Straight on Till Morning

by Lynne Barrett-Lee

  ‘Is that right? Which one are you, then? Or is that a stupid question?’

  She crossed her eyes and blew out her cheeks. ‘Of course. What’s this?’ She’d picked something up from the dresser.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, glancing over. ‘It’s mum’s petition. I’m supposed to be gathering names for her.’

  ‘Petition for what? Oh, I see –’ She began reading. ‘What refuge is this then?’

  I handed her a copy of the letter my mum had written.

  ‘I’m supposed to be wanging these off to anyone I can think of. They need to raise a deposit so they can buy the house.’

  She read through the text. ‘You know, you should give one of these to Demelza.’

  ‘Give me one of what?’ she said, sweeping into the kitchen.

  ‘One of these,’ Ruth said, handing one to her. ‘Demelza’s aunt is Collette Carr, Sal.’

  ‘Really?’ Colette Carr was a novelist of some note. Not only for the squillions of books she’d sold worldwide, but also for her outspoken public persona and well documented run-ins with the literary press. She was currently, so the papers had it, living in a tythe barn near Gloucester, with twenty seven geese, a tame llama and a goat. No cardigan. No handbag. ‘That would be great, Demelza. If you don’t mind.’

  She scanned the letter, slurping at her gin as she read it.

  ‘One thing, sweetie, if you don’t mind me saying. A rather clunky split infin in para four.’

  *

  It was well past midnight by the time I managed to prise out the last of my guests. Which meant I had no time to do any of the prettifying things I’d had planned. Or indeed, to fret about the fact that I wanted to in the first place, which was becoming an almost equivalent obsession. But all was not lost. At least I had my Gunk Wonder Mask to melt my cares away.

  The Gunk Wonder Mask would, the leaflet informed me, melt away not only my cares, but also every last vestige of superfluous fluid, making my eyes firm, youthful and sparkling, even-as-I-slept. And if used in conjunction with the Gunk Cooling Contour Geleé that Veronique had also thrust into my hands, it would miraculously smooth away all my crepitations, to boot. I wasn’t sure quite how it expected to achieve this, but as suspension of rational scientific belief was one of the cornerstones of a healthy relationship with one’s expensive unguents, I didn’t much mind. It might, might it not? And it couldn’t do any harm, after all. I slapped a large quantity around both eyeballs and fixed the mask carefully around my head. It felt a little tight, but I presumed this was intentional, and I lay back against the pillow to let the revolutionary osmosis-type action begin doing its thing on my face. Three hours now, if I was lucky, then an hour or so’s anxious pacing, and I could whip it back on for a final couple of hours and embrace the day, if not free from all my Nick Brown anxieties, at least free from unsightly dark circles and bags. I fumbled for the light switch, re-plumped my pillow and sank into the embrace of a deep restful sleep.

  Shortly after that the telephone rang.

  I groped in the blackness for some seconds before I realised quite where I was. Or, indeed, where the telephone was. I seemed to have a fish on my face.

  ‘Yes? What? Hello?’

  There was a hissing noise and then a gruff voice said, ‘Er, Mrs Matthews?’

  I sat up now, awake. Who was this strange grunting person? I tried yanking at the Wonder Mask but it appeared to have welded itself to me. And there was suddenly a dreadful smell in the room.

  ‘Mrs Matthews?’ came the voice again, more coherently this time.

  ‘Who wants to know?’ I snapped, holding the phone in the crook of my shoulder, so I could wrestle with the poppers at the back of my head.

  ‘Er…it’s, um, Carl.’

  ‘What? I can’t hear you!’ The poppers finally popped and the mask flipped on to my lap. My hand, inexplicably, was wet.

  ‘Carl,’ he said again, with more emphasis this time. ‘I’m –’

  His words were suddenly drowned out by a terrible banshee wailing. I held the phone away from my ear a bit. More grunting, and the wailing became a low moan. ‘Hello?’ said the voice again. ‘Are you still –’

  Good God! It was Carl!

  ‘Carl? What on earth do you think you’re doing ringing Kate at this time of night? It’s twelve thirty two in the morning!’

  There were more noises off. ‘I know,’ he said eventually. ‘But I had to – oh, shit. Hang on –’

  ‘Had to what, precisely?’ I ranted. ‘And does your mother know you’re using the phone? And what on earth do you imagine Kate would be doing at this hour on a Monday night? And anyway, she’s not even here! She’s –’

  ‘I know,’ he said again. ‘That’s why I’m calling. I know she’s not there. She’s with me.’

  My hand was wet, I realised, because my Wonder Mask was leaking . A trail of stinking golden slime was oozing down my T-shirt and beginning to pool in my crotch. God, what had they filled it with? Liquidised entrails? I yanked the duvet to one side and leapt out of bed.

  ‘WHAT!’

  ‘She’s here. Right here. Beside me. She’s not very well, Mrs Matthews, so I wondered if you could drive down and, um –’

  ‘What! Where? Where are you? Not very well? What do you mean, not very well? Where is she? Put her on the phone!’

  He put her on the phone.

  ‘Muuueeeeeerrgggheyemmmshnotwelll mummmmmmeeeeee! Shycannnttttt….’

  ‘Kate?’

  ‘Shhbeenshickevywhere. I caaanttt – muuuuuuummmmmmm!’

  Good grief! More wailing and shuffling.

  ‘Carl? Carl!’

  ‘I’m here. I – oh, shit! Hang on – nooo. Stand up! You’re going to get it all over – oh, Kate! For fuck’s sake, can’t you –’

  ‘Carl!’ I snarled. ‘What the hell is going on there? Where are you?’

  ‘We’re just up the lane from the Ferret and Firkin. In the bus shelter. I’ve been trying to take her back to our house, but she can’t walk and I can’t get any answer from my mum and she wants –’

  More banshee caterwauling. Oh my God! My daughter in a bus shelter in the middle of nowhere! And a nowhere with Carl and an unsavoury pub!

  ‘What the hell is she doing there? She’s supposed to be at Amanda’s!’

  ‘Um –’

  ‘So what is she doing with YOU? Oh, God! Right. Right! Stay right where you are. I am on my way!’

  I then tripped over Jonathan’s tennis trainers, which served as a pertinent reminder that I would not be on my way any time soon. I counted back. The Baileys with Ruth. The two – no! The three glasses of red wine! The glass of white wine while I was doing the nibbly bits, the half glass of white wine I took up to the bath with me…shit! I was standing here sober as sober, yet, technically speaking I was drunk! No, no. Not drunk. My head was so clear now you could triangulate the entire Pennine Way through it . But over the limit. Definitely over the limit. Oh, great.

  I thrust my legs into jeans and pummelled my bare feet into trainers. I would just have to drive anyway. This was an emergency. I rattled down the stairs. But how could I? What if I got there and a panda car had already happened by and there was a policeman there or something? And I breathed on them? I could not drive. It was not responsible. I would have to call a taxi.

  But the nearest taxi firm was miles away. And it was already a good fifteen minute drive to where Kate was. Oh, shit. I dialled them anyway.

  ‘I need a taxi,’ I said to the comatose woman at the other end of the phone. ‘As speedily as you can, please.’

  ‘Picking up from?’

  I gabbled our address at her.

  ‘Okey dokey.’ I could hear a clatter of fingers on a keyboard. ‘Now,’ she drawled at length. ‘Is that the Sandy Lane, Horsham or the Sandy Lane, North Chailey?’

  ‘Gatwick. The one near Gatwick. The one off Carlton Road. How soon can you get one to me?’

  Silence. Per
haps she’d dozed off. ‘Now,’ she said eventually. ‘Let me see…Give us, oh, twenty-twenty-five, love?’

  Twenty-twenty-five? Twenty-twenty-five what? Pounds? Oh, yes. Minutes. ‘Twenty five minutes?’ I squeaked. ‘That’s too long. I can’t wait that long,’

  ‘Best I can do, love.’

  ‘Then, no. Thank you, but no.’

  Hopeless. I had to drive. There was no option. My daughter was wailing and vomiting in a bus shelter and if rescuing her meant I had to go to prison then so be it. I would be going to prison anyway, because I was going to kill her.

  Merlin was already all about by this time, clickety clicking around the hall and making inquisitive forays between my legs.

  ‘Will you get away from me!’ I barked, slapping his nose away. ‘I am not a dog’s bottom, OK!’

  OK. First half glass of wine at half past six. Half past six to half past twelve – no. Call it one o clock. Six and a half hours. Six and a half hours at one unit of alcohol per hour meant six and a half units of alcohol metabolised. OK. Baileys. One unit. No. two. Ruth had poured it. Three glasses of red, one and a half of white. Say one and a half units per glass. One and a half times four and a half – no! Five and a half – no six and a half with the Baileys. Six and a half times one and a half. Which made…which made nine? Ten? Yes, ten. Two glasses of wine was OK. And two glasses of wine was about three units, so if you allowed three units, and took that away from ten then it left seven. Seven in six and a half hours. So I should be only over the limit by half a unit, shouldn’t I? And if you made, say, a half unit allowance for the kettle chips and peanuts…yes. That would do it. So I was all right. Almost. Almost.

  Satisfied that I must be at least nearly sober in order to deal with so many fractions while in charge of a motor vehicle I pulled out and zoomed off down the main road with Merlin in the back.

  I had, however, failed to take the sensible precaution of getting Carl’s mobile phone number so had to kerb crawl past several bus shelters en route before I eventually found them.

  Kate was, I presumed, slumped out of sight inside the bus shelter. But Carl, by virtue of having hair the colour of a small gas explosion, was readily visible, and was leaning against the bus stop itself, smoking a cigarette. He pinged it into the kerb as I pulled up at the opposite side of the road, and shuffled forwards, hands stuffed in Jeans pockets.

  ‘Er, look – ‘he began, as I stomped across to meet him.

  ‘Er look!’ I snapped. ‘I’ll give you “er look!”. What on earth do you think you’re playing at taking my daughter to the pub and getting her drunk?’

  I bustled past him and into the shelter. Kate, who was, indeed, a slumpen form, looked up at me with hollow eyes then reached her arms out towards me and burst into tears.

  ‘I didn’t!’ whinnied Carl from behind me. ‘She was completely ratted when I got there!’

  He sounded like he was on the cusp of being sober himself. I patted Kate’s back.

  ‘Hmm,’ I said, to indicate my disapproval anyway. He was probably very practiced at feigning sobriety. ‘Well, can you give me a hand here please? I need to get her into the car.’

  Kate’s head rolled up again. ‘I can walk,’ she said dully. ‘I think I’ve finished being sick now.’ She pushed herself upright and staggered against me.

  ‘I sincerely hope so, young lady!’ I retorted.’ What on earth do you think you’ve been doing? What have you been drinking?’

  ‘Watermelon Bacardi Breezers,’ she muttered. ‘Not many. Uuurrrgh.’

  We shuffled her out of the shelter. ‘Not many?’ growled Carl. ‘You must have had ten between you. You could hardly see the table!’

  ‘You? Who’s you?’

  ‘Amanda,’ they both said.

  ‘You were here with Amanda? What about rehearsals? Specifically, what about you sleeping over at Amanda’s house?’

  Kate didn’t reply.

  ‘She went home,’ Carl explained helpfully. ‘Her dad came to pick her up. They..er.. had an argument.’

  We were weaving towards the car by now. Merlin’s nose was pressed hopefully against the back window and I could hear him whinnying to get out and be part of the action. Kate’s head pinged up again.

  ‘You scumbag!’ she cried suddenly, wanging an arm up and sloshing Carl across the chest with it. ‘You want to dump me!’

  Oh, Jesus. Not more of that stuff. Please.

  She started crying again. ‘You do! You want to dump me for her!’

  Carl dodged a second assault. ‘For Christ’s sake, Kate! I do NOT want to dump you. I do NOT want to go out with Amanda. OK? I –’

  ‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘Hang on. What was Amanda’s Dad thinking of? Why didn’t he bring you home as well? Why didn’t he phone me? Well?’

  Kate was now a slumpen form in the front seat of the car. Carl stooped to tuck her foot in. A tender moment, all told.

  ‘I told him you were picking me up,’ she muttered.

  ‘Oh. Oh, I see. And did it not occur to you to run that one by me? I had a party tonight, Kate. I might even have been out. As it is, I’ve had – ‘No. Perhaps I shouldn’t mention the drinking. ‘How on earth did you think you we’re going to get home?’ I finished. ‘Well?’

  Kate shrugged again.

  Carl put his hands on his hips. ‘Quite,’ he said pointedly. A picture of sorts was beginning to emerge. A rather embarrassing picture. An extremely embarrassing picture. Involving a drunken, raving Kate and the not-so-bad-after-all boyfriend who got stuck with the fall out. And there had certainly been fall out. There were suspicious looking flecks on his boots. I slapped the car door shut.

  ‘So,’ I said to him, digging out a watery smile. ‘Can I drop you home, Carl?’

  ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘It’s not far. I’ll be OK.’

  He would too. He was a good foot taller than me and looked pretty alarming even in daylight.

  ‘Um, well, thanks for, um…staying to look after her. I didn’t realise – I mean, well. I’m sorry I shouted at you. You sure I can’t drive you?’

  He glanced over my shoulder and back.

  ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘No sweat.’

  Oh, the shame.

  I got back into the car and stabbed the key into the ignition.

  ‘Well,’ I huffed. ‘I just hope you feel thoroughly ashamed of yourself. You stupid, stupid stupid girl!’

  Kate stared dully out of the windscreen and said nothing. Which left lots of empty airspace for me.

  ‘That poor lad! What were you thinking of? You could have ended up in hospital! Not to mention court! I clearly can’t trust you an inch! There’s me thinking you’re tucked up in bed at Amanda’s house and all the time you’re staggering round the streets making an exhibition of yourself and throwing up!’

  The windows were beginning to steam up by now, what with the combined input of my ranting, Merlin’s panting and the steam rising up from Kate’s sick-splattered dress. I slid the heater knob to maximum and glared at the road ahead. Was there anyone in my life not giving me hassle right now?

  Kate wiped a hand across her face and coughed.

  And then she threw up again.

  Oh, great.

  Chapter 15

  There is an antidote to the traumas of parental responsibility. It is called a hotel breakfast. A hotel breakfast with a very nice man.

  I’d set the alarm for six, and showered quietly, so as not to wake Kate, but when I tiptoed downstairs to put the kettle on, she was already in the kitchen, sitting at the table, slurping from a mug of tea and munching on toast.

  ‘Oh!’ I said, peering into the teapot to find it stone cold and still harbouring yesterdays half finished dregs. ‘I certainly didn’t expect to find you down here at this hour, young lady. How is your head?’

  She looked up at me as if I had just asked her if that big yellow thing in the sky was the sun.

  ‘It’s fine,’ she said airily. I pointed a
t the toast in her hand.

  ‘And your stomach?’

  ‘A bit sore,’ she conceded. ‘But I’ll live.’

  ‘Oh, I’m quite sure you will,’ I said, in my best ‘holier-than-thou yet knowing absolutely all there was to know about the ravages alcohol excess could wreak’ kind of voice. I wondered irritably how it was that she was able to drink a bucket of Bacardi and still be up at six eating toast, while I felt like the Gatwick Express had been rerouted through my ear holes. Stress. That was it. Stress and old age.

  And guilt, of course. I put the kettle on and came to join her at the table.

  ‘And are you going to enlighten me as to what that little performance was all about last night?’

  She put her half eaten toast down and sighed.

  ‘Mum, it was about nothing.’

  No change there, then.

  I tried a different tack. ‘So did you actually go to your rehearsal?’

  ‘Yes, of course I did.’

  ‘But then you and Amanda had an argument.’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘No. Not nothing, Kate.’ I waited. She waited. ‘Well?’ I said finally. ‘About Carl, I presume?’

  This seemed to strike a note of regretful recognition because she pulled an anguished face and plonked her head on the table.

  She then yanked it up again, causing stray hairs and toast crumbs to take to the air. ‘Oh!’ she cried, eyes suddenly swimming with tears. ‘She’s such a bitch, mum!’

  And out it all came. Namely that she had gone to rehearsals with Amanda and that Amanda had suggested they go to the pub for a drink afterwards with Janine (who was in the sixth form and had a Nissan Micra) and that once in the pub (and after the first flush of Bacardi had risen to their youthful cheeks, no doubt) Amanda had told Kate that she’d heard Lisa talking to Jemma in the church hall toilets and that they’d been saying that Carl was getting a bit fed up with Kate and wanted out. But when Kate (now much bridled) had gone into the pub toilets with Janine shortly after, Janine had told her that what Amanda said hadn’t been true at all and that the truth of the matter – and that everyone else knew it – was that Amanda was desperate to go out with Carl herself and was spreading bad vibes about the place about him so that Kate would dump him and she could go out with him herself. And so Kate had gone back into the pub and asked Amanda what the hell she thought she was playing at and Amanda had got really nasty and said couldn’t she see that Carl was sick of her and that, well, she hadn’t been going to say anything , but that he’d said as much to her too, and that she was very sorry and all that, but Kate needed to wise up a bit (and so on). And just as Kate was retorting that no, it was Amanda that needed to wise up a bit and get her claws out of her – haarrruumph! – best friend’s bloody boyfriend, Carl himself fetched up and was very surprised to find them all there. As, indeed, was Kate, as he’d told her he was staying in and revising with Andy for their Maths GCSE tomorrow afternoon, so what the hell were they doing down the pub? Eh? At which point Carl, who had indeed been revising for his Maths GCSE with Andy and who had only popped out for a bit of fresh air and a quick drink, told Kate she didn’t own him and would she please, like, back off a bit. Which had Amanda, who was (apparently) even drunker that Kate, saying ‘You see! You see! What did I tell you?’ Which was making everyone really embarrassed and Kate, distressed, had shot off back to the loo for a wail.