by Anne Cassidy
“She can’t come, can she, Jennifer?” Michelle continued.
Why her mum? Other mums had jobs. Mrs Livingstone was a secretary. Why couldn’t her mum do something like that? Even her gran sewed up clothes for people to wear. Why couldn’t her mum be like her?
“You’re too young to hang around with us,” Michelle said. “Isn’t she?”
Lucy looked the best that Jennifer had ever seen her. Without her hopeless mum and her awful brothers she seemed to be stepping forward. Even with her mother lying in a hospital bed she seemed happier than ever.
“I can come, can’t I?”
“No,” Jennifer said, her throat turning to steel.
“Why not?”
“Go away! You can’t come! Go and visit your mum or something!”
Lucy looked startled, her mouth hanging open. Jennifer felt a sudden fury. What was the girl upset about? Wasn’t she being looked after? Cared for? Wasn’t her mum being nursed back to health? What did she have to whine about?
“My mum’s coming home next week,” Lucy said, uncertainly, a hopeful smile on her face.
“Maybe she will. Maybe she won’t,” Jennifer said.
“What?” Lucy said, her mouth bunched up.
“Maybe she won’t come out of hospital at all. Maybe you’ll never see her again!”
Michelle looked astonished.
“That’s not true, is it?” Lucy said, looking at Michelle, her eyes becoming glassy. “She’s coming home next week. That’s right, isn’t it?”
“Course she is!” Michelle said.
“You don’t know,” Jennifer said, unable to stop herself, “her mum might be dead. At this very minute, she might be DEAD.”
“No, she’s not!” Lucy said, a sob coming out.
“Don’t say that to her, I’ll get in trouble with my mum!” Michelle said, her words coming through clenched teeth.
But Jennifer couldn’t stop. Why should she stop?
“LEAVE US ALONE!” she shouted. “GO AWAY! GO AND FIND YOUR MUM!”
“You’re mad, you are. You’re MAD!” Michelle said, grabbing Lucy by the arm and taking her off down the lane, her arm protectively around Lucy’s shoulder, as if she were her best friend in the world.
Jennifer swallowed back and sat down on the pavement. She turned her cassette player on as loud as she could and sat there until much later, until her front door opened and Mr Cottis and Mr Smith came out, both laughing at some joke.
Mr Cottis raised his hand to wave at her but she didn’t wave back.
Lucy forgave her.
It was something Jennifer could hardly understand. How vile she had been. What horrible things she had said. On the way to school the following morning Jennifer ran up behind and put her arm around her.
“I’m really, really sorry. I was in a bad mood and I never meant that about your mum. Course your mum’s coming home. Next week. I heard Mrs Livingstone say it!”
“OK,” Lucy said.
“You my friend? Really?” she said, giving Lucy a hug.
“Yes, course.”
Lucy was walking with a spring in her step, Michelle on one side and Jennifer on the other. She didn’t seem to hold a grudge. She was like a puppydog, bouncing along the lane, an invisible tail wagging behind her.
Unlike Michelle, who was grumpy and round-shouldered all the way down to the main road. You could have got me in a lot of trouble with my mum! she hissed and only cheered up when they got to school and Lucy ran off to her classroom. Jennifer slipped her arm through hers and said, Hey Ginger, you’re still my best friend, aren’t you?
At lunchtime, a few days later, they sat in the corner of the library flicking through magazines.
“Look at this, JJ,” Michelle said, in a loud voice.
Michelle liked the other kids to hear them use their nicknames. It wasn’t enough to just use them when they were alone. Michelle wanted everyone to know. Even though Jennifer sometimes felt a bit silly calling her friend Ginger, as though she was some kind of pet. Michelle loved it, though, and seemed to fiddle with her hair whenever she heard the name, pulling her long curls out or sweeping a great clump of it back off her face. Jennifer’s own name, JJ, was less pleasing, just a couple of initials that didn’t really mean anything. She looked at the magazine. Michelle was pointing at a picture of a pop singer that they both liked. She’d seen it a dozen times and had one like it on her bedroom wall.
“And here, look, there’s that nail varnish that I’m going to get!”
Jennifer didn’t answer. She was bored with the magazines and fed up with sitting inside every lunchtime. She looked out in the playground. Some of the kids from her class were playing rounders and she had a desire to be out there, running round, feeling the fresh air on her face. But she and Michelle didn’t do those things now. They were too babyish. She noticed the younger kids and, in the middle of them, Lucy.
“Since Lucy’s been staying with you she doesn’t hang around us at school so much.”
Michelle nodded, opening a new magazine at the back page and working her way forward.
“It’s like she doesn’t need to be with us now. She’s got her own friends.”
“She’s not staying with me permanently!”
“I know that. I’m just saying.”
They were quiet for a minute.
“Is your mum coming to the picnic on Sunday?” Michelle said.
The picnic was to be up at the reservoir. It was Lucy’s birthday treat and Mrs Livingstone had invited Lucy’s brothers and Jennifer’s mum.
“I think so,” she answered.
Jennifer wasn’t sure if her mum was going to go to the picnic. She’d asked the previous night.
“I’m really busy this week and on Sunday morning Mr Cottis has got me a session.”
“On a Sunday?” Jennifer had said, flatly.
Mr Cottis seemed to be everywhere. Either he was visiting her house or telephoning or her mum was talking about him. A horrible thing occurred to her. Was Mr Cottis her mum’s boyfriend? Jennifer didn’t like to think about it.
“Amateur photographers. It’s good money. I don’t like to turn it down, love.”
“But it’s not all day?”
“No, maybe I could make it back. What time is the picnic?”
“About three o’clock. If it’s dry.”
“I should get back for then. If I don’t you can explain, can’t you?”
Jennifer nodded. She could explain if she had to.
“Tell you what, I’ll give you some cash to buy Lucy a nice present. How about that?”
There was plenty of cash, Jennifer knew that. It should have made her feel good. They could pay the rent, buy the shopping, have money for clothes and holidays. She just didn’t feel relaxed about it. It was all in a box in her mum’s wardrobe. Sometimes she went in there and took it out and looked at the notes lying untidily inside. It gave her an uneasy feeling, as though it didn’t really belong to them, as if her mum had robbed a bank or something. When she put the box away, in her mum’s wardrobe, she covered it with jumpers and shoes.
On Sunday the weather was dry so they joined the lane at the back of the houses to walk up to the reservoir. There was a train of people, everyone carrying something, Mrs Livingstone shouting instructions. Lucy was up at the front, saying, This way, this way! in her scratchy voice.
Mr Livingstone, who kept asking everyone to call him Frank, laid the blankets on a flat area of grass that sloped down to the edge of the lake. Mrs Livingstone unpacked the food, plastic boxes of sandwiches and bags of crisps. She had even baked a cake and brought candles. On it were the words Happy Birthday Lucy.
“Perhaps Carol will get here later,” Mrs Livingstone said.
Jennifer nodded but knew that her mum wouldn’t come. Mr Cottis had picked her up in his van much later than she’d expected. She’d been annoyed when he finally came, whispering loudly to him in the hallway, her words too muffled to hear but her voice forced out, like a hiss
ing kettle. Jennifer had come out of her bedroom to say goodbye but the front door had slammed shut and she’d been left alone in the house, the sound of Mr Cottis’s van driving off up the lane.
She hadn’t really expected her to come. She knew her mum wouldn’t sit on a blanket and chat to Mr and Mrs Livingstone. She couldn’t imagine her eating sandwiches and singing Happy Birthday. It was a picture that just wouldn’t form in her head. It was as unlikely as her mum putting an apron on and making a cake with the words Happy Birthday Lucy on it.
Lucy had a new dress. She looked clean, her skin pink and shiny, her thin hair pulled up into a ponytail. She told them about the card she got from her mum. She was coming home soon, she said. Jennifer was enthusiastic about it, nodding her head and saying, That’s good! Trying to make up for the awful things she’d said a few days before. Her brothers were wearing their usual: oversized dark-green jackets and heavy boots. Stevie’s trousers had a camouflage pattern but Joe’s were plain green. Lucy was thrilled with everything and kept getting up to walk around the blanket and sit in a different place. The brothers looked uncomfortable as though they’d rather not be there. Whenever Stevie was asked if he wanted anything he grunted, nodding or shaking his head. Joe was more polite, saying, No thank you, Mrs Livingstone or Yes please, Mrs Livingstone.
Michelle hadn’t dressed up. She was wearing the same clothes as she’d had on the day before; as if she couldn’t be bothered. Jennifer knew it was deliberate. Michelle loved dressing up but she wasn’t going to do it for Lucy.
They ate and drank and Mrs Livingstone lit the candles and they all sang Happy Birthday to Lucy. After the rubbish was tidied away Michelle’s dad stood up and started to flex his legs.
“Anyone fancy a walk?” he said.
“No thank you, Mr Livingstone,” Joe said, buttoning his army jacket up to the neck, as though it was deep winter.
“Do call me Frank,” Mr Livingstone said.
Mrs Livingstone got up.
“Come on you three, come for a walk!”
Michelle shook her head but Lucy stood up and walked towards her. Michelle looked directly at Jennifer and rolled her eyes. Jennifer was thrown. She didn’t mind going for a walk but she didn’t want to upset her friend.
“Oh, you lazy pair!” Mrs Livingstone said, striding off with Lucy at her side, her husband up ahead.
They watched as the three of them walked away. Jennifer wanted to make a joke but Michelle’s face seemed to harden as she kept her eyes on her mum and dad and Lucy, looking every bit a family. The brothers were mumbling together at the other end of the blanket. Stevie lay back suddenly, his head on the ground, his big boots pointing up to the sky. Joe laughed for no reason as though someone had just told him a joke.
“What you laughing at?” Michelle demanded.
He didn’t answer. He just laughed and nodded his head as though someone had just said something that he agreed with. Stevie raised himself up on his elbows and looked at the girls. Beside his brother his head looked small and bony, his eyes narrow, like slits.
“Don’t say nothing to him,” he said.
“Why? Why shouldn’t I?”
Michelle knelt up on the blanket, her shoulders squared up ready for an argument. In the distance her parents had become tiny figures. Jennifer wished she’d gone for a walk with them. She didn’t like the Bussell brothers. There was something dangerous about them.
“Don’t. . .” she said. “Don’t let’s argue.”
“Don’t let’s argue,” Stevie said, repeating her words. He gave her a childish grin, showing a mouthful of crooked teeth.
“He’s not very bright, is he? Your brother?” Michelle said.
Jennifer’s shoulders sank down. Why couldn’t Michelle just leave it!
“You shut your mouth,” Stevie said, without moving a muscle. “Or I’ll come over and shut it for you!”
“I’ll tell my mum!”
“I’ll tell my mum.” Stevie mimicked Michelle’s voice.
“Stop it!” Jennifer said, louder than she meant to.
Stevie’s face turned towards her. He was no longer angry. There was a flicker of something behind his eyes, like a light going on in a distant room of a big house.
“How’s your mum?” he said, his lips turning up at the corners.
“She’s . . . she’s all right.”
Jennifer hated his expression. Hated the way his body lay in front of her, his legs open, his camouflage trousers making him look like an oversized Action Man.
“Her mum’s a model!” Michelle said.
Why did she have to say that? Jennifer wished she would keep quiet. It was her business and her mum’s. She didn’t go round to everyone saying that Michelle’s mum was a secretary.
“A model? Is that what she calls it?”
“A model,” Joe repeated his brother’s words.
“What do you mean?” Michelle said. “She is a model. I’ve seen her pictures. She’s been a model for years, hasn’t she, Jennifer? She’s even had her face in magazines.”
Jennifer nodded half-heartedly. She’d shown Michelle her mum’s portfolio. Eight years’ worth of photographs. Hundreds in the first few years but less and less as time went on.
“Yeah, I’ll bet she’s had more than her face in magazines,” Stevie said.
“A lot more,” Joe said, giving a horrible laugh.
“What do you mean?” Jennifer said, even though she knew exactly what they meant.
“How come she has all these blokes visiting her every day? If she’s just a model?”
Jennifer was puzzled. Blokes visiting her? What did he mean?
“You mean Mr Cottis? He’s her agent? He’s the photographer, see?”
“Is that what he calls it?”
She looked at Michelle who seemed as bewildered as she was. Her mum probably did have visitors. Amateur photographers. She had to take the work. It was her way of getting back into modelling. Jennifer knew that. She looked with disdain at the two Bussell brothers. Not a half a brain between them. Stevie, lying back, his hand resting lightly on his crotch. Joe looking at her then back to his brother whose hand had begun to press against his camouflage trousers.
She stood up. She wasn’t going to stay. In the distance she could see Mr and Mrs Livingstone with Lucy in between them, a pretty picture, walking among the trees, the lake glittering beside them. She should have joined them. It might have been fun. But she was stuck on the blanket, like being marooned on a boat in the middle of the lake and Michelle’s voice was still droning in her ear. Why couldn’t she just shut up?
“She’s beautiful and she’ll end up on the cover of a magazine. And she’ll make a lot of money. Isn’t that right, Jen?”
Jennifer couldn’t speak. There was a sick feeling inside her. The cake and the sandwiches and the fizzy drink were gurgling in her stomach.
“Yeah. Some prozzies do make good money.”
Joe laughed again, a great bellow. Stevie just lay there, looking at her, his hand rubbing at his trousers. She turned and walked away. After a few steps she began to run. In the back of her head she heard Michelle’s voice.
“Jen, don’t go. I’ll tell my mum and dad, I’ll tell on them. Don’t go. I’ll get in trouble. Don’t go off, my mum’ll be worried!”
She didn’t stop. She didn’t turn back. She ran till her breath was ragged, leaving the lake and the woods behind her, out of the gates and into the lane and on towards the houses.
She ran into the house through the back door and the first thing she saw was Mr Cottis’s suitcase on wheels parked in her hallway. It startled her for a second, sitting upright, its handle stiffly against the wall. She hadn’t expected it to be there. She went to the bottom of the stairs and looked up. The stairwell was dark, as though it was night. All the doors on the upstairs landing were shut. There was only the faintest of sounds; mumbling voices, the scrape of a chair leg, the creak of the bed. Her mum was in and she’d brought him with her.
&n
bsp; She felt exhausted. She had no strength to walk up the stairs, to push her mum’s room door open and check that the camera was there as well as the big lights and Mr Cottis with his roll of film.
Because her mum was not a prostitute. She was not. She was a model.
She turned away from the stairs and went into the living room. In the cupboard she pulled out her mum’s portfolio; a big leather folder full of pictures. She lay it in the middle of the floor and opened it. The first few pictures dated from before she was born. Her mum (just Carol then, 16 year old from Ipswich), in shorts and T-shirt on a beach, the sea, crashing into the shore behind her, her hair blowing wildly, the white teeth against her perfectly lipsticked mouth. How beautiful she was.
After she was born it was all professional shots. Carol Jones in an evening dress, a feathery boa around her neck; in a city suit, a pair of black-rimmed glasses making her look serious, every bit the businesswoman; in jeans and a checked blouse, like a cowgirl, her hair in bunches at the side of her face. Dozens of catalogue photos: her mum modelling dresses, casual clothes, nightwear, sportswear. She stopped abruptly at a picture of her mum in a pink ski suit. The background was a view of a snow-covered mountain and a ski lift. It wasn’t real, she knew that; her mum had never been skiing. She closed her eyes for a moment and sat there, still as a statue, a memory coming back to her, like a bird in the distance, coming closer and closer. And then she saw what it was. Macy in her ski outfit. Her lovely Macy, International Catwalk Model. Now she was in a cardboard box upstairs. Michelle said it looked like a coffin. The thought of it gave her a feeling of great heaviness, as if it was her fault that Macy was dead, when it wasn’t her fault at all.
She looked back to the portfolio. Even though there were no recent pictures of Carol Jones she knew with absolute certainty that her mum was a model. Not a prostitute. A model.
Out in the hallway was the suitcase, neat, its edges square. Would Mr Cottis have photos of her mum? Recent ones? He was her agent. He must have photos of her to show to people, so that she could get work. That was how it happened, she knew.