by Zosia Wand
*
Work on the lantern resumes after lunch, with Betty and Mike to assist, while I tidy away and load the dishwasher. Apparently, it was Betty’s idea to give my mother a lift, though I’m sure Mum engineered the invitation. She paid the entire bill at the B&B before they checked out. Betty is embarrassed and wants to pay her back but Mum refuses to take any money from her. A typically extravagant, apparently generous gesture on the part of my mother, but there is always an agenda. She needed Neil’s mother on side. How else was she going to arrive, uninvited, at our house and be allowed to stay? Betty feels doubly beholden, because she knows Mum didn’t want to make the overnight stop herself. Mum would have preferred to press on and get here as quickly as possible, but Betty was concerned for us and the additional stress that would cause the night before a big event. She’s brought a huge vegetarian pie with her so we don’t have to prepare lunch. Mum’s not a fan of vegetarian food, but she manages to keep her mouth shut and eat a small portion without drawing attention to herself. She’s being overly apologetic and a little pathetic, which is her way of letting me know she’s making an effort not to upset anyone. It’s quite irritating, but better than the sulking or poking. Neil is cautious around her, suspicious. ‘What’s she up to?’
‘She’s trying to be nice.’
He doesn’t buy it. I’m not sure I do, either, but I have an event to manage and other things to think about. She accepted ‘poisonous little lies’. She has agreed to keep quiet. There’s nothing more I can do. If I send her packing she will pull that pin and our life will explode.
The latest drama is her wheelchair. She isn’t confined to it but has brought it with her, ‘Just in case.’ I can’t believe her knee is so bad she needs a wheelchair, she seems sprightly enough when she needs to be, but what do I know? It could be a bid for attention, as Neil seems to think, but it’s not a crime to be pathetic and I’m not going to let it spoil the weekend.
I look at my watch. It’s already three o’clock. Mum has gone into town. I had hoped we’d get away with burgers from the van that will be at the event, but she’s keen to cook dinner after Betty’s contribution. I’ve made it clear that we need to be out of the house by half past seven, the latest. I now wish I’d said seven. She wanted me to drive her into town, but it’ll be impossible to park today, so I’ve told her to phone when she’s got everything and I’ll nip out and pick her up. She’s been gone a while. There are probably queues at the greengrocer. The lantern festival attracts thousands of visitors to the town. What started out as a one-off event, with thirty Brownies, has grown into a major tourist attraction, with five processions setting off from different meeting points to make their way to the park for the finale. Maybe her knee is playing up. I glance guiltily at the wheelchair, folded in the corner by the back door.
I’m about to try her phone, to see where she’s got to, when I receive an incoming call. It’s Lizzie, breathless, urgent. ‘Eve! Can you come quickly? We’ve got a bit of an emergency.’
*
Raf, one of the artists, has cut himself with a Stanley knife. It needs stitches, which means a trip to A&E. Lizzie’s car is piled high with materials for the finale and there’s no room for a passenger. I drive straight to the park, pick him up and head to Furness General, about twenty minutes’ drive away. He’s hugely apologetic. His own stupid fault; he wasn’t paying attention. He’s young, in his twenties, with dreadlocks and a beard. The wolf is his design and he’s agitated because he was planning something extra for the finale that might not be possible now.
‘Maybe we can help. What was it?’
‘A raft. I thought it would be kind of neat if the three little pigs chased the wolf through the crowd to the tarn and onto a raft and then we could set fire to him? If we push the raft out into the middle of the tarn we could watch it burn. It would look pretty cool.’
It would. It’s tempting. It’s also very last minute. The simplest thing to do would be to dismiss the idea at this late stage, but Raf is an experienced artist. He’s worked on some amazing projects. I trust him. It’s a bit gruesome, but no more so than the original story and the kids love that sort of thing. We’ve never used the tarn before, but have floated mini rafts with tea lights for events in the past and it’s been magical. I like the idea. It’s clever too, because it allows us to burn a giant lantern safely, with everyone able to get a good look. ‘How far have you got with it?’ I ask, overtaking a lorry and navigating a particularly vicious bend in the road.
‘The raft isn’t quite finished. There’s still a bit of work to be done.’
I throw him my phone. ‘Find Neil’s number on there.’
*
Neil rises to the challenge, even though it means letting go of the basket lantern. He hands over to Betty and Milly and enlists the help of Mike to head up to the park and complete the raft. I can rest a little easier knowing he and Mum are going to be nowhere near each other for a while. I’m feeling rather pleased with myself, sitting waiting for Raf in the A&E reception area, when my phone rings. It’s Mum. She freaks when I tell her I’m at the hospital.
‘It’s all right. One of the artists needed some stitches. You’ll have to walk back, I’m afraid.’ It’s five minutes on foot from the town centre to our house.
‘You said you’d pick me up!’
‘I’m in Barrow, Mum. What do you want me to do?’
‘Can’t Neil get me?’
‘I have the car. And he’s at the park.’
‘Can Betty come and meet me?’
‘Betty’s finishing Milly’s lantern with her and if she’s in the garden, she won’t be able to hear the phone.’ I’m losing patience now. She went out to buy some vegetables. How heavy can it be? ‘Look, I’ll see if there’s anyone at the park who can help.’
‘No, no. Don’t worry. You’re obviously busy.’ She falters, ‘I’ll get a taxi.’
That won’t work. I once called a taxi to pick me up from the train station when I arrived back from Hitchin, laden down with a suitcase of my old records that needed rescuing from Mum’s damp attic. The woman who answered the phone barked, ‘Now?’ as if such a request was unheard of, and told me her husband was busy feeding his pigeons before slamming the phone down. Maybe Mike will be able to pop out and get her. ‘I’ll call you back.’
Mike is, literally, knee-deep in the tarn with Neil, and can’t help. I ask Lizzie. I know this isn’t fair. I know everyone has better things to do, but if I don’t sort this out mum will play the injured victim or worse. She might decide to cause a scene. I can’t afford to let that happen. I need to keep her on side. I don’t have to explain to Lizzie; she’s heard enough about my mother to get the picture. ‘I’ll sort it. Don’t worry.’
It takes another hour for Raf to appear, his hand neatly bandaged. My mother phones three more times while I’m waiting for him.
‘Where do you keep your garlic salt?’
‘I don’t have garlic salt. There’s garlic in the ceramic pot by the chopping board.’
‘I need garlic salt.’
‘Well, I’m sorry. You’ll have to manage without it. I’m sure no one will notice.’
Ten minutes later, ‘Do you have any onions?’
‘I thought you bought vegetables?’
In the silence that follows, my irritation echoes back to me. It’s not her fault I’m under pressure. ‘Check the salad drawer in the fridge, there might be half a red onion in there.’
‘Has Milly had anything to eat since lunch? She’s been out there fiddling with that lantern thingy all day. She didn’t eat much of that pie.’
I slap the steering wheel. ‘I don’t know, Mum. Why don’t you ask her if she’s hungry?’
A pause, and then she says quietly, ‘I’ll get her something.’ Again, I’m left feeling ashamed at having snapped. She’s doing her best.
I drop Raf with Neil and Mike, who have created an awesome raft and are delighted to be able to show it off. It’s all coming together. T
he mood in the park is buoyant. I drive home and skip up to the house.
Mum greets me, face flushed. ‘Oh! Thank God, you’re here. I can’t work this damned oven!’ The kitchen looks as if something’s exploded. There’s flour everywhere. ‘The bag had a hole in it.’ Vegetable peelings litter the table, covering paperwork that has not been cleared; bank statements, letters and bills that need filing.
‘Mum! Couldn’t you have tidied up a bit and made some space first?’
‘Oh! Oh, I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure where it all went.’
I start collecting things, shaking them clean. There’s a pile of raw chicken breasts on the chopping board. ‘Betty and Mike don’t eat meat!’
‘It’s chicken!’
‘Chicken is still meat!”
She starts to flap and says, desperately, ‘They can just leave the bits of meat to one side.’
‘It doesn’t work like that!’ I glance at the clock. ‘There’s no way this is going to cook in time.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll do it. I’ll leave the chicken for you for another time. I couldn’t work out this oven of yours and I’ve only just got in because I had to wait for that girl to arrive and then she had to move all the bags of electrical cables and boxes off the back seat.’
I literally chew my tongue. There’s a strong smell of burning from the hob. As I lurch for the frying pan the smoke alarm starts to screech. Grabbing the entire pan, I carry it out into the garden. Betty and Milly look up. Red Riding Hood’s basket is complete. Milly is grinning from ear to ear. I dump the frying pan on the patio and ignore the piercing alarm, my mother’s voice, and walk away from it all, towards Milly and her lantern.
‘Everything all right?’ Betty asks, glancing towards the chaos in the kitchen.
‘She thinks chicken is a vegetarian option!’
Betty smiles. ‘Don’t worry. There’s plenty of pie left over. It will be fine.’
*
It isn’t fine. My mother insists on continuing with her plan, minus the chicken, but insisting that chicken is just the same as fish and most vegetarians eat fish. I ignore her. Neil and Mike come home to get showered and changed while I dash to the park to check how it’s all going. They’ve completed the rigging for the finale. The raft is in place and Lizzie and Jonty are stringing fairy lights around the stage at the far end, by the woodland trail, where the pigs will confront the wolf before they chase him to the tarn. Three dancers with pig-shaped lantern bodies lit by tiny LEDs will perform for the crowd. They’re practising on the grass now, in black leotards and leggings, their hair tied back from their faces in ponytails that pull their cheeks taut. Lizzie assures me everything is under control. I’m so grateful to her. Never again will I allow my mother to visit when I’m managing an event. She has no concept of the responsibilities I carry. She’s unable to see anything from anyone else’s point of view. It’s like dealing with a toddler. Milly is less demanding.
I check my watch. It’s almost seven o’clock. As I walk home I pass a father and son pushing a shopping trolley on top of which they’ve built a lantern gingerbread house. They grin proudly as I admire it. The town is hushed. The police have closed the roads into the town centre and the stewards are gathering in their high-visibility bibs with their portable fire extinguishers. People have set out chairs on the street in front of their houses preparing to watch the parade. Tarnside trembles with anticipation.
At the house, Mum’s laying the table. Betty has put the pie out and pours me a glass of red wine. ‘Drink that.’
I do as I’m told. Milly’s skipping around the kitchen and getting under everyone’s feet. She’s still wearing her glue-splattered leggings and T-shirt. I send her upstairs to get changed. ‘Where’s Neil?’
Betty nods to the garden. ‘We forgot to make a window in the lantern, to light the candle.’ He’s painstakingly cutting into the tissue paper with the Stanley knife. I should find this funny, but I can’t. All I’m aware of is the clock above the dresser, counting down the minutes. It’s seven fifteen. We should be getting ready to leave. Milly isn’t dressed yet and we haven’t eaten. I’m a piece of elastic being stretched tighter and tighter.
Seven thirty-three. Mum dishes up the rice. It looks like mashed potato. I don’t even want this meal. She huffs and puffs as if it’s all too much, but no one asked her to do this. She pulls the casserole or stew, or whatever the hell it is she’s cooked, out of the oven and places the hot dish on the table. It will burn a mark that will remind me of this day for ever, but I say nothing. My mouth is squeezed shut.
Seven thirty-six. Betty calls the men to the table and volunteers to gee Milly along.
Seven forty-two. We’re all sitting down in the kitchen, while in the street people are gathering outside the churchyard with their lanterns.
Seven forty-five. I can hear their voices, greetings, exclamation, the hum of expectation.
Seven forty-eight. The stewards will be moving through the crowd with their lighters, lighting the candles, flame by flame, bringing each lantern trembling to life.
Seven forty-nine. The procession is assembling. As our meeting point is closest to the park, the giant wolf lantern will lead us to the market square where the four tributaries will flow into one long river behind us for the final route back for the finale. I wanted Milly to be there, at the front, with us. This is the time, just before the procession begins, when it’s all still to come and there’s something so special about Tarnside in that moment, so proud. I wanted Milly to feel the magic building, to be part of it, but instead we’re here, summoned to the table by my grumpy, flush-faced mother, eating a meal that no one really wants.
Seven-fifty. The elastic snaps.
I’m on my feet. I’m shouting. I’m stamping my foot like a child. I know I look ridiculous, I’m being rude, I’m behaving badly, but I can’t stop. I grab Milly by the hand and I run.
22
Neil shouts after me from the top of the street. He’s struggling to carry the giant basket on his own. Milly squeals with delight and we run back up the street to help.
‘It’s all right,’ he says, squeezing my hand as we make our way back to the crowd gathered at the end of the street, lanterns dangle from bamboo poles in the twilight that drapes down over our little town. ‘The procession hasn’t set off.’
‘But I wanted to be there for the lighting up. I wanted Milly to see.’
‘She’ll have plenty more chances to see.’
‘My Red Riding Hood coat!’ Milly shouts.
Neil turns to run back up the street. I put my hand on his arm, ‘Next year it will be just us.’
‘Promise?’
‘I promise.’
While he’s gone, I lift Milly onto a low garden wall and climb up after her. I behaved like a stroppy child. I should have handled this better. What if Mum retaliates? What if she says something about Tina?
I don’t want to think about that. Here. Now. This moment. With Milly. This memory. From here, we’re looking down onto the crowd and have a good view of the lanterns.
There’s a quivering hush, people meet up, exclaim over one another’s creations, but their voices are lowered, just a little, in deference to the occasion.
‘Look!’ Milly beckons to Neil as he hurries back, red duffel coat draped over one arm. ‘A witch’s hat!’ She points to a modest, triangular lantern carried by a child about her age.
‘Perhaps more sensible?’ I ask, smiling at Neil as he threads Milly’s hands into her coat.
‘Who wants to be sensible?’
Milly shouts, ‘There’s Roisin!’ jumping up and down and waving frantically at her new friend from the reception class. Roisin’s mum, her hands full, gives us a nod, her lantern bouncing against the bamboo pole attached to her son’s buggy. Their lantern looks like a vegetable of some sort. Neil hazards a guess, ‘The magic turnip?’ There are wands, moons and cauldrons, but also more adventurous designs. It always amazes me how creative people can be. There’s a castle,
a cat, a fir tree, a wishing well, a frog and several very evil-looking goblins and trolls. One family have splashed on green paint and created their own Shrek, much to the delight of the crowd. Two young people carry a large, flat, oval-shaped lantern which baffles us until they turn, face on, and we see the silhouette of an evil queen on the surface. ‘Mirror, mirror, on the wall!’ Milly shouts, apoplectic with excitement.
There’s movement among the gathered figures. The lanterns have wobbled into place and are forming a thread the length of the street. We hurry down to join them as the giant lantern wolf gracefully navigates the corner, undulating his way towards the front, to a gasp of admiration from the crowd. Raf animates the terrible jaw with a bamboo stick, making the children squeal, and gives us the thumbs up as we slip in behind him. From his pocket, Neil produces the lighter we keep in the kitchen drawer. Milly gently prises open the little tissue window and Neil reaches in and lights the candle, transforming our lantern into ghostly, quivering life. Neil has attached two bamboo sticks to the interior to balance the bulk and together he and Milly raise the basket above our heads, where it glows gold against the darkening sky.
And it’s as if this final light breathes life into the procession. We’re blown forward. A community moving together in wonder. I catch sight of Guy and India in the crowd, with their son, who is now taller than his father, and Kath and her husband. I take Milly’s free hand. ‘Was I awful?’ I ask Neil, over her head. ‘Were your mum and dad horrified?’
He grins. ‘I think they understand.’
‘What about Mum?’
His face hardens. ‘Don’t worry about her.’
I hesitate. ‘Did she say anything?’ He shakes his head. I watch his face for clues but can see nothing beyond the normal level of irritation she causes him. ‘Are they coming?’
‘I told them to head straight to the Market Square and meet us there.’
‘But how will they find us in the crowd?’
He glances up at the lantern. Of course. He winks. He wouldn’t be winking at me if Mum had said anything about Tina. I feel calmer now we’re here, the three of us, together.