‘It might be a bit advanced,’ says Tashi, and I know she doesn’t intend to sound offensive. ‘Just tune into what’s happening outside you. Listen to the sound of a silent room.’ Tashi closes her eyes; I do the same and for fifteen minutes I listen to the sound of my growling stomach.
I decide to walk home from work; not for exercise, just to lengthen the amount of time between being in one place and another, to have some space to be nowhere. As I walk, I think about Tashi, how serene she looked sitting on that scratchy carpet. Perhaps I’m the one who has it all wrong. I used to describe myself as a spiritual person but what I think I meant by that was my life was kind of OK and I was content to attribute that to some unknowable force in the world. When my life began to lose the shape I was comfortable with, any affinity with the universe was lost. When I was a child my grandmother would sometimes take me along to her church. My mother would take me to her flat the day before and I would sleep alongside my grandma, staying awake as long as I could so I could listen to her snoring, loud and strong. In the morning we would take two buses to attend the service in a chapel that looked not dissimilar to three others we would pass along the way. One Sunday I asked my grandmother why she went so far. Was the word of God not the same word at the church round the corner? Grandma said she liked the pastor’s sermon, which was only more baffling because his weekly offerings were so dark – full of sin and damnation, never failing to remind us all that we were one misstep from the fiery pits of hell. ‘Remind me why I need ’im,’ she said. I guess I get it now; she wanted to be assured that she had something to protect her from all the fucked-up shit in the world. I wish I could go to her now, so she could protect me.
Mum and Dad are watching a show set in a hospital when I arrive back, neither of them looking up when I enter the room. I watch them for a few moments, enthralled by a clumsy romantic scene. I’m struck by how comfortable they are, with their lives and themselves. I chastise myself for wanting more, for harbouring such ridiculous dreams for so long and letting the inevitable implosion shake me so much. I should have aimed for so much less – trust and companionship. So much less but so much more. I whisper that I’m going upstairs and close the living room door behind me.
4) Must be spiritually aware. Not necessarily religious but have values and a belief system.
Marthashotbod: Do you believe in God?
Undeterred83: Nah.
Marthashotbod: What do you believe in?
Undeterred83: I’ve never thought about it.
Marthashotbod: No time like the present.
Undeterred83: Maybe but I’m a bit pissed.
Marthashotbod: OK, have a great night.
Undeterred83: :) :) :)
I can’t judge him for that. We can’t always be in touch with our spiritual side and who doesn’t like a drink? In fact, I would quite like to be drunk right now. Dad has a pretty decent collection of whisky stashed in the back of the larder. I can’t find anything to mix it with so I chuck a good few measures and a carton of apple juice into a pitcher and discover it makes a reasonably palatable cocktail. On an empty stomach I feel the effects quite quickly and I wonder if this dinner choice means I have a ‘problem’. I decide that I’m the problem and within this jug lies the solution. I once read that drug addicts of any variety aren’t seeking oblivion but connection. And if this is true it makes sense that ever since the invention of the telephone excessive drinking results in one common occurrence – drunk dialling.
He answers just as I am making the decision to end the call.
‘Hey,’ I say.
‘You good?’ Alexander asks.
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I say carefully.
‘Why are you ringing?’ he asks, and I remember I have to have a reason to now.
‘I’m just ringing to check on Moses. I miss him.’ It’s true.
‘Yeah,’ says Alexander, and I hear his voice relax, ‘took ages to get him off. He kept saying horsey.’
I smile even though he can’t see me. ‘That’s the little plastic one; it’s in his bag. He takes it to bed now.’
‘Really? That sounds uncomfortable.’ I am enjoying Alexander’s amused confusion. I can imagine him scrunching up his nose as he does when he’s trying to understand something or someone.
‘If it ain’t broke,’ I say.
‘Whatever the man wants,’ says Alexander. ‘I’ll get one for mi—, here. In case we forget it one day. You were right about him staying over more often. We’ll make it happen.’ I nearly miss the last part, I’m so floored by the fact that he nearly said ‘mine’ for our flat, by how easily it came to him.
‘I feel a bit lost,’ I say. Alexander is quiet and I want to take the words back. I’m reminded of trying to pour wine back into a bottle and then I remember my cocktail and serve myself another glass.
‘You’ll find your way,’ he says eventually. I’m happy he has faith in me. ‘I think you can do anything you can put your mind to. You just have to put your mind to something.’ I laugh and Alexander says, ‘Anything,’ and I know he’s taking the piss out of me and it feels really good because he’s taking the piss out of me in a way that only someone who really knows you can. ‘I’m sorry about what I said in the car the other day,’ he says. ‘I didn’t mean it.’ I nod, forgetting for a second he can’t see me.
When he doesn’t fill the silence, I whisper, ‘Yeah.’
‘I mean it,’ he says, ‘I wouldn’t change anything.’ My breath shortens but then he adds, ‘Moses is the best thing that ever happened to me.’
‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘Moses, yeah, of course.’
‘I better go, though,’ Alexander says. It takes me a few seconds to understand the conversation is over because nearly all our conversations are over. He’s there for me but he’s very much not.
‘Is it Moses?’ I ask.
‘No, he’s fine. Gotta go.’
‘Bye,’ I say, long after he has disconnected.
I have a sensation, sort of like I’m falling. I lie down to try and steady myself. I had been so focused on the ending of our relationship that I didn’t realize the magnitude of what I would have to take on – creating a new home; forging a stable career. Had I truly understood the path I was setting out for myself, I can’t be sure I would have made the same choice.
I am unaware of the process of completing this thought, falling asleep and then waking up again, but this must be what has occurred because I find myself lying in the dark, my clothes twisted uncomfortably on my body and my stomach calling for attention. I change into Dad’s old dressing gown and creep downstairs. I think I spotted a pavlova in the fridge earlier. The light switch isn’t quite where I remember it to be and it takes me a few tries to illuminate the room. When I do, thoughts of pavlova vanish and all the air leaves my body to force out a noise in the same family as a scream.
‘Bleurrrrrgh! Yeurgh! God! Why?’ Sitting at the kitchen table, face calm, rollers still in, is my mother. ‘For fuck’s sake, Mum, are you trying to kill me?’ My mother doesn’t move.
‘You’ll wake your dad, and don’t say fuck,’ she says. I sit opposite her. She looks so much older than I remember. I feel a flutter of fear that I’ve been asleep a very long time.
‘Mother, neither of those things would be an issue if you weren’t hiding in the dark like a deranged person. What’s going on? Is this early dementia? Sorry, I mean, you can’t ask a person with dementia if they have dementia.’ I feel sick. I’m not in a position to take on the care of my deteriorating mother, although it would explain some things. Mum tuts.
‘I’m not mad or senile. I just couldn’t sleep.’
‘Why not?’ My mother is so happy, at least with herself. I can’t think of a reason why she wouldn’t be able to fall into a tranquil, dream-filled sleep each evening.
‘I don’t know. It’s been that way since you were born.’ Fabulous, I think, another thing I’ve fucked up. Mum reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. ‘Nothing to do with you. You were perfect, sl
ept through from about six weeks, but I still couldn’t rest. Felt I always had to be ready for something.’
‘What?’ I ask, hoping perhaps she will impart something that will give me wisdom or at least understanding.
‘I don’t bloody know,’ she says. ‘If I knew I’d be ready for it.’ I feel so tired I want to weep. Even my mother, a woman who makes an art form out of self-satisfaction, is looking for something. I’m devastated by the possibility that maybe I’ll never find the answer; maybe there is no answer. It might just be the case that life, love and all the rest of it is just some omnipotent force’s huge practical joke.
‘Are you happy, Mum?’ I ask.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘What other choice do I have?’
I pull my hand away from her. ‘Loads,’ I say, ‘life can be really, really shitty.’ As I say it, I feel it, and a hard knot forms in my throat.
‘I know,’ Mum says softly. ‘You know what I do when I think that?’ She leaves her chair and goes to the little digital radio that lives by the sink. I watch her play with the buttons until she is satisfied and I hear a man, with the low, smooth voice that all eighties DJs were required to have, introduce, ‘Another great tune from the time when tunes were great.’ Cheryl Lynn’s ‘Got To Be Real’ starts to play and Mum walks towards me with her arms outstretched. I shake my head, embarrassed, even with an invisible audience. Mum refuses to accept my protest. She grabs my hands and pulls me to my feet. Still holding my hands, she starts to step from side to side, pulling me into her rhythm as I remember her doing with me when we would attend family weddings in my childhood. It doesn’t take long for me to succumb to the music and her mood and I start to match her pace before spinning her under my arm, causing her to laugh and lose her balance and cling on to me for support. Mum regains her composure and starts to roll her shoulders and tap her heels; I can imagine her thirty years ago, lost in music, owning a dance floor in a sweaty club. I do a few body rolls and Mum cocks her head at me.
‘Oh, you got moves, have you?’
‘Looks like it,’ I say. She clicks her fingers along to the beat and I join in. Then we both strut around the kitchen, pulling poses when the lyric inspires it. For a few minutes, it’s just my mother, the music and me. And that’s how the sunrise finds us, barefoot in the kitchen, dancing to funk in our dressing gowns.
30
PATRICIA HAS RESTARTED her phone campaign. She leaves me several voicemails reminding me that I can only have my mentorship deferred if I stump up the cash and finally she sends me a text message that reads, ‘UPDATE ME ON YOUR PERSONAL DEVELOPMENT. HAVE YOU GONE BACK TO BEING THE TYPE OF GIRL THAT DOESN’T PAY HER DEBTS?’ I call Tashi and beg her to swap a shift with me. She tells me that she needs the cash to attend a karmic cleansing workshop but I convince her that her karma will be far improved by giving me her shift.
The evening shift is much livelier than any other; many of the staff in are students making extra beer money, and you can tell they’re under the misguided belief that amazing things await them. It helps being somewhere where I know what I’m doing, and I breeze through the clients and even manage to sound something approximating chirpy. Towards the end of my shift Bob comes over to tell me he has noticed the additional hours I’ve been putting in. ‘It’s great when staff don’t have a social life,’ he says, which I think is the closest I will ever get to a ‘well done’ from him.
After he has strolled off to find someone else to torment, Greg says, ‘Let’s show him who doesn’t have a social life – wanna go for a pint?’
‘You don’t have a social life, Greg; you’re always here.’ Greg colours a little. ‘Anyway, I’m exhausted,’ I say. I am and also I haven’t heard from George for three days. This fact is like a toothache, taunting me throughout the day.
‘Just one,’ says Greg. When he says this he bats his eyelids in an exaggerated way that makes me laugh.
‘OK,’ I say, ‘let me clean up.’ I go to the ladies’ and send George a quick message asking how he is. I don’t get a response, so I wash my hands and leave. Greg is waiting in the hallway with his head leaned back against the wall and his eyes closed; he looks as tired as I feel. I tap him on the arm and he springs to life.
‘Are you sure you wanna go? You look knackered.’
Greg rubs his face. ‘I’m a dad. This is how I look.’
I link arms with him. ‘Right, let’s do this.’
We walk to the Foragers, where a pub quiz is in full swing. ‘We should start a team,’ says Greg. ‘Stop us from going brain-dead.’ I think about how pedestrian it would be to finish up at the call centre and then go to a pub quiz every week and shudder. ‘What you drinking?’ asks Greg.
‘Surprise me,’ I say.
Greg goes to the bar. I can’t hear the conversation he has with the bar lady but at one point she reaches over the bar and slaps him playfully on the arm. She looks happy. I don’t know her, I’ve never seen her in my life, but I’m envious of her ease. She may be crawling through the depths of a metaphorical hell but if she is it’s not evident. Maybe it’s that simple. I make a little promise to myself that I will be happy and if not be happy, look it.
Greg comes back and puts a drink in front of me.
‘What is it?’ I ask.
‘Gin and tonic,’ he says.
‘That’s not much of a surprise,’ I say. I rest my chin against my hands. ‘Is that how you think of me?’
‘What do you mean?’ asks Greg as he settles in his seat. He looks pleased; I can tell he’s gearing up for a debate. I recognize the excitement – when you spend a lot of time conversing with children some adult banter is light relief.
‘Well, gin and tonic, it’s so, I don’t know, so obvious. It’s predictable.’
Greg takes a sip of his own gin. ‘Sometimes that’s nice though, right? Sometimes it feels good to know what’s coming.’ I think about this as I have a bit of my own drink. It tastes good – familiar.
‘I want a combination, I think. A bit of the expected but something to keep you on your toes.’
‘All right, gin and Coke next time?’ asks Greg.
‘Bleurgh, no way.’
‘See,’ says Greg, ‘unpredictable isn’t always as good as it sounds.’
‘Is that why you work at Fairfax?’ I say. ‘You like saying the same thing over and over again?’
Greg makes a face like he’s smelt something really bad. ‘Sometimes I have to count the minutes in pounds. Like, two hours: that’s school lunches for the week.’
‘But you always sound so into it,’ I tell him.
Greg shrugs. ‘It’s not the customers’ fault I don’t know what to do with my life.’
‘What did you plan to do?’ I ask.
‘I never really had a plan,’ says Greg. ‘My mum was – still is – an alcoholic. I was focused on making sure the younger ones were OK and then as soon as I could get out, I got out.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. I am. Greg’s a nice guy, the sort of guy that deserves to have a dream. ‘What would you do if you could do anything in the world?’ I ask.
‘Be Beyoncé’s foot cushion.’
‘Foot cushion? Aim higher, love! Not even pillow?’
‘Thanks for your encouragement,’ says Greg.
‘Any time,’ I say.
‘What about you?’ asks Greg. ‘What would you do if I could wave my magic wand and make it happen? Hang on.’ Greg pats his pockets. ‘Shit, I left it at home.’
My car crash of a gig comes back to me in high definition. ‘I have no idea,’ I say.
‘Well, you know that’s the best place to be,’ says Greg. ‘You’re free to do anything. I could put a word in with Beyoncé; you could be her flannel or something.’
‘Not sure I have the skills,’ I say.
‘Aw well, you’ll work it out,’ says Greg, in a way that makes me think he believes it. We both fall silent and after a few seconds Greg leans over to a guy on the next table and says, ‘Aha, mate.’
<
br /> ‘What?’ says the man, which is exactly my sentiment.
‘The answer. It’s a-ha, the band.’
‘Oh, right. Of course it is. Obvious when you know it,’ says the guy. ‘Cheers!’ He turns and tells the other men at his table and they all smile and give Greg thumbs up.
‘Maybe you could build a career out of knowing obscure pub quiz answers,’ I say.
‘Been there, done that,’ says Greg. The next question starts a furious debate from the guys at the next table, and it’s my turn to lean over.
‘“Fight For This Love”,’ I say, and the men turn to me. ‘Cheryl Cole’s first number one single.’ The men cheer.
‘We need you,’ a large blond guy says to me. ‘If we get all the answers from you and you don’t join our team, we’ll be cheating.’ Greg and I look at each other and silently agree. The blond pulls out a chair for me and the two other guys pat Greg on the back as we sit down.
‘I’m Jimmy,’ says the blond. ‘We’ve been coming here for years and haven’t won so much as a lollipop.’
‘Come on then,’ says Greg. ‘Let’s do this!’ He puts his hand in towards the centre of the table; we each pile one of our own on top of his and, instinctively, all make a caveman-like grunt.
We storm the music round; Greg has an encyclopaedic knowledge of the eighties and I have the cheesy pop artists covered. Up next is sport so I offer to get the drinks in; when I get back from the bar our new teammates are all completely entranced by Greg, who’s telling them a story about a time he performed a citizen’s arrest on a cricket team mascot. ‘I had to keep smiling so the kids would think I was hugging Fergy and not catch on that he was a violent cokehead.’ The guys all laugh; I can tell they really like Greg.
For the first time I consider Greg as a potential romantic candidate, or more specifically I wonder if he finds me attractive. I subtly undo another button on my shirt. The guys all say thanks for the drinks and Greg winks at me. The final round is about Brighton. Greg and I are both born and bred, an anomaly in this transient town, and we impress the table with our local know-how. It feels good to be the one in control for once.
The Single Mum's Wish List Page 20