‘What do you care? You can’t make me!’ Tom slammed the phone down and stormed past Maggie and out across the yard. Maggie let out a slow breath as she watched him go. The teenage years were turbulent enough without having to wrestle with the worry of an alcoholic parent.
*
Tom made a good job of shoring up Colin’s gate. He was a dab hand at hammering in nails now. Some of his temper had likely been released on the job. He was extra quiet and it pained her to see him troubled. She took the axe and showed him how to chop up the large sections of tree trunk into fire-sized pieces. Not that she needed any firewood this time of year but she’d put it away for winter and chopping wood was a wonderful stress reliever. She left him to it while she went to check on dinner.
They ate in relative silence until Tom put his cutlery down.
‘Why won’t he agree to stop drinking?’
Maggie took a sip of water. ‘He needs to recognise for himself that he has a problem.’
‘Nearly killing yourself is a problem. Nearly decking an old lady is a problem.’ Tom was getting animated.
‘But he probably can’t remember any of it.’
Tom looked surprised. ‘Really?’
‘I doubt it.’
Tom leaned back in his chair. ‘How do I make him see what he’s doing?’
Maggie pondered the question. She knew too well that right now Paul would be focused on all his other issues because for him drinking wasn’t the problem. The alcohol provided his escape. ‘I’m not sure you can.’ She hadn’t meant it to sound so final.
Tom gave her a brief nod before picking up his knife and fork and finishing his dinner in silence. ‘That was really nice. My mum used to make cottage pie.’
‘Shepherd’s pie,’ said Maggie. ‘It was made with lamb. Cottage pie is with beef.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ said Tom.
‘They’re easy to make.’ Tom gave her a doubtful look. ‘I can show you anytime.’
‘Yeah, okay,’ he said clearing the table.
*
Two nights turned into two weeks. They spent their time in a companionable silence reading their respective books. It was what they did after he’d done some revision – it was an easy routine they had slotted into. Reading with a brief interval for drinks, tea for her and Coke for him, and a discussion about the latest book club read that Maggie was enjoying. She studied the edge of the paperback. ‘I’ll have finished it by tomorrow. You can read it after me if you like?’ suggested Maggie.
Tom was nearing the end of his latest romance. Maggie was enjoying sharing suggestions with him but even though he was branching out into other genres it was nice to see that he still had a soft spot for the romantic novels that had got him hooked on reading.
‘I might,’ he said with a sigh. He picked up his book and almost immediately put it down again. ‘You don’t read much about alcoholics,’ he said. ‘You know, in novels. Why do you think that is?’
‘They don’t make the best heroes.’
‘I guess.’ Tom picked his book back up.
She watched him for a moment. He was stretched out on the sofa, his head resting on the arm one end and his feet against the other. ‘Nobody starts out intending to be an alcoholic, Tom. It’s nobody’s choice.’
There was a long delay before he replied. ‘But he’s choosing to be one now.’
Maybe she wasn’t explaining it well enough. She didn’t want to fall out with Tom over it. They resumed their reading; each delving into other worlds where they could switch off from being themselves and most importantly avoid the things in the real world they could do nothing to alter.
*
On Saturday they got the bus into Compton Mallow together and Tom seemed to be on red alert in case he saw his father. Maggie was ready for the man, having rehearsed her side of the conversation a number of times in her head, but there was no sign of him. He hadn’t called again either. Maggie wasn’t sure if this was a good thing or a bad one. Tom had no signal on his phone when he was at Providence Farm but he’d had no text messages either. She loved having Tom to stay but she knew deep down he should be with his father.
The library seemed different now – of course it wasn’t at all. It had been the same way, pretty much, since it was built in the nineteenth century but the thought of losing it made Maggie pay more attention each time she was there. Nowadays she noticed the detail of the brickwork around the entrance. She saw the twentieth-century additions of metal brackets that supported the giant beams that criss-crossed their way above her head. The slight warp in the glass of the windows. It was like she was holding up a magnifying glass and the building was revealing its secrets.
Tom was comfortable here. She loved the sight of him talking to Farah. She was good for him. He managed to make eye contact with her now, which was a huge improvement. And she was sure he was standing straighter when he wore the clothes she’d got him.
This week Tom had read the book club offering and Maggie was delighted when he dragged over a chair and joined the group for the discussion. They had some other new members too and Christine had to pull up another table to accommodate everyone. The discussion was detailed and lively and, while he was quiet at first, Tom made a couple of insightful points about the plot.
After book club they convened the meeting. Christine hovered nervously nearby.
‘Christine, you can sit down,’ said Maggie pulling out a chair.
‘No, I can’t. They sent out another email to all the affected libraries. Instant dismissal if you’re found to be colluding.’
‘Okay,’ said Maggie, rolling her eyes. ‘How many signed the petition?’
‘Forty-eight,’ said Tom.
‘How many do we need?’ asked Farah.
‘A thousand if it’s to be taken seriously,’ said Maggie. ‘We’ll have to go door-to-door.’
‘Have we got people’s email addresses?’ asked Tom.
‘I can’t give you those,’ said Christine, her voice hitting a new octave.
‘Great idea,’ said Farah and Tom straightened his shoulders. ‘We’ll send out the petition from my laptop,’ she added.
‘Ooh, I’m not sure about that.’ Christine was fidgeting with her name badge.
‘Nobody needs to know how we got the email addresses,’ said Tom.
‘Excellent,’ said Maggie. ‘How are the footfall numbers looking?’
‘Twenty-one per cent increase,’ said Christine.
‘That’s not enough. We need more people through the door,’ said Maggie. ‘Anything on the list, Farah, that could up our numbers?’
Farah consulted her notes and Tom gazed at her adoringly. ‘Reading challenge but that’s not until school holidays.’
‘That’ll be too late,’ said Maggie. Christine blew her nose. She remained quite emotional about it all.
‘The primary school are planning their visit. They need consent forms and it’s taking a while to sort out,’ said Farah. ‘I guess we could ask local nurseries and toddler groups but they’d need an incentive.’
Tom pressed his lips into a flat line. ‘How about we do a reward scheme?’
‘No budget,’ said Christine.
‘Hear him out,’ said Maggie, giving him a nod of encouragement to continue.
‘Those little loyalty cards where you get a stamp each time you get a coffee and then after ten or something you get a free one.’
‘But the books are already free,’ pointed out Farah.
‘I know. But we could give them something else.’
‘Like?’ asked Farah.
Tom’s cheeks flushed. ‘I dunno.’
‘A bookmark?’ said Christine, who was watching someone walk past outside. Her shoulders relaxed when they disappeared out of view. ‘My sister makes birthday cards. I could get her to make some bookmarks.’
The mood went a bit flat. ‘Stickers,’ said Farah. ‘Kids love stickers.’
‘That’s it,’ said Maggie with gusto making Chri
stine jump. ‘We get a chart on the wall and for every ten books loaned they get a sticker. And with each sticker we get closer to the target of saving our library.’
Tom and Farah were nodding. ‘But we can’t put anything up in the library. The council won’t allow it,’ said Christine.
‘Then we stage a sit-in!’ said Maggie. Christine drew a sharp intake of breath.
25
TOM
I rang Dad yesterday because Maggie said he’d rung earlier but I’m not sure she was telling the truth. He didn’t seem to know anything about it. Maybe he forgot. Or maybe Maggie thought it was time we spoke. He asked when I was coming home. I said when he gets help for the drinking. He called me ungrateful and a few other things before putting the phone down.
Maggie explained that drink changes people. She said I was to think of it as an illness. The alcoholism is making him this way and it’s not entirely his fault. If it’s not his fault then I don’t know who’s to blame. He buys the whisky, he drinks the whisky – I don’t see anyone forcing him. Maggie says it’s not that simple. She describes it like a corkscrew, a downward spiral and doubts he’ll change until he reaches the bottom. She calls alcoholism a disease that haunts the soul. I think he’s just a pisshead.
Today I decided I would call in on Dad. I’m not sure why – guilt, duty maybe. The niggling feeling that I should. I walked there from school. It took ages but I’d only got enough money to get the bus back to Maggie’s. I went on the pretext of needing more clothes. It was Tuesday and he was due at work that evening. I didn’t know if he’d been going to work or not since that night. If he lost his job then he’d lose the house – I was starting to see how it was all connected.
As I turned the corner for home a strange sensation crept over me like a Dementor approaching. Home. It’s a small word but means so much. It used to mean everything. My mother would say it at the end of a day out and it would make me want to cry because I didn’t want the day to end. But I did love my home; I just liked the park better. It was a happy home because it was full of love. I remembered the time I was sick at school and she came to get me. “Let’s get you home,” she’d said. That home was warm, safe and exactly where I wanted to be. What did it mean now? A shabby place where I used to live with a drunk.
When I was faced with my old front door I freaked out. My neck went clammy and my heart was beating like it does when I do running at school. I kept imagining Dad was lying unconscious inside. His face blue, like it was when I found him. My palms were all sweaty and my pulse was racing. It felt like it was all happening again and the fear swamped me. It reminded me of playing a computer game when you know you’re going to die and you can’t stop it – only the sensation was a million times worse. To calm myself down I had to use some of the breathing exercises Maggie had taught me in our mini yoga sessions after school. I took a steadying breath and put the key in the lock. I’d have a quick check and then I’d go. I pushed on the door. It opened a crack. I sniffed the air. It didn’t smell great but I couldn’t smell vomit, so I went in.
‘Dad?’ There was no reply. I stood in the hall and looked around. The kitchen was a mess again. Plates were piled up in the sink and on the table. The cushions were still on the floor where Maggie had left them weeks ago.
There were three empty whisky bottles in the living room but no sign of Dad. I went upstairs. His bedroom door was shut. I got the few things of mine that I wanted and shoved them into my bag. I stopped outside his bedroom door and listened. Nothing. What if he was dead in there? If it happened again? If he choked and I wasn’t there, he’d die. And it would be my fault. I could feel the panic rising again. I rushed to open the bedroom door. ‘Dad!’ I almost fell into the room.
‘Holy crap!’ Dad sat bolt upright. ‘Bloody hell, Tom!’ He looked awful. His hair was a mess; his eyes were dark and sunken against his deathly pale skin.
I was furious. I’d wound myself up into a frenzy. ‘I thought you’d done it again! What’s wrong with you?’ I banged my fists down on the bed but the duvet cushioned them and it did little to release the tension that had built up inside me.
‘I was asleep.’
‘I thought you were dead. I thought you’d choked!’ I couldn’t stop the tears that streamed down my face. Partly relief but a whole lot of temper was coursing through me. How could he be like this? Where had my dad gone? I slumped to the floor and clutched at the duvet. I wanted my mum. I needed her. More than I ever had before. I hugged the duvet as if it were her. I wished it was. I needed to feel her hold me. To make me feel safe again. To sort everything out. But she wasn’t coming. She was gone and she’d taken so much with her. It was like I was finding more and more things missing from my life. I’d lost my mother but I’d also lost my friend, my safe space, the person who comforted me and, worst of all, the feeling of being loved. I sobbed and I didn’t care. I cried for her as well as for the mess my life had become without her.
‘Tom?’ His voice had softened dramatically. I couldn’t speak. I felt him move down the bed and come and sit on the end by me. He put his hand on my head.
I lurched away. ‘Get away from me!’ I shouted at him through the sobs. ‘You’ve ruined everything. You should have been there for Mum. You weren’t there and she died. You should have been there. You could have saved her. This is all your fault.’ I scrambled to my feet. My head was pounding and tears dripped off my chin. ‘She’s dead and it’s all your fault!’
‘Tom?’ His face crumpled like he was going to cry too. ‘Why are you being like this?’
It took a few breaths. I stopped shouting and stared at him. He was sitting on the end of the bed in a dirty T-shirt and old pants. I was calmer but my breathing was still erratic. ‘I hate you.’ I said it clearly and firmly so he knew I meant it.
‘Tom?’ I turned away from him and walked out, picking up my bag I’d dropped on the landing. I almost fell down the stairs in my rush to escape. I slammed the door as I left and went to get the bus back to Maggie’s.
*
I had a key and I let myself in. I clicked Maggie’s front door shut behind me. Something was cooking and it smelled good. I left my bag by the door, kicked off my shoes and went into the living room. Maggie wasn’t there but I sat on the rug and crossed my legs anyway.
‘Tom!’ she called from the back of the house. I heard her footsteps approach. ‘You’re late. Is everything…’ She didn’t finish the sentence. I think she knew. Maggie came and joined me on the rug and started going through a few exercises. She spoke in that gentle lulling voice she always used for yoga. I tried to focus on her voice. I wanted to rub away the pain that was gnawing at my insides. I hated Dad for everything. He’d ruined it all and yet I felt like the worst person for telling him.
Maggie stopped speaking. I opened my eyes. Everything was blurring because of the tears. I couldn’t stop them. Maggie was kneeling in front of me with her arms open wide. It wasn’t a yoga position I recognised. I frowned at her.
‘There’s a hug here if you need it.’
I didn’t need to think. I almost knocked her over as I dived forward. She wrapped her arms around me and held me tight. And I cried and cried. The more I sobbed the tighter she held me. I clung to her like a bear to a tree. So many tears. I couldn’t stop them but I didn’t care. I knew it wouldn’t matter to Maggie; she never judged.
I don’t know how long she held me, rocking me gently and humming. If I’d thought about it we must have looked like a pair of crazies but it was the nicest thing. Being held and comforted by someone. Someone who cared. I can’t remember the last time anyone hugged me like that. I mean Mum did but I can’t remember the actual last time. I wish I could. If I’d known it was the last time with Mum I would have made an effort to remember it. To hold on to it. Save it as an image in my mind for me to return to whenever I needed. Maybe I’d save this hug instead.
Eventually I sat up and rubbed my wet face. ‘Maggie…’ I didn’t know what to say. It was all a bit aw
kward once the tears had dried up.
She got up and stretched out her legs. ‘I know it’s a weeknight but I think we need pudding. How about jam roly-poly?’
Somehow she managed to make me laugh. ‘Yeah. Great… and… thanks.’
‘Anytime,’ she said, wiping a tear off my chin as she passed.
*
We didn’t mention the hug again but it was enough to know it was there if I needed it. We chatted over sausage casserole with heaps of creamy mash and loads of vegetables.
‘How prepared do you feel for your exams?’ Maggie asked, her eyes awaiting my response.
‘Okay.’ I shoved some food in but Maggie was after more.
‘The revision is working then?’ she asked.
I finished my mouthful. ‘Yeah. It is. The flash-card approach that Farah showed me helps.’
‘But it’s you who’s putting the effort in.’ She looked stern but she was only trying to give me the credit. I’d been revising every evening and on the bus both ways as well as at school. I think it was starting to add up.
‘Perhaps we could offer revision sessions at the library,’ she said, watching me for a response.
‘Maybe.’
‘What else would be useful to kids your age? What things do they talk about in school?’
I scrunched up my face as I thought about the people in my year. Most of what was said was unrepeatable. ‘The girls go on about revision timetables because they like to revise together. The boys don’t. They chat about gaming and football.’ She was waiting, so I had another think. ‘Everyone is talking about what university they want to go to.’
‘Hah!’ said Maggie making me blink. ‘That’s a good one. We could look up information about which are the top universities. Best courses and top tips.’
I shrugged. ‘I guess but they can find that online.’
‘All in one place?’
‘I dunno.’ Maybe she had something. ‘I think the girls would defo be interested.’
‘And you should too,’ she said. ‘In fact, we need to do some research about which courses and universities you want to apply to. I could meet you at the library one day after school. Kill two birds with one stone.’
The Library Page 16