confirm to her dad that she had indeed had sex.

‘Work going all right?' Coral asked as she slipped teabags into mugs.

Jessica nodded. Her mum didn't fully understand how you could have a job but not go to an office, shop or factory. How you could earn money without having a weekly wage slip with the usual deductions. She didn't understand a lot about her daughter's life. ‘Yes, I've been doing some lovely illustrations of flowers. And they got the okay today.'

‘Oooh, will it have your name in it?' Coral smiled, giving this her full attention.

‘Yes, I think so.'

‘We'll have to have a copy then, won't we, Roger? We can leave it on the coffee table and when we have company, I'll say, “Oh, that old thing? That's our Jess's book!”'

‘I'll get you a couple of copies, Mum.'

‘Let me know how much they are and I'll settle up with you.'

Jessica nodded.

‘I was going to call you, Jess. I've got something for Matt.' Her dad pushed past her and raced up the stairs.

As he left the room, Coral closed in on her daughter, whispering conspiratorially into her face, ‘He wants Matt to have them. He's thought about it a lot.'

She withdrew as her husband came back into the room and placed an old green shoebox on the table. He removed the lid and carefully parted the tissue to reveal two shiny gold-coloured plastic trophies. Both were faux-marble pillars sitting on wooden plinths. One had a footballer balancing on the top, mid kick. A small plaque on the base read: ‘Under 15s Player of the Year, 2000'. The other was identical but read: ‘Golden Boot – Top Scorer 2000'.

‘Oh, Dad!' Jessica ran her fingers over the precious mementos.

‘I reckon Danny would like Matt to have them, even if he is a QPR fan.' He gave a half smile.

‘I don't know what to say.' Jessica spoke the truth, overwhelmed by the gesture. ‘He'll treasure them, Dad, I know he will.'

Roger nodded, choked.

She wasn't sure it was now appropriate to give them her news, not when the room was so full of Danny. ‘I'll just spend a penny.' She ducked into the little cloakroom under the stairs and sat on the loo, looking at the small corner shelves crammed with photos of her and her brother when they were little.

Her eyes were drawn to one in particular. It made her smile. She was about five and was sulking on a step in a tutu with her chin on her fists and her elbows on her knees, clearly miffed about something. There was another of her blowing out the candles on a cake that was twice the size of her. She was seven; she didn't remember anything about being seven. Holding the picture, she studied every detail, laughing at her hair, which had been curled and anchored with a large velvet headband, and at the flecks of spit that an eagle eye could see flying towards the buttercream frosting. It was hard to blow with no front teeth. Narrowing her eyes, she studied the image of the boys and girls that stood either side of her, classmates from her primary school; Polly's was the only name she could readily recall.

Jessica looked at her mum, who was holding up the homemade cake at an angle. In the photograph she was a young woman with her head bowed slightly, a young woman whose hair fell in soft layers; she looked happy, satisfied with her lot and with no idea about the heartache that lay ahead. Now, she was hollowed out, cracked and stooped with grief. In the picture she was wearing a royal blue T-shirt and had a set of pink bangles sitting loosely on her wrist. Jessica felt a wave of panic spread through her veins. She was going to be a mum, a mum that would have to bake cakes, hold birthday parties, write thank-you notes and click the light off after checking under the bed for monsters. Jessica swallowed the wave of responsibility that threatened to swamp her.
Please let me be good enough. Help me figure it all out.

Jessica clutched the photo to her chest and headed back along the hallway. Her parents were sitting quietly, staring at the shoebox with what could have been regret.

‘I need to get back to Matt, I told him I wouldn't be too long.' She held the photograph in her hands before laying it on the table.

‘Oh, okay, love, but you haven't drunk your tea!' Coral was confused; worried she had offended her daughter in some way.

‘I don't really fancy a cup, Mum.' She took a deep breath. ‘Matthew will be so touched with his present, Dad, he really will. Thank you. I think Danny would have liked him, don't you? I imagine them chatting sometimes, but it's difficult because Danny is still a little boy in my head. He never gets any older, does he? I can't imagine him in his twenties, going for a pint with Matt, so if I picture him, he's still young and Matt chats to him like he's a child.' She swallowed, knowing she was babbling, her emotions getting the better of her. ‘It's when you reach milestones that you miss him the most, isn't it? And today's a milestone because I'm pregnant.' Her mum gasped as her hand flew to her mouth. ‘And Matthew is the father of course, not Juan, my imaginary Spanish lover. Oh and I have a tattoo of a cherub on my arse and so does Polly.' With that she burst into tears.

September 24th, 2013

I didn't realise it was my parents' usual visiting day. They come once a month and it comes around more and more quickly. Too quickly for my liking. That's a horrible thing to say, but it's true. I feel guilty when people are sympathetic, which they are surprisingly often. I don't deserve sympathy and I definitely don't want it. They tell me that it wasn't really my fault, that I was ill – but I can't accept that. It just adds another layer of guilt for me to try and hack through.

I walked along the corridor and into the little room known as ‘the family room'. I hate that term. To me, a family room is somewhere you choose to be to sit together with those you love, a place where laughter bounces from the walls and precious photos line the windowsill. A room like our front room at Hillcrest Road used to be, with its smear of meat sauce just above the skirting board and the tiny crack by the fireplace where Mum dropped a heavy plate one Easter Sunday. A room full of stories. This room is nothing like that. It's austere, cold and beige. Metal-framed chairs scrape along the industrial-style flooring. The windows are opaque and the outside bars cast long shadows on the opposite walls.

I peered through the door and saw my mum and dad sitting side by side, their thighs touching where they had pushed the chairs close together. Their forearms rested on the laminate-topped table. My dad looked older – he always does – and my mum looked… my mum looked like a ghost, frail, pale and just like she did when she was first grieving for Danny. She is grieving again and this time it's because of me; the wave of guilt threatened to engulf me.

None of us found it easy to start the conversation. It didn't matter that I hadn't seen them for a month: most normal topics are out of bounds. They couldn't comment on how well I looked, because I don't, and I didn't need to ask how they were because it was obvious from their faces. References to the outside world are too painful for any of us to mention; none of us wants the reminder that I am trapped in here. The weather is a no-go: they don't want to talk about a burst of sunshine when I am reduced to forty crappy minutes of fresh air a day, which I always take, rain or shine. My dad has given up work and my mum spends her days on the sofa, full of sadness and regret. This last month has been different for them, but we're all ignoring that. I know they've just had two weeks of respite. I picture them sitting on a plane with twitchy fingers and stomachs knotted with guilt and anticipation as they travelled overseas. The temptation to bombard them with questions is almost overwhelming. But I don't, knowing that their responses would keep me awake and drain the small amount of sanity I have stored inside my head. I can't cope with anything they might tell me. Better to pretend. Better for us all. Instead, they smile stiffly and nod as I sit down. My mum avoids my gaze and my dad opens his mouth as if to speak, but closes it again as words literally fail him.