More Than a Mum

by Charlene Allcott

  ‘I’m a woman with my own home and a pension plan. I’m hardly cute.’

  ‘We’ll have to agree to disagree,’ he said, shifting on to his side to take my face in his hand. I knew what was coming, of course I did, and I had enough time to stop it – to laugh, to turn away, to remember the promises I had made – but I didn’t take the time. I let him run his thumb across my cheek, draw me towards him and kiss me.

  Too soon he stopped. He pulled me on top of him and wrapped his arms around my back. ‘That feels good.’ He traced light circles down my spine. ‘Sometimes I feel like I’m going to float away.’ I paused because I wasn’t sure if he was making a joke, and before I could respond I felt his body go slack as he gave in to sleep. I was tired but I stayed awake for what felt like hours; I wanted to have it committed to memory. I wanted to be able to bring to mind how it felt to be held by him whenever I needed it.

  I eased the front door closed and took my shoes off in the hallway. Despite my efforts to remain undetected, my mother called out to me.

  ‘What time do you call this?!’ Then she cackled because she didn’t care what time it was. She never had. As a teenager, if I came home from a party before midnight, she wouldn’t hide her disappointment. I went to the living room where she sat on the sofa, blankets on the floor beside her and a half-empty bottle of pink gin on the coffee table. I fell into an armchair.

  ‘Had a good time, Mum?’ She wiped under her eyes.

  ‘Hardly. The girls went to bed ridiculously early and Dylan disappeared after one drink, so on my own again.’ She sang the last part, her personal jingle. I had been hearing it for a lifetime, her insistence that everyone would leave her and, to be fair, her fears weren’t completely unfounded – a father and two husbands down, she was primed for abandonment. When I went to university, I phoned her daily to check she was coping; luckily, she’s always had booze to keep her company. ‘How about you? Any gossip?’ Mum pushed her white-blonde hair from her face and her eyes glistened with anticipation.

  ‘I went to a boring work event. Got stuck in town and spent a night on Betty’s lumpy sofa bed.’ Mum looked disappointed and I felt it. I wanted to tell her about my evening with Frank; denying it made it feel less real.

  When I’d woken up that morning I was no longer in his arms, and what had felt cosy and sweet the night before seemed sordid. I’d always hated the expectations placed on mothers by society, but even I had to admit that pulling all-nighters with men they’d just met was something good mothers didn’t do. I left Frank sleeping as I picked up my shoes and bag. I thought about leaving my number on the club’s stationery but decided it was best to leave things as they were. I wish that was because I thought it wrong to maintain contact but, in truth, I didn’t want to deal with how it would feel if he didn’t get in touch. Mum would have loved to hear about my evening. She’d ask the right questions and make me describe Frank in forensic detail. She probably wouldn’t judge me, and part of me thought I needed to be judged.

  ‘How were the girls?’

  ‘Chloe was a delight. She made me watch her perform this play she wrote. It was very dark, almost everyone died. Ruby was not a happy bunny. She barely looked up from her computer pad thingy. Seems to be hitting moody teens really early.’ I pulled my feet up underneath me. I felt very tired.

  ‘It’s like she went to bed my little girl and woke up a full-blown diva. Tell me I wasn’t that bad?’

  Mum laughed. ‘Darling, you were worse. I was living with a demon. A demon with spots all over her chin.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum.’

  ‘Aw.’ She came and squidged herself next to me before pulling my head into her chest and squeezing it a little too hard. ‘I’m trying to help. We all go through this. Welcome to motherhood.’

  ‘Didn’t I start that thirteen years ago?’

  ‘Yes, but this is where the fun starts.’ I groaned. ‘Remember when you were in love with your geography teacher and you sent him that letter?’ I pushed her away so I could look at her.

  ‘Yes, but how do you know about that?’

  ‘I read it in your diary.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Mum. That’s such an invasion of privacy.’ She forced my head back on to her chest.

  ‘There are no secrets between a mother and her daughter.’ I tried to push thoughts of Frank from my mind, in case there was any truth in what she said.

  I left Mum watching a cookery programme and went to make coffee. Snapshots of the previous night kept working into my consciousness. It must have made me smile because, as I felt Dylan’s arms reach round my waist, he whispered, ‘Someone’s happy.’ I turned to face him and found myself caged between the counter and his chest. His face looked contented and sleepy. His proximity made me uncomfortable. I marvelled at how skilled he was at doing the right thing at exactly the wrong time.

  ‘It’s good to be home.’

  ‘Long night?’

  ‘Just unexpected.’

  ‘Sometimes it’s nice to have the odd surprise, eh?’ I pecked him quickly, hoping it might lead to my release.

  ‘No. I hate surprises. Don’t ever get any ideas.’ Dylan moved in closer to me.

  ‘And there was me planning this huge shebang for your fortieth.’

  ‘That’s still years away.’

  ‘That’s how big the surprise is.’ I hit him on the arm and it stung my hand a little. I had forgotten how solid he was.

  ‘Piss off. I don’t want anything.’ He kissed my forehead.

  ‘But you deserve it.’ I felt my eyes sting and nuzzled my head into his shoulder to hide the excess emotion. He responded by picking me up and placing me on the counter so we were face to face. We kissed and it felt better than I remembered. He increased the pressure and I pulled away.

  ‘Got to brush my teeth.’ I pushed him back and eased on to the floor. ‘When you leaving?’ Dylan got two mugs from the cupboard and poured the coffee.

  ‘I cancelled. I wanted to make sure you were OK.’ I couldn’t stop the tears then.

  ‘You did?’ I went and kissed his face, his stubble grazing my chin.

  ‘Course I did, you sausage.’ He wiped away my tears. ‘So, Mickey’s coming over here for lunch.’ The spell was broken. I pushed him again, harder than I had planned, and he reached out to hold the worktop.

  ‘And I suppose I’ll have to cook for us all?’

  ‘I’ll do it if you like,’ he said. Dylan opened another cupboard and, after surveying it for a few seconds, pulled out two tins of beans triumphantly. I closed my eyes and swallowed down my frustration.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ I said.

  ‘Thanks, babe.’ He kissed me lightly on the nose before dumping sugar in his coffee.

  ‘Any time,’ I said, meaning all the time.

  I took a bath. I used my body scrub and the posh moisturizer I had been saving for something, never sure what the something might be. I scraped my hair back from my face and committed to leaving the bathroom with a better attitude.

  I cooked risotto because it needs constant supervision, giving me a reason to stare into a pan and become lost in my thoughts. I wanted to find a reason for the night we had, a lesson that would make me stronger. Without one I was just a selfish cow, a cheater, and not even a good one. I would have betrayed my husband for a few expensive drinks, a night of flirtation and a snog.

  8

  ‘DAD SAID TO ask if you wanted help.’ Ruby walked past me and slumped on to one of the kitchen chairs.

  ‘He did, did he? How kind of him.’ I squeezed a garlic clove in the press, imagining only briefly that it was Dylan’s head. ‘Do you want to help?’ I asked. Her top lip curled upwards.

  ‘You either need help or you don’t. Does it matter if the person wants to do it?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, of course it does,’ I said. I threw a chopping board on the counter. As it settled noisily, I turned to look at Ruby, who raised both her eyebrows – a new trick.

  ‘That’s really stupid.’ I
turned back and started to chop lettuce, slamming the cleaver down into the leaves.

  ‘Watch your tone,’ I said. Ruby didn’t respond. ‘Why wouldn’t you want to help me? I’m your mother – look how much I do for you.’ She sighed.

  ‘I thought you told me to be my own person. Don’t you want me to be a strong-minded woman or whatever.’ It stung to hear my words parroted back at me.

  ‘That’s different,’ I said quickly. ‘I was talking about standing up for yourself at school or around men, not disrespecting your mother.’ Ruby yawned effusively.

  ‘You can’t change the rules whenever you want,’ she said. I put down the knife. I wanted to shout that I could. I could change the rules because I made them; as far as she should be concerned I was the rules. But before I could say anything, Mickey’s face appeared round the doorframe.

  ‘Hello, my little gingersnap,’ he said.

  ‘Hi, Mick.’ The rest of him appeared, and he placed a bottle of Baileys and a bouquet of limp carnations on the already crowded worktop before giving me a messy kiss on the cheek. He glanced over at the hob.

  ‘Rice pudding?’

  ‘Risotto.’

  ‘So, savoury rice pudding.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said. I turned off the gas and threw the lettuce into a bowl, before upending a bag of cherry tomatoes on top. ‘Do you want a drink?’

  ‘Got any beer?’ I found one in the fridge and handed it to him. He took it and opened the bottle with his front teeth. Mickey ruffled Ruby’s hair before joining her at the table. In response she giggled; had it been me she would have snarled.

  ‘Grub’s up!’ I shouted. Mum, Dylan and Chloe filed in. Mickey stretched out his arm.

  ‘Jacintha, you beauty, come sit by me.’ Mum quickly followed his instruction.

  ‘What are you doing with yourself, Michael?’ she asked. Everyone turned to listen and left me to put out the plates and cutlery.

  ‘Bit of this, bit of that – you know how I roll. I’m about to get into property.’

  ‘How?’ I said, taking the wobbly chair.

  ‘You know – do things up and flip them.’

  ‘Yeah, but how are you going to fund that?’ I tried not to sound too disbelieving. Mickey didn’t seem perturbed by my question.

  ‘I’ve got an investor,’ he said, as he dished himself out some risotto. I took the pan and gave Chloe some food. As I started to do the same for Ruby, she grabbed the ladle from me.

  ‘Where did you find them?’

  ‘In Marbella. Amazing broad. We met in Linekers, got to talking. She’s got some divorce money and wants to put it to good use.’

  ‘Are you seeing her?’ Dylan shot me a look, a request to stop or change direction. I wasn’t sure what was offensive about my question, so I ignored him. ‘You’re in a relationship with your business partner.’

  ‘Yeah, I guess. I mean, everyone wins.’

  ‘Did you see the game yesterday?’ asked Dylan. Mickey started to jabber enthusiastically about someone’s left foot and I stood up to get wine. I wasn’t sure why I was angry. The ease with which Mickey ricocheted from one disaster to another irked me, but I also was annoyed by this unknown woman, letting herself be seduced by a man and his unrealistic dreams. I felt like she was letting the side down.

  ‘Can I get some of that?’ asked Mum, looking at my glass.

  ‘Didn’t you have enough last night?’

  ‘Hair of the dog,’ she said. When I didn’t move she got herself a glass, pouring until the liquid settled dangerously close to the brim. Dylan and Mickey started planning a trip to a Millwall home game. Knowing Dylan no longer followed the football, his enthusiasm for the outing felt like a betrayal. If I suggested a restaurant he’d tell me he liked my cooking; if I asked him to the cinema he’d outline all the channels included in our Virgin Media package. When I confronted him on his choice to stay at home and create a permanent groove in the sofa, he joked that he was getting old – but at some point, it stopped feeling like a joke.

  ‘Game’s starting in half an hour,’ said Mickey. ‘If you girls don’t mind us hogging the telly for a bit?’

  ‘Why don’t you do us your play after dinner, Chlo?’ I said, carefully avoiding eye contact with him. Chloe’s reply was obscured by a mouthful of rice.

  ‘Don’t speak with your mouth full, honey,’ I said gently. She looked at me apologetically and swallowed.

  ‘I’m changing some of it but I can do it in a bit.’

  ‘That would be boss, darlin’,’ said Mickey, winking at her. I felt like telling him it was too soon to start his charm offensive on her. ‘Did I tell you about when I was acting?’ Mickey retold us the tale of his role (commonly referred to as ‘extra’) in a Guy Ritchie film. He waved his beer bottle around as he spoke. ‘I told Brad at the end of the shoot, this is gonna be your year, son, and he married that Jennifer Aniston not long after. Course, they didn’t last, but you can’t blame a man for wanting an upgrade. Am I right, mate?’ He winked at Dylan. It was my turn to shoot the warning look. Dylan smiled into his plate. ‘Thanks for the grub, beauty,’ Mickey said to me.

  ‘Mum, you haven’t eaten anything,’ Chloe said.

  ‘I’m not really hungry.’

  ‘Bit of a heavy night?’ Mickey wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. I stood up and loaded my unused plate in the dishwasher.

  ‘I’m getting some air,’ I said. I went out the front and stood on the doorstep, watching the neighbour’s cat play with an earthworm. A cold breeze made my arms goosepimple, but I didn’t want to go back for my coat. I took a few deep breaths, which for some reason made me feel even more tense. Perhaps Frank was right and I needed to take up smoking. A man I recognized vaguely from somewhere, perhaps the school gates or the post office queue, nodded a greeting as he passed. I returned the gesture and felt sad. I was so suburban. My life was small and ordinary when it could have been so different.

  I studied drama at university in Leeds and my aim was to end up on stage. I wasn’t chasing fame or money, although I assumed those things would come; I simply wanted to be good at my craft and have others recognize that. I’d starred in a production at college and the effort resulted in the best six months of my life – collaborating, planning, the heady crescendo of performance. I loved being on the stage but more than that I adored the lifestyle – sitting with the cast, feeling part of something. It was then that I tried smoking, during late-night discussions fuelled by cheap supermarket wine; it seemed fitting.

  During the first term of my degree I hoped to recreate that magic, and auditioned for a part in a play produced by the drama society. I managed to secure an inconsequential role and found that the theatre family I wanted to be a part of was seriously dysfunctional. Most conversations centred on how underused the individual initiating it felt they were. Our lead, a shrill Liverpudlian with an obvious eating disorder, would deride any scene she didn’t feature in, leaving me self-conscious and sullen for the duration of the run. In the end I felt that getting through it was achievement enough; I might have had talent but I wasn’t willing to endure the discomfort it would take to find out. I let the dream of glamour and curtain calls haunt me for a while, but then Dylan offered a new story – a happy family, a settled life, an easy one. I heard the door open behind me but couldn’t compel myself to turn and see who it was; I knew it wouldn’t be someone I wanted to see.

  ‘Did you get lost on the way to the bins?’ asked Dylan.

  ‘I wasn’t going to the bins.’

  ‘I know,’ he said softly. ‘It was supposed to be a joke.’

  ‘I’m not joking. I’m not taking the bin out again. I hate it. I hate how heavy it is. I hate that gross bin juice. I do enough. Can’t someone else take out the bin?’

  ‘I’ll do it.’ I looked at him then, so I could be sure he was listening.

  ‘But will you? You say you will but will you actually do it? Not because I ask you but because it’s full or it’s bin day.’

  ‘Yes.�
��

  ‘Do you even know when bin day is?’

  ‘Tuesday?’ I wanted to weep.

  ‘That was last year. They sent us a calendar. It’s Monday now.’

  ‘I’ll take the bins out Monday. First thing. Don’t worry about it, Nibs.’ Nibs is what Dylan had called me for over a decade. It started as Munchkin – because of my size, I assume. That was shortened to Munch. One pre-menstrual day I complained that Munch was too aggressive, not feminine enough, and he converted it to Nibbles, which eventually settled as Nibs. In the early days he would call me that and I would feel a rush of intimacy, especially when it happened in public. Sometimes I would catch a confused look from an acquaintance and secretly revel in the sense that we were excluding them, not because I enjoyed their isolation but because it highlighted our togetherness. That afternoon on the steps of our home, it irritated me. It was such an obvious attempt to crawl into my good graces and dismiss my complaints. I would have to worry about it, because if I didn’t no one else would.

  ‘Why did you invite Mickey over?’

  ‘Because I said I’d see him and I didn’t want to let him down, and I didn’t want to let you down either. It was a catch-22.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t really.’

  ‘Honestly, babe, I was trying to do the right thing.’

  ‘I know you were. It just wasn’t a catch-22.’ Dylan zipped up the hoodie he almost always wore on weekends. It was nearly threadbare, but no matter how many potential replacements I procured for him, he refused to part with it.