Massive

by Julia Bell

  ‘Hot enough in here. Your mother not in?’

  ‘She’s gone out.’ I stare at him. He is smoother, healthier than he was before. Tanned and wearing a smart winter coat.

  He stands in the lounge looking at everything. ‘You been all right then?’ he asks, studying the Dali print. ‘That picture gives me the creeps.’

  I show him the nails that I’ve done for Lisa. ‘I haven’t finished them yet.’

  He smiles. ‘You’re good,’ he says, simply.

  He’s bought me a PlayStation for Christmas. We sit down on the carpet in front of the telly while he plugs it in, just like he used to. We play Wipeout III but I’m not any good at it. I keep crashing into the sides and timing out. Dad wins every race.

  ‘Out of practice, huh?’

  He says he can’t stop too long. That this is a flying visit. ‘Where’s your mother? She said she’d be here. We’ve got things to discuss.’ He pats his briefcase.

  He stares at me until I start to feel uncomfortable. ‘Have you had any tea?’ he asks.

  When I shrug, he goes into the kitchen. I stand in the doorway, watch him opening the fridge. I want to tell him to stop being nosy. The food is ours, mine and Mum’s. He fingers the unbroken plastic seal on the mayonnaise. ‘How about a quick fry-up?’

  He gets the bacon and eggs out of the fridge, heats some marg in the pan. I sit up on the kitchen unit and watch him. He asks if Mum is OK and when I say yes, he says that Mum can get sick even when she seems to be fine.

  ‘You need to watch out for your mother’s tricks,’ he says. ‘You don’t have to follow her diets, you know.’

  I kick my heel against the cupboard. I wish he’d go away. He’s being patronizing.

  ‘You don’t know anything about her,’ I say.

  ‘That so?’ He tenses, puts a rasher of bacon into the fat.

  ‘Yeah.’

  He piles food on my plate like he’s taking the piss. Bacon, eggs, sausages, bread, tomatoes.

  ‘Eat,’ he says, tucking into his. I watch him shovelling it in greedily, chewing quickly, swallowing in lumps. ‘Come on.’

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ I say, scraping everything, still steaming, into the bin.

  He puts his coat on after that, seems in a hurry to leave. ‘You tell your mother to ring me,’ he says. ‘ASAP.’

  When he’s gone I realize I’ve forgotten to give him his present. Best Dad in the World. I don’t know why I bought it for him now. He’s not even my real dad. I bury the box, all neatly wrapped and decorated with ribbons and bows, under all the food in the bin.

  Ten minutes later there’s the scratch of a key in the door. She’s huddled into her coat, shivering. The snow has turned to rain, and she’s soaked through.

  ‘Mu-um. Where have you been?’

  She says that she didn’t go to meet Victoria at all, that she lied, that she hid in the phone box up the road. ‘Thought he was never going to go.’

  She sits on the sofa, and rubs her hands together. Her skin is blue. ‘I can’t face him, Carmen.’ Her voice is far away, desolate. ‘I’m a coward.’

  29

  We go over there about midday. Mum wants me to put on my Pocahontas frock, but I won’t. She’s only wearing a baggy jumper, and jeans made to stay up with a belt. I spend ages in the mirror putting kohl under my eyes and brushing my hair flat.

  ‘Are you trying to make yourself look a mess?’ she says, when she sees me.

  It doesn’t feel like Christmas really, except that the streets are quiet and all the shops are shut. We haven’t opened any presents yet.

  The hedge sprawls on to the pavement, it’s getting thicker, small shoots sprouting from the base, growing greedily outwards and upwards towards the light.

  Nana’s in the kitchen, getting the dinner ready. Grandad’s down the pub. We’re going to join him later, ‘just for a nip, while the dinner cooks.’

  The tree in the lounge is a bit crap, just propped up against the side of the TV and not much bigger. Nana’s threaded a bit of tinsel round it, but it still looks like no one’s been bothered to make the effort. The telly’s blaring and boxes of sweets and snacks are open on the coffee table: Mulberry Fruits, Quality Street, jars of fruit-and-nut mix, chocolate biscuits.

  ‘What’s with the tree?’ Mum asks. ‘Hacked it off the hedge, did you?’

  ‘Your dad got it cheap, down the pub.’

  We sit in the kitchen, watching Nana prepare the turkey.

  ‘I hope it’s defrosted properly,’ Mum says, prodding it. Nana snips the string that binds its legs and pulls out a plastic bag of giblets.

  ‘You’ll have some, won’t you, Maria?’

  ‘Eugh,’ is all Mum can say. ‘Eugh.’

  Nana rolls her sleeves up and pushes balls of stuffing up the turkey with her bare hand. It seems rude to look. I stare out the window at the dull green fronds of the hedge swaying backwards and forwards in the wind. When it’s stuffed she pastes butter on the skin and lays bacon over the top.

  Mum is tinkering with her cigarette, minutely examining the filter.

  ‘Can I look now?’ she asks. ‘Is it in the oven yet?’

  We’re watching the Queen’s speech when Lisa arrives. At first I don’t notice, but when I look over my shoulder she’s standing quietly in the corner staring at Mum. She’s wearing a Dalmatian print jacket and her nails are redder than fire engines.

  ‘Looks like Cruella’s arrived,’ Mum says.

  Lisa ignores her, kisses me on the forehead and sits down.

  ‘Happy Christmas,’ she says to the room.

  Nana makes us take our presents to the pub. ‘You wait till you see what I’ve got Ray,’ she says to us, beaming. ‘I want him to open it in front of everyone.’

  Whatever it is, it’s heavy, and I have to carry the box all the way from the house to the pub. We go to the Firkin, a few streets away at the bottom of the hill. We have to go slow because Nana’s knees are playing up. She leans on her stick and takes deep breaths, her buttery body shuddering with each step. Next to her, Mum seems like a doll. She’s bent over like she’s got something heavy on her back and, in the bright daylight, she looks older than Nana.

  ‘Rocking Around the Christmas Tree’ is playing on the jukebox and they’ve stuck scraps of tinsel round the ashtrays with sellotape. Mum laughs when she sees them.

  ‘What’s this?’ she says, ‘Christmas cheer?’

  Grandad is at the bar, talking to a group of men who all look like him: same red faces, same nicotine-stained hair.

  ‘Aye up,’ he says, raising his eyebrows in a resigned kind of way. ‘It’s the women.’

  ‘Get the drinks in, Ray,’ Nana orders. ‘Mine’s an advocaat and lemonade.’

  Mum orders Baileys for herself because ‘it’s Christmas’ and a Diet Coke for me. When Grandad brings them over, Nana makes everyone raise their glasses.

  ‘C’mon,’ she says, nudging Mum, ‘we’re a family again.’

  Mum and Lisa catch each other’s eyes then look away quickly. Mum grabs my hand and squeezes it tight. Her fingers are nothing but bone.

  ‘Open it, Ray, go on.’

  Grandad looks at the box a bit taken aback.

  ‘You shouldn’t have, pet. We can’t afford it.’ He tears the paper off quickly like a kid. ‘What’s this then?’

  ‘What it looks like.’ Black and Decker Hedge Trimmers it says on the box. ‘I got them off the shopping channel.’

  Lisa breaks the silence by laughing. ‘That’s brilliant, Mum.’

  ‘It’ll take more than a pair of fancy scissors,’ he growls.

  ‘Oh, leave it, Dad,’ Lisa says. ‘It’s Christmas.’

  Mum cradles her Baileys, not really drinking it, only bringing it to her lips so it wets them with a milky film.

  I get to give out my presents next. Nana is pleased with her golden apple. ‘To add to the collection. Clever girl.’

  Mum laughs when she gets her mug. ‘It’s vile. But so sweet,’ she adds quick
ly. ‘Look,’ she shows Lisa and Nana, ‘Best Mum in the World.’

  When Lisa opens her nails she smiles warmly, steadily. ‘Did you do these? They’re gorgeous.’ And I know that she means it.

  ‘Let have a look.’ Mum leans over. ‘Oh, Carmen, you should have told me you didn’t have any money. You didn’t have to make presents.’

  I get a Walkman from Mum, a nail-painting kit and a book from Lisa and a big box of chocolates from Nana. The book is brilliant, full of design ideas and step-by-step instructions.

  Grandad hasn’t got anything for anyone, he says he’s buying all the drinks.

  ‘I put twenty quid behind the bar.’

  ‘Tight arse,’ Lisa says. ‘You’re a miserable old git aren’t you?’

  Grandad chuckles and puts his arm round Nana, giving her a sloppy kiss on the cheek. ‘Wouldn’t have me any other way, would you, Joyce?’ Nana makes a face, but she’s laughing really.

  ‘Don’t you want your Walkman?’ Mum hisses in my ear when Lisa goes to get more drinks.

  ‘No. I mean, yes.’

  ‘Well stop looking at that bloody book then. You’re showing me up.’

  Lisa brings back bags of crisps from the bar. She gives Mum a packet of prawn cocktail flavour. ‘Dinner’s not for ages,’ she says, giving me the cheese and onion.

  Mum reads the calories on the back out loud. ‘One hundred and ninety.’ Lisa flinches and opens her packet, crunching defiantly.

  Mum opens her packet and puts her finger in. ‘Don’t like this flavour.’

  ‘I’ll have it,’ I say. ‘You can swap with me.’

  She passes the packet to me. ‘No, you eat them, Carmen, you’re always saying you’re hungry.’

  When no one’s looking I drop them under the table and hide them under my feet.

  We leave the pub at three when they throw us out.

  ‘I’m starving,’ Grandad says, rubbing his hands. ‘Best meal of the year, Christmas dinner.’

  When we get in, he unfolds the fold-down table that is pushed up against the wall in the lounge. He sits at the head of the table so he’s got the best view of the TV.

  Mum won’t eat any turkey. She says the meat is too pink, that it’s not cooked properly. ‘Salmonella,’ she announces, pointing to a pink streak in the thigh, ‘is everywhere.’ She puts a few sprouts and carrots on her plate.

  ‘Not in my kitchen it isn’t.’ Nana sounds indignant.

  ‘For God’s sake, Maria,’ Lisa hisses under her breath. ‘You’re putting us off our food.’

  It’s only afterwards that I see what I’ve eaten; when the potatoes come back nearly whole, the hard, crisped edges still visible along with the carrots and half-chewed pieces of sausage. I don’t remember eating so much. It makes my nose run, my eyes go red round the edges. I use kohl eyeliner to cover it up.

  Pig, I say to the mirror. Pig.

  Lisa stares at me when I come back into the room but I won’t meet her eye. She can’t have heard anything. I let the tap run dead loud.

  ‘You all right, Carmen? Have you been sick?’

  ‘Of course she hasn’t,’ Mum says, before I can answer.

  There is a pause that seems to suck all of the air out of the room. Lisa digs her nails into her palms. ‘I can’t stand it any more,’ she says then, looking at Nana. ‘Someone’s got to say something.’

  Mum mashes her untouched vegetables into a tiny splash of gravy.

  Nana and Lisa both stare at Mum.

  ‘I’m worried, Maria. Brian’s been to see me. He says you wouldn’t meet him. All this dieting, this food thing, it’s got to stop. You’re sick, Maria. You need to get help.’

  Mum smiles slowly. ‘Just because you’ve let yourself go to seed.’

  ‘Maria, love—’ Nana says.

  ‘Don’t you start,’ she warns. ‘What do you know about anything? All you do all day is watch telly and eat. Always chewing like some bloody cow.’

  Lisa frowns, runs her hands nervously through her hair. ‘No need to be insulting, Maria.’

  ‘It wasn’t me who started it. Remember that. You can tell me the truth now, Lisa. After all this time I think I deserve that.’

  ‘Don’t be so paranoid, Maria. Anyway, I think there’s a little secret we all know you haven’t told someone. People in glasshouses and all that.’

  All the colour drains out of Mum’s face. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’

  ‘Wouldn’t I? Maybe I’ve had enough of covering up for you, Maria. Maybe I think you’re messing up people’s lives.’

  ‘Girls, come on,’ Nana says, ‘It’s Christmas Day.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I say. ‘What are you on about?’

  No one will look at me.

  Lisa bites her lip, a single fat tear rolls down her cheek. ‘For Carmen,’ she says, ‘but not for you.’ She nods at Mum, gathering up the plates. ‘I’ll get on with the washing up,’ she says quietly.

  ‘Lisa love,’ Grandad looks up from the TV, his eyes pale, bleary. ‘Any of those roast potatoes left?’

  30

  I’m getting better at Wipeout III. Mum stands behind me watching.

  ‘Play it with the sound down, sweetheart.’

  I do two perfect laps, only crashing on the third, and make it in time to move on to the next level. She complained about Lisa all the way home. ‘You know, when we were younger, she was always on a diet. I don’t know why she’s having a go at me.’

  She goes into the kitchen. I can hear rustling, cupboards being opened and shut. I don’t pay any attention, do the next level in a perfect round of three. It’s easier with the sound down somehow, less distracting.

  Then there’s the smell of bread burning. Plates clanking, toast popping. But then there’s another noise. A small, muffled, animal noise. It goes on and on. A lug, lug, lug, like a snake swallowing an egg, punctuated by the rustle of cellophane packets.

  I burn out of the game. I’ve lost my line, my concentration’s shot. I don’t want to move. I don’t want to go into the kitchen. I don’t want to see what she’s doing.

  She’s in there for ages. I keep restarting the game, crashing a few seconds in, quitting and starting again, like my brain is in a loop.

  When she emerges, her eyes are glazed; there are crumbs on her cheeks, her clothes. I catch her out of the corner of my eye, trying to sneak up the stairs.

  ‘There’s food in the kitchen,’ she says. ‘If you want it.’

  She goes upstairs, two at a time. She’s running the tap, but I can still hear the retching. I turn the sound up on the game, start again from scratch, this time concentrating on keeping true to the line.

  The turkey’s still there. I think it’s starting to go bad under its tea towel but everything else has gone. There are empty mince pie packets on the floor, biscuit wrappers in the sink, the jar of mayonnaise has been scraped empty, the loaf of bread is a crust, the nuts all gone.

  I tidy up, put the wrappers in the bin. The box of Paxo is empty and she’s even eaten all the margarine.

  The toilet flushes and the tap goes off with a squeak. She opens the door to the bathroom and pads across the corridor to the bedroom.

  When I go past her room I stop for a moment and listen. I can’t hear anything. I don’t know what I’m listening for. Breathing perhaps, or the mousy, murmuring sounds she makes when she’s crying.

  ‘You all right?’ I knock on her door.

  There’s a muffled, ‘Go away’. Then, ‘Yes, I’m fine. Don’t you worry about me, I’ll see you in the morning.’

  The house is starting to smell rotten. Mum says it’s the turkey. That the central heating will have activated the bacteria. She wraps it in a bin bag and puts it outside. ‘For the rats.’

  She gets me to phone Theresa on her mobile. Half past nine on Boxing Day morning and Theresa sounds sleepy and pissed off.

  ‘Mum can’t come in today,’ I say, biting my lip. ‘She’s sick.’

  Mum watches, her skin is shiny with face cre
am.

  ‘She’ll manage,’ she says, when I tell her that Theresa moaned. ‘It’s what assistants are for. Anyway, it’s not like there’s customers. She’s only got to get the sale stock out and price it up.’

  Then she announces that she’s taking the rest of the week off. To get her diet back on track. ‘Starting with today.’

  ‘Out there,’ she says, waving her arms at the windows. ‘It’s all out there. If we stay in here we’ll be fine.’

  She checks the window locks, unlocking, then locking them again. ‘I don’t want it getting in.’ She double locks the front door.

  I ignore her and play PlayStation. She’s turned the heating up and the air is thick and soupy with cigarette smoke. She’s chain-smoking. After a few hours the need for fresh air is overwhelming.

  ‘Can’t we just have the window open a little bit?’ I ask.

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘I won’t have it getting in.’

  ‘Nothing’s getting in, Mum.’

  ‘Yes it is. All that greasy steam from chip shops, all the chocolate from Bournville. There’s calories in the air, you know.’

  She sits on the sofa in her bathrobe, sipping black tea, reading her diet books. She’s writing out a New Year regime for us from a detox book. You’re not supposed to do that programme for more than a few weeks because it’s so extreme. It suggests a fast on the first day and Mum says that because we’re pretty toxified from living in the city we should fast for a week. ‘And then we can eat from their plan.’

  I listen to her while I run lap after lap on Wipeout. I don’t want to look at her. It was easier when there was food in the house. At least I could ignore it, pretend it wasn’t there. Now there’s this sicky, desperate feeling in my stomach, because I know that the kitchen is empty.

  When she’s done with writing her programme she folds the paper and stands it on top of the TV. ‘So you don’t forget.’

  Up close, her ankles are bony and veiny, the skin transparent, like membrane.

  The phone rings.

  ‘Don’t answer it,’ she says. ‘Leave it.’

  It rings off, then rings back again. Mum unplugs it from the wall. She treads on it until the plastic casing cracks. ‘I’m off duty.’