by Lola Jaye
She’d needed her mum.
Pat stared at the top window. No sign of life. She wondered if anyone was home and feared the worst. No, if something had happened, she’d certainly have heard from a distant relative, if distant meant a person who lived five miles away but who only communicated with her once a year via a Christmas card. Or she would have been contacted by one of the neighbor’s sons, whom she saw down at the market from time to time.
She definitely would have heard something.
Pat felt a droplet of rain land on her nose. A sign to head back home, perhaps. Yes, she would come again another day. But as she turned to leave, weighed down with a heavy feeling of disappointment with herself, a car slowly pulled up outside the house. A woman wearing a shift jean dress climbed out of the front and leaned into the back to retrieve what looked like a baby dressed in sky blue. The woman didn’t look familiar to Pat, but the man who jumped out of the driver’s seat did. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five years old.
The family of three headed to the house Pat had grown up in, and all at once she realized her own family clearly didn’t live there anymore.
The young couple pressed the buzzer, waited, until the door quickly flew open and they were greeted by a stooped, short lady with silver bouffant hair. Each planted a kiss on her cheek. The lady smiled, the baby wriggled in its mother’s arms, and the door shut behind them.
Pat wiped another raindrop, or perhaps a tear, away from her eye. Her heart rate had accelerated, her smile had curved into a gigantic bittersweet smile—all because she had just seen her mother.
The last time Pat saw her mother was twenty-seven years ago and during one of the most important times in her life. It was during that first fraught week with Lara, seven days that were slightly less idyllic than she’d imagined. Lara wasn’t sleeping well, waking up in the middle of the night and choosing to be reassured by that smelly piece of cloth she clung to instead of Pat. It was a few more days before Lara even allowed herself to be held by Pat, preferring Barry’s reassuring cuddles if she fell over in the garden or just wanted some affection. But after the rocky transitional period, when everything seemed to be rolling along smoothly, Pat arranged for both their families to meet Lara. Agnes, Brian, and the kids arrived with a huge blond-haired doll on roller skates. At the sight of it, Lara quickly ran behind Pat’s legs, bursting into fearful tears. Maria and more of Barry’s family arrived, but there was no sign of Pat’s brothers, sister, or Mum, their absence totally noticeable. Perhaps their RSVPs had gotten lost in the post. Pat’s brothers were never one for posting letters, but Pat’s mum always got her football pools in on time. Lara looked beautiful in her blue-and-white dogtooth dress with braces, white socks, and huge pink bow in her hair (even though Pat hadn’t managed to comb her hair out, due to Lara’s heart-wrenching sobs). But it didn’t matter; everyone was smitten with their new addition, even if Agnes and Brian’s kids kept looking at her with wonderment and stroking her “bushy” hair.
Pat waited a while before dialing her mother’s number.
“Mum, Lara’s in bed by seven and I thought it would be nice for you to spend some time with her. Meet your new granddaughter properly. Everyone’s mad about her already. When are you getting here?”
“Your brother can’t drive me over,” she said simply.
“Why didn’t you say? Barry can come and get you.”
“Never mind. I’ll give it a miss tonight.”
“But what about seeing your new granddaughter?”
“Another time. You get back to your do.”
The next day, Pat paid her mother a visit.
“So are you going to tell me what happened last night, Mum?”
Her three brothers appeared, their sister trailing behind them holding her youngest child on her hip. Pat hoped one day that Lara would be much closer to her cousins than she’d been with her siblings. In fact, she’d make sure of it.
“What’s all this then?” asked Pat, at first about to make a joke about a cavalry and then realizing the looks of seriousness on their faces. Her mother, however, had her face turned to the stove and away from Pat’s questioning gaze.
“What’s going on?” asked Pat.
“We don’t like all this stuff we’ve been reading about in the paper.”
And they continued.
“You shouldn’t be adopting African kids.”
“You’re English.”
“You’re supposed to be a Smith.”
“What will people say?”
“Have you thought about the future?”
“It’s not right.”
“They’re not like us!”
It was a lot to take in. The words, the accusations, the lack of understanding. This unwillingness to listen to her point of view, which couldn’t be whittled down to anything less than love. She loved this little girl called Lara. Had done so since the first day she’d spotted her at the Motherless Children’s Home. This wasn’t about politics or culture or color or what they perceived as right—this was simply about love. Plain and simple, nothing fancy: love. Was it so hard for them to understand this?
Of all the people who stood accusingly in the kitchen that day, Pat had expected her mother to understand. She had raised all these children almost single-handedly on next to no money and never got any thanks for it. That was love. Her mother would understand.
“Mum?”
But her mother merely looked at her and then her sons, the daughter playing it cool in the background.
“They have a point. Is this fair on the child—”
“So, you, too?” Pat’s voice broke, not actually wanting to believe what she was hearing from her mother. After swallowing hard, she stood and headed for the door, her brother’s deep voice booming behind her: “Don’t bother coming back, all right, Pat? DON’T EVER COME BACK HERE, YOU HEAR?! And keep that Nig-Nog away from here, too!”
Pat stiffened.
But instead of anger she was weakened with the grief of realizing she hadn’t a clue who her mother was anymore; she closed the door behind her without a single word.
She wondered whether she should wait for the young couple to leave. Or perhaps that would just fall into another of her excuses and the next time she found herself outside that house would be in another five, ten, fifteen years. But time wasn’t anyone’s luxury. Her mother had looked so different, so much older than when she’d last seen her. Pat had imagined an extra gray hair or two, a few extra pounds—but nothing prepared her for the woman at the door who resembled the Queen!
She knew this time had to be different. That instead of running away she’d have to—needed to—go in and face whatever it is she’d been hiding from for over two and a half decades. Things were different now, not only because she’d caught a glimpse of her mother but also because her own daughter was confronting her own past and she as a mother should be leading by example.
She wanted to wait until the youngsters had left, but an hour later, the door still hadn’t opened. The rain, once only droplets, now fell down in a downpour around her. She’d forgotten her umbrella. She had to go in.
She knocked at the door once, and it immediately swung open to reveal the young man.
“Hello,” she said. Again, Pat felt a pang of familiarity.
“Hello,” he said with a friendly smile.
“Can I speak to—”
“Are you looking for my gran?”
Gran? thought Pat. She steadied herself, then spoke. “Yes.”
“Come in,” said the boy. Pat was surprised to see the paisley-patterned carpet still in its place, although the walls were now wallpapered with gray diamond shapes. Completely not her mother’s style, she thought. But then what did she know about the evolution of her mother’s tastes? As Pat walked through, she noticed the knot in her stomach, the aching and longing for a time of Johnny Mathis and Gracie Fields records, the smell of freshly made marmalade, and the squabbling of her siblings. She’d missed her family. S
he’d so missed her mum.
In the familiar kitchen where the young girl and the baby sat, Pat quickly felt at home, especially as her mother was bending down to retrieve a dish from the oven.
It felt as if she’d never left.
“Who is it?” said her mother in that voice. Pat became worried the hot dish she was about to retrieve would fall with the shock of seeing her. She didn’t want to take that risk so spoke quickly as her mother moved her hand into the oven.
“Mum?” she said.
Two sets of eyes darted to Pat as her mum slowly pulled herself up, her hands covered in mitts.
For a moment, nothing, and then her mother turned to her and said, “What are you doing here?” Which probably wasn’t the welcome Pat had hoped for. But this was undoubtedly her mum whom she hadn’t seen for a very long time and for that, she was beyond happy.
“I came to see you… Mum.”
Her mother’s expression didn’t seem to change, giving nothing away, while Pat’s inner thoughts played across her face like a set of radio stations being switched over, again and again.
“This is your aunty Pat,” her mother said to the boy, finally.
The girl placed a hand to her mouth. “Ohmigosh, the pop star one?”
“That’s her,” said Pat’s mother, and for a time there, Pat thought she’d glimpsed a hint of pride in her mother’s face.
“So lovely to meet you,” said the young man, reaching out to shake her hand, and immediately she knew he was her youngest brother’s child. He looked exactly like him at that age. He had her father’s eyes, too.
“We’ve heard so much about you, Pat,” gushed the girl.
“All good I hope,” said Pat automatically.
“Definitely. Gran never stops talking about you!”
Pat smiled at that. Her mother had been talking about her.
“And this is my boy, Tony. Tone, say hello to your … your great-aunty, I suppose!” The three of them laughed as Pat’s mother finally took out the dish from the oven. A large Madeira cake.
The young family left after hours of reminiscing, sharing of photos on mobile phones, and the revelation that Pat’s second-eldest brother was in prison and their “good-for-nothing father” had never got in touch.
“They’re lovely kids,” said Pat’s mother. “A lot better than your sister’s lot. They hardly come and see me. But my boys’ kids, good as gold.”
Pat wanted to roll her eyes at that, as she realized nothing much seemed to have changed regarding her mother’s favoritism. Her boys.
Another pot of tea and Pat acknowledged the catch-up with her nephew had been good, but now it was just the two of them and she wanted more. Not a hug or anything like that, as that wasn’t her mother’s way. Pat just wanted her mother to ask about Lara. To say something, anything, about her because for the last twenty-seven years, that little girl had been the biggest part of Pat’s life.
Then she remembered an old picture in her wallet of Lara holding Barry’s hand. She and Maria had forced her into that pose, knowing it would probably be the last time she’d ever obey anything ever again, since by that time she was almost twelve and on a fast track to teenagehood.
“This one was taken just before Lara was thirteen.” Pat carefully watched her mother scan the picture. And waited.
“It’s a nice picture. She’s lovely,” she said before handing it back. Pat felt slightly disappointed with that response, but it was something and it was a start. She needed to tread carefully. It had been so long. So very long.
They chatted about members of the family, ate more cake, and then she said good-bye. Pat hoped to visit her mother again and perhaps introduce her to the granddaughter she never got to meet.
For now though, it felt nice to just share a piece of cake and a cup of tea with her mum.
Lara
Chapter 24
Now
Lara procrastinated with mundane issues as she stared blankly at the computer screen. The little spider currently making its way up the office wall intrigued her. Its wiry body had ventured up a quarter of the way, with so much more space to conquer and no oasis en route—just acres and acres of Dulux-painted, neutral-colored wall space. It used to feel as if her own journey to “being Lara” had become arduous to say the least… Twenty-seven years of wondering about the unknown.
Until Granny.
Of course, the questions still floated around her in every form and in every aspect of her life, but thanks to this older lady who stooped when she walked yet flatly refused a walking stick, the answers too were now stacking up nicely, which ironically at times bred new questions. Like wondering what life may have been like if that fork in the road had led her onto a different path. Staying put in Nigeria and being brought up by Yomi and her father, the Mighty Chief. She smiled at this ludicrous detail. That she, plain old Lara Reid from Essex was a chief’s daughter! She imagined herself in a feather dress and half a tiger wrapped around her shoulders. Her only reference point for such a life was courtesy of the old movie Coming to America. Had her kingdom been just as colorful and enchanting? What would she have been like? Her personality, her goals, her taste in clothes?
She touched the side of her face absently, thinking that even if this chief of Lagos dude was alive, he probably wouldn’t have been bothered much, because according to Granny, Lara was one of many sired children. He’d married numerous women, and according to the Internet site on polygamous marriages in Nigeria, the first wife was always the special one. And as far as she knew, Yomi had been number three or four or five. Nevertheless, Lara would at least have been fluent in Yoruba and the Queen’s English, words like Nice one, pucker, and moron never once entering her vocabulary. She would have learned Nigerian customs such as curtsying to elders, and knowing how to cook pepe soup would have been second nature. Some days she would probably have been seen in a wrapper and buba, complete with head tie. On the other hand, she wouldn’t have known her family—Brian, Agnes, Rob, Keely, Jason, Annie—Sandi, or indeed Kieron from next door.
Or Pat and Barry.
And the thought of her parents being unknown to her like Yomi and the chief was something she found unable to imagine, the thought so horrific she had to catch her breath before answering Jean’s knock.
“Lara, it’s my mother. She’s not been very well and her condition has worsened. I will have to go home, back to France,” said Jean.
“Of course, Jean,” she said, moving over to him and placing a hand on his stiff shoulder. He placed his head in his hands, swiped them over his face, leaving a pink film on his skin and looking as if he hadn’t slept for days.
“I will finish up today, but I really must go. I’m not even sure when I’ll be back.”
“No, you go now. Go home, pack, and give your mum my love.”
“Thank you, Lara. I am sorry to leave you like this.”
“Don’t be silly. Just make sure she’s okay.”
He looked up and with a straight smile said, “You only have one mum, right?”
After seeing Jean off, Lara sat down to the brochure of new lines being introduced to the website. She had hoped to go through each new accessory and discuss presentations with Jean, because she relied on him more than she cared to admit. But within the space of a few minutes, her workload had doubled.
She rang the temping agency, then phoned her own mum, needing to hear her voice, especially with what Jean was going through.
“I can help out if you like, sweet pea.”
“Don’t be silly, Mum; I’ll be fine.”
“I used to be quite good at putting things together in my old singing days. I didn’t have a stylist like all those youngsters like Kylie do. Your dad and I were it!”
“And Phil!” said Lara.
“Oh, sometimes, Phil!”
Mum rarely spoke about her pop star days anymore, and although Lara would have loved to have heard more, she really had to press on with work.
“Sorry, Mum, I have t
o go,” she said guiltily.
“Okay, sweet pea, but remember the offer’s still there.”
The next morning, the temp arrived. A busy day lay ahead but Lara’s pen, for some reason, hovered over a contract, unsure of how to sign her name. It was a silly, irrational moment, which seemed to appear out of nowhere.
Lara Reid or Omolara Ogunlade?
The desk phone beeped.
“Ms. Reid?”
“Cally, call me Lara, please.” Or Omolara, she thought.
“Your father is here to see you.”
She felt a prickle of alarm as the door opened.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, surprised, elated, and relieved it wasn’t another blast from the past—an undead chief, perhaps, and his leopard/feather-clad entourage barging into her office. She was clearly losing her mind.
“It’s not a crime to come in to see my little girl, is it?”
“Mum let you out?”
“Something like that.”
They embraced heartily.
“Sorry I haven’t been over much since my visit. Not much of a daughter, am I?”
“Never say that Laralina love. You’re the best daughter a man could have.”
Dad was looking a little intense, clearly with something to say. The only time he’d ever visited Lara’s office was just after her first week of work was coming to an end and she’d invited her parents to view her “posh” new office. Dad had made an impromptu speech and shed hard tears, blubbing about how proud he was of her, Mum calming him down with a peppermint and cries of “you big softy.”
“Sit down, Dad. I’ll get Cally to fetch in a cup of tea,” she said.
“No, that’s all right, love. I need to say this first. It’s important and you’d better sit down.”
“Dad, what’s this about?”
“I need to say, first, that all I have ever wanted for you was the best.”