by Hayley Doyle
Kit’s squinting, his arms folded, and he’s sitting right back in his chair. ‘I’m envisioning you still shacked up with Pot-Noodle-pothead … Ugh. Nah. Much prefer grieving girlfriend. It’s an all-round better look for you.’
‘Thanks, hun.’ I put my feet up on another chair crossed at the ankles; I’m sugared out. ‘Can I ask … Did you like Jack?’
‘I only met him once, didn’t I? That night you brought him here. It was boss.’
‘When Gareth got his old karaoke machine out! Such a dark horse.’
‘I told you then and I’ll tell you now, sis: I loved Jack. Thought he was great.’
‘There’s a sort of sick part of me that wishes you’d hated him.’
‘I can lie, if you want? I’m dead good at lying. Tara McNulty still thinks I’m straight.’
‘You took her big V.’
‘Eh? Don’t you mean she took mine?’ Kit shivers at the memory. ‘Jack though.’
‘Jack though.’
‘I loved how I instantly felt like I knew him, five minutes after meeting him. He commanded a room, didn’t he? But also made everyone in the room feel at ease. And you suited him. He wasn’t your usual type and I was like, hallelujah!’
‘Makes me wonder. I think a lot of people have that opinion of Jack – not to belittle what you just said, but he had that gift. Warmth, familiarity. Maybe what me and him shared wasn’t so special, you know – maybe it was just that I felt special ’cause he was so capable of making me – or, people in general – feel that way. Maybe everyone felt special around him.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Guess I’ll never know.’
Mabel starts yapping and Kit grabs some treats for her. She licks them from his palm. Gareth pops his head around the kitchen door, sweat dripping from his forehead.
‘I thought you were working?’ Kit asks.
‘It’s Saturday,’ Gareth defends himself.
‘Come here and gis a sweaty kiss.’
‘I’m getting in the shower.’
‘You came all the way downstairs to announce you’re getting a shower?’
‘Nope. I came all the way downstairs to see if you’re okay.’
‘I’m amazing.’
‘Not you. Her.’
I’m nervous Gareth’ll see the Jacob’s cracker box, burn holes in its side with his gorgeous eyes. They’re the sort of eyes that change colour depending on what he’s wearing. Right now, they’re green and mystical.
‘I’m not great,’ I admit.
‘You’re going to be, though. One day soon,’ Gareth smiles.
‘Have you had your teeth whitened?’ I ask him.
‘Thanks for noticing, Chloe. Did you hear that, Kit?’
‘You got your teeth whitened?’ Kit gasps. ‘How much did that cost?’
Gareth runs away, his shower awaiting. Mabel gives a little bark and Kit lets her run up the stairs after him. He offers me another dip into the Jacob’s cracker box, but I’m done. He sneaks a white chocolate piece out for himself and puts the box back into the tins cupboard.
‘Look, sis. I know I told Gareth off for saying it earlier, but I’m really sorry the whole Thailand thing didn’t work out for you.’
‘Agh, well. It’s brought me home, hasn’t it?’
‘Erm! A small affair called my wedding, I think you’ll find, has brought you home.’
I give a little laugh, although Kit was expecting more. I can see he’s desperate to get his sister back. I want that, too. I lean against the window, watch the rain dancing down. It’s so inoffensive. It gets disliked for ruining a British summer’s day, or, God forbid, a weekend. But it’s not harming anybody. At least the grass will be greener tomorrow.
‘Maybe I should move back …’
‘I wanna say yay! I never wanted you to move to London.’
‘I didn’t just go to London to be with Jack, you know. He was the main reason, of course, but I knew it was the right move ’cause I’d exhausted here. I love Liverpool, but I wasn’t moving forward and it seemed everybody else was steaming ahead. I mean, I was still going to pubs I went to twenty years ago. And it was boss. But the people I liked and hung out with, well, they all started staying in, having kids and I tried to make new friends but it’s hard to give yourself a fresh start in the same place.’
‘And it didn’t help that the school you were working in was fucking miles away!’
‘Right! God, I don’t miss that commute on the M62.’
‘Builder’s?’ Kit asks. There are a few drops of elderflower left in my glass.
I nod and he jumps up to flick the kettle on.
‘Should I come home?’
‘Ah, I’m the wrong person to ask, sis. You know me answer to that.’
My heart swells and in this moment, I feel lucky. Loved. It’s not the love I’ve lost or the love I crave, but it’s still love. And I have it, in abundance.
‘But,’ Kit says, raising his hands as if I’m about to punch him, ‘you can’t stay here. I mean, you can stay here tonight, but after that, you’ve gotta go to Mum and Dad’s.’
‘That’s me plan, don’t worry.’
‘I feel awful – I mean, you’ve had the whole tragic Jack thing and the whole stupid London thing and the whole sad holiday thing and now I’m turfing you out. But the blow-up bed’s broke and Gareth hates anyone sleeping on the sofa, he’s got this weird thing about other people’s feet touching his stuff—’
‘I know about the foot thing.’
‘Hold on, we’ve got a tent. You’re more than welcome to sleep in the garden?’
‘Kit. Stop. I wanna go to Mum and Dad’s. I wanna go home.’
‘Okay. Wow. Weird. But okay.’
He hands me a boiling hot mug, teabag still in the water and enough milk for a bowl of cereal. My brother has many talents and tea-making ain’t one of them. I’m reminded of nine-year-old Kit making us Roscoes a cuppa for the first time. It was Mother’s Day. Bet my mum regrets biting her tongue, pretending it was the best tea she’d ever had. But I love this terrible cuppa. It’s consistent, and that’s just what I need.
I sip. ‘Can we watch Three Men and a Little Lady now?’
‘Thought you’d never ask.’
24
My dad insisted on picking me up from our Kit’s this morning. I can’t tell you how excited I am about the fact that it’s Sunday, and I’m home; my mum will be cooking a roast.
‘Alright, Tilly Mint,’ he sings through the open window of his taxi.
‘Not working today?’ I ask, bending down to give him a kiss before hurling my suitcase into the boot. To avoid paying someone else double time, my dad always likes to work Sundays.
‘I started early. You’re me last pick-up of the day.’
‘Well, I hope you’re not charging me, Dad.’
‘Never in a million years, my love. Your mum’s booked a table at The Pheasant.’
‘Who for?’ I ask, pulling the seatbelt across me.
‘Who’d you think? Us.’
No. I’m not going to The Pheasant. It’s one of those pubs owned by a brewery chain, does a carvery, that sort of thing. Me and Beth used to work there at weekends during sixth form, and no. Not today. I’m going home, having a long bath and watching Netflix on my laptop in bed. My dad can grab me something from the chippy if my mum won’t cook.
‘Kit never mentioned anything about going for a meal,’ I say.
‘Kit’s not coming,’ my dad says.
‘Neither am I.’
‘You have to, my love. Your mum’s invited your nan.’
We pull up outside the house I grew up in. There’s a single balloon on the front door, a plain blue one, visible behind the glass porch. The big glass porch. Back in the eighties, lots of families on our street got a porch built. The houses are all identical three-bedroom semis, a little lawn in the front and a nice square garden in the back. We live on the corner, meaning once my dad’s taxi business started doing alright, instead
of moving to a slightly bigger house, my mum and dad just kept building on the one they already had. We’ve had the kitchen extended and a roof conversion, too, but it was the porch that came first. It resembles a conservatory, although don’t get me started on the actual conservatory. It almost caused a divorce. Bird-poo-gate is still a touchy subject to this day.
‘Welcome home!’ my mum shouts from the porch.
Inside the hall, a piece of paper stuck to the banister with Sellotape has Welcome Home Chloe written in felt-tip pen. Mum probably found the pen in a cupboard in my old room. This confirms that the single blue balloon isn’t left over from a party, but is, in fact, for me.
‘I didn’t wanna make a big fuss,’ my mum says.
‘You didn’t need to make any fuss, Mum.’
‘Now, go on. Up the stairs, get ready, love. We’re leaving in an hour and they don’t wait for latecomers in The Pheasant, you know. We’ll lose the table if we don’t get there on time,’ my mum says. This is a fabrication conceived entirely in her own head.
‘I’m not coming.’
‘You bloody well are.’
‘Kit’s not.’
‘Kit’s busy.’
‘No, he’s not. He’s eating pizza in bed with Gareth.’
‘He’s got a wedding to plan.’
‘It’s all planned.’
‘Are you going to be this difficult every day, Chloe, or just today?’
My dad comes in and shuts the door. He does a stupid dance in the hall and sings about Tilly Mint coming home to the tune of the ‘Three Lions’ song. My nan appears from the living room, all five foot nothing of her, seething. She’s had her hair set this morning, I can tell from the waft of lacquer.
‘Less of the singing, Bernie,’ she says. ‘If anyone’s gonna sing around here, it’s Chloe.’
My nan thinks I’m a brilliant singer, although she hasn’t heard me sing anything since I was eight. Every year, she tells me to go on X Factor. Every year, I have to come up with a fresh excuse as to why this will never, ever, ever happen. I get a flash of singing in Hoi An, Justin on the guitar. No. Go away.
‘Chloe’s not coming The Pheasant with us,’ my mum says slowly, as if I’m a toddler and she’s attempting reverse psychology.
‘The Pheasant? What we going all the way there for?’ my nan asks.
‘Family meal,’ my mum protests. ‘It’s Sunday.’
‘Just go to Tesco and get a cooked chicken,’ my nan suggests.
‘We’re going The Pheasant.’
‘Well, Chloe’s not.’
‘She is.’
‘I don’t wanna go The Pheasant,’ my nan states, hands on hips. ‘Bernie, go and get a cooked chicken.’
‘From Tesco?’ my dad asks.
My mum unsticks my welcome home banner and starts fanning herself with it.
‘I’ve told Carol we’d meet her there,’ she says.
‘Carol’s not family,’ I remind her.
‘She’s been a fabulous support since … you know.’
‘No, Mum. Since what?’
‘Since Jack died,’ my mum whispers.
I roll my eyes, start heading up the stairs.
‘I thought we weren’t mentioning Jack?’ my nan asks.
‘Everyone! Ready to leave in an hour!’ my mum shouts, then takes a breath, lowering her voice in fear of the neighbours hearing. ‘I won’t say it again.’
My dad tells her he’s ready, but she tells him to change his jeans. My nan asks him to put the Corrie omnibus on for her and my mum tells him to do that first and change his jeans straight after. I drop down onto my old bed, head-first into an explosion of gingham. Any second now, my mum will barge in and tell me to get my shoes off the duvet, it’s not a door mat. And I’ll give her the finger as she walks away.
I feel like the old me. Well, the seventeen-year-old me anyway.
*
The Pheasant is on the outskirts of town, close to the motorway. If you get a seat by the right window, you get a view of nice green fields with the odd horse, otherwise, it’s a grey mass of traffic around Junction 7.
‘I haven’t been here since dropping you off for work all those years ago,’ my dad says, turning into a free parking space.
‘Such a liar, Bernie,’ my mum accuses. ‘We came here for our Val’s fortieth.’
‘Mum, I was the waitress that served you,’ I say. ‘And you never tipped me.’
‘Bloody hell,’ my mum ponders. ‘Where does the time go?’
The brewery chain has changed since I worked here, no doubt more than once, but walking through the entrance doors really does drive home my mum’s words. Where does the time go? Yeah, the decor’s been updated, cool greys having replaced the nineties pink and turquoise, but it’s the same. I feel as though I could charge straight through the swinging door into the kitchen, hang up my jacket and apologise for running late, hoping the chef on starters winks at me. I always fancied him, even though he had a kid with another waitress.
I message Beth.
I’m at The Pheasant!
We’re taken to our reserved table, where there are fields in view, but Tesco is also clear in the distance. Carol’s already waiting for us in another of her sequin tops. I can tell my mum disapproves, thinks it’s too much for a Sunday afternoon – unlike my jeggings and t-shirt, which isn’t enough. Carol breaks the news to us all that The Pheasant carvery no longer exists, but that the menu is extensive, with gluten-free options. My nan reminds us that we should’ve got a cooked chicken from Tesco.
‘Oh, Chloe,’ Carol says, coughing, clearing her throat. She holds out her arms and my mum pushes me into them. ‘Come here. That’s it, that’s it. I’m so sorry about your fella, what an absolute tragedy. Taken too soon.’
‘We’re not mentioning Jack,’ my nan says, shaking off her teal mac and handing it to my dad.
‘Carol,’ my mum says. ‘I did tell you who Jack’s mum is, didn’t I?’
‘Yeah, the one who went in the jungle last year?’
My dad corrects her. ‘No. Not her. The other one.’
‘Oh! I thought she was the one who went in the jungle.’
A waitress rescues my dad from hovering with my nan’s coat, offering to hang it up, and he calls her a cracker. She brings over huge menus, two-foot tall and double sided. My nan says ‘bloody hell’ rather than thanks. A long conversation follows about what everybody’s going to order. Carol could easily eat four, maybe five things off the menu; my mum’s disgusted at the price of the Sunday roasts. My nan mentions chicken again, from Tesco, and my dad says he’s going to the bar to order a pint. My mum tells him to sit down, he’s driving, but I offer to drive home and my mum tells him to order her and Carol a double gin and tonic each.
‘Is everybody getting a starter?’ Carol asks.
‘No,’ my nan answers for us all.
As it turns out, we all order the fish and chips.
‘You can’t go wrong with fish and chips, can you, my love?’ my dad tells the waitress.
Carol nips out for a ciggie.
‘So are you gonna get one of those flats – sorry, apartments – in town again, like you had before you moved to London?’ my dad asks.
‘She can live with us as long as she likes, Bernie,’ my mum snaps.
‘Oh, I know that love. Goes without saying.’
‘I mean, I’ve never known a thirty-six-year-old woman to still live at home, but hey-ho.’
‘I have,’ my nan says. ‘Marjorie Hughes. You know, helps in the church. Never married until she was fifty-two. You’ve got plenty of time, Chloe.’
‘Thanks, Nan.’
‘You gonna contact the local schools?’ my mum asks me, clearly itching for one of Carol’s ciggies. ‘For work?’
‘Not sure yet.’
‘Bernie. Speak to her.’
My dad shifts in his seat. ‘Listen here, Tilly Mint. Your mum’s only trying to help.’
I know what would’ve helped. A home-cooked
roast; proper roasties, cauliflower cheese, stuffing, the lot. Even frozen Yorkshires. I could’ve eaten it in my pyjamas, in silence. My body aches for my bed – my bed – the one where I can hide and be stroppy and only nip downstairs for peanut butter on toast. Maybe even get the peanut butter on toast made for me and brought up on a tray with a glass of fresh orange and a KitKat.
‘I might quit teaching,’ I throw out there.
‘WHY?’ my mum shouts, then remembers herself and hisses. ‘Why?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say. Because I don’t.
Part of me wants as little responsibility as possible – my first step to feeling free from the hell I’m in. I’d mentioned this last night to our Kit and Gareth. At first, they both told me I was going through a process and I told them to go fuck themselves. I asked Kit what he’d do if Gareth died and he said he’d kill himself. Obviously this answer wasn’t very helpful, but it shut them up; and they’re now both supporting my decisions. Whatever they may be.
‘You should go on that X Factor,’ my nan suggests.
Carol returns and the food arrives. We’re all overwhelmed by the size of the battered fish on each plate and my nan says she’ll never eat all that, she could’ve done with half. I wish I hadn’t offered to drive; the gin and tonics look so appealing right now, in ice-cold goldfish bowls on glass sticks. But my phone lights up and Beth has replied.
The Pheasant?! What the hell you doin there? xxx
Mum forced me.
Ah. xxx
My mum tells me to put my phone away and my dad tells her to leave me alone. I’m really enjoying the fish and chips, actually, and squeeze an extra dollop of tartare sauce onto my plate. My dad’s just realised he knows the fella on the next table. They used to work on the taxis years ago, before my dad got his own business. We all say hello to him and his family, ooh and ahh at his grandson in the highchair making a right mess of a bowl of chips. For some reason, my mum thinks she needs to explain the state of me and tells this family I’m usually more chirpy, more well-dressed, but I’m grieving my boyfriend. They’re extremely sympathetic and say God bless. I know this pleases my mum. A lot.
‘I don’t think I look that bad, Mum,’ I say. ‘If anything, I’m just hungover.’