by Beth Thomas
‘Just take off the ends, please,’ I said to the hairdresser. Stacy, I think she was called. She had the most ruthless eyebrows I’ve ever seen, plucked to a line no wider than a centipede. I couldn’t take my eyes off them in the mirror as she examined my head.
‘Ooh isn’t your hair lovely, hun,’ she said, trying to jerk her fingers through the tangle at the end. She leaned forward and put her mouth right next to my ear. ‘Just sooo gorgeous.’
‘Oh, really? Thanks.’
‘Oh yeah, it’s really stunning, so silky and lovely.’ In the mirror, a snarl appeared on Stacy’s face as the brush got stuck again. ‘You’re very lucky, I’m so envious actually.’
‘She’s patronising you,’ Mum’s voice said in my head. ‘Look at her hair, thick, smooth and glossy. It’s insulting, Daisy. Tell her to stop.’
I opened my mouth to speak, but a sudden searing pain from the back of my head told me that clumps of my hair were being torn from my scalp by their roots. ‘YOW!’
‘Oopsie daisy, sorry, sweetpea, my fault.’
‘Of course it’s her fault,’ Mum whispered furiously. ‘She’s yanking your hair with the brush, you’re not yanking her brush with your hair. Say something!’
‘Oh, er, heh heh, that’s OK. Made me jump a bit, that’s all.’
‘Yeah, it will do m’darling. Just a teensy weensy little knot or two, all riii-iight?’ By now, the muscles were standing out on Stacy’s jaw and a vein was pulsing in her neck. A collection of metal bangles on her wrist were crashing repeatedly into my head and ears and her enormous tanned cleavage was squishing hard into my back. She worked the brush roughly through to the ends, then gave up on it and picked up a comb. I eyed it nervously, then gripped the arm-rests of my chair and braced.
‘So how’s life treating you, sweet?’
My head was being yanked back then pushed forwards repeatedly in a kind of giant exaggerated nod. I tried to relax my muscles and go floppy to avoid whiplash. ‘Life is shit, actually, Stace. My mum died, then my stepdad, my real dad’s in America, my sister and stepbrothers hate me and I’ve got nowhere to live and no job, thanks. You?’
I didn’t say that. No one ever wants to hear it. I said, ‘Fine, thanks. How about you?’ Mum tutted loudly in my head.
‘Aw, I’m good thanks, sweet. Off to Tenerife next week, can’t wait actually!’
‘Oh really? That sounds nice.’
‘Yeah. One week all inclusive, sun, sea and sangria, three stars. Really really looking forward to it.’
‘Wonderful, lucky you.’
‘Yeah, I know. We go back there every year, me and Steve. They absolutely love us there ’cause we’re always so up for it, ja know what I mean?’
‘I think I do …’
‘We really go for it, me and Steve. We’re always messing around, having a laugh, life and soul of the party, it’s a proper giggle. Last year I won the Loveliest Jubblies competition and Steve glassed the judge.’
‘Shit!’
‘Oh my God it was soooo funny. People shouting, tables going over, Miguel running around waving his arms, total carnage! We were in complete stitches, actually.’
‘Jesus …’
‘I laughed so much, well, everyone did, afterwards, you know, once we knew he wasn’t really hurt. Hysterical.’
‘Sure.’
‘Yeah, holidays are brilliant. You got anything booked then?’
‘Um, no, not yet.’ Absolutely no need for her to know I was currently unemployed.
‘Aw, bless. You gotta have something to look forward to, sweetie.’
At that moment, I was looking forward to gently stroking my head with my hands and telling it everything was going to be OK.
Twenty-five minutes later, she held a mirror up behind me while I examined the damage in the one in front. It was a hideous disaster. She’d taken at least three inches off the length, cut some layers in around the sides and shortened the fringe. The lack of weight from the shortened length was making the whole thing more curly and little tendrils of hair were sticking up randomly at the sides and bobbing under. The overall effect had taken fifteen years off me. I was now thirteen.
‘Is that all riii-iight?’ Stacy asked, although she wasn’t really asking it, she was reciting lines. Her attention was fixed on an elderly lady wrapped in a towel who was being brought over from the sinks. ‘Be with you in a minute, Ada, all riii-iight?’ She made reflected eye contact with me again and smiled encouragingly as she picked up random sections of my hair and pulled it through her fingers. ‘I’ve just put a couple of long layers in there, to give it some softness and definition.’
‘How can it give softness and definition?’ Mum demanded, but I was mute.
‘Is it okaaa-aaay for you?’
‘Say something!’
I nodded. ‘Yes, yes, it’s lovely. Thank you.’
Stacy smiled and put the hand mirror back down on the counter. ‘Fantastic. If you’d like to go and see Debra at the desk, she’ll sort you out.’
I paid Debra at the desk, added a tip for Stacy, then slowly walked the three miles back to Abby’s flat. It’s OK, I kept telling myself, I’ll wash it when I get in and dry it myself, that’ll make all the difference. As if washing it would help it grow the three inches back that were gone. It didn’t.
‘Oh my God,’ Abby said when she saw me later that day. She walked up to me, her eyes wide and stared at my face. ‘Your eyebrows! Oh my God, your hair! Wait …’ She flicked her eyes down once. ‘Have you …?’
‘Bugger off!’ I stepped back away from her.
‘Ooh, all right, chill. Well your hair looks lovely, anyway. It really suits you.’ She examined my head critically, peering all the way round the back, then nodded approvingly. ‘It’s lovely. Excellent.’
I’m on the canal bank now. It’s not going terribly well. I think I need some moral support.
Daisy Mack
Not approaching my nemesis. Not slowing my steps with mounting terror. Not about to die a violent and horrible death. Everything’s fine.
Suzanne Allen Good God Daisy, what on earth is going on?
Daisy Mack Nothing Suze, told you. None of that is happening. Everything’s fine.
Georgia Ling Luv it lol xxx
Susan Pimms What you up too?
Abby Marcus Brad’s balls, Daisy. Get on with it.
Immediately after I post that, my instant messenger pops. I click on the message with relief: this will be the moral support I need, thank God.
Abby Marcus Where are you?
Daisy Mack Approaching footbridge. Stop distracting me.
Abby Marcus OK. You can do it! Just keep going.
Daisy Mack Ohhhh, I never thought of it like that. Thanks Abs.
Abby Marcus Ah. Sarcasm. This is good. Things really are starting to get back to normal. xxx
When Mum was in what turned out to be her final month of life, she started to obsess about trivia. I don’t mean she was desperate to spend the last of her precious time on this earth swotting up on which country has the largest temperature range in the world, or how many drops make a dash. As if she was expecting to have to pass some kind of general knowledge quiz to get … where she was going. What I mean is she was intensely and constantly worried about what was going to happen to us all, and all her things, after she died. Which may not seem trivial, but compared to dying in a hospice it seemed pretty irrelevant to me. She talked endlessly about the things in the house that she wanted us to have: a glass punch bowl; a china set; some silk scarves.
‘Daisy, I want you to have the scarves,’ she said, trying to squeeze my hand. Her hand in mine didn’t feel real. It felt more like a collection of twigs than anything else, but I held it anyway. I held it for as long as I could stand it.
‘Mum, it’s fine,’ I said, smiling very widely. ‘Please don’t worry about it. We’ll sort it all out.’
‘No, no, you’ve got to listen. I want you to have the scarves because Naomi doesn’t suit a
scarf. She’s too serious. But you mustn’t be upset if I give her the Wedgwood set. I just think it will be better for her because she’s got Russell and the house and everything.’
‘Mum …’
‘And then if she’s having that, you must have the jewellery box. It needs looking after, though, Daisy Duck. It’s over sixty years old so you’ve got to take care of it. My dad gave it to my mum on their wedding day, you know.’
‘Really?’ I did know. She’d told me months earlier. But she was on morphine by then and wasn’t always clear about what she’d already said.
‘And I need to sort out my jewellery. I need you to help me, sweetheart. I can’t ask Graham because he gave me most of it and it will only upset him to know I’m giving it away.’ She smiled sadly. ‘I don’t think he wants to face what’s happening here until he absolutely has to. Do you understand?’
I nodded. Of course I understood. He didn’t want to be reminded of the fact that she was dying. I totally got that. ‘Yes, I understand.’
‘So … will you do it for me?’
‘Of course I will, Mum. Anything. Just tell me what you want me to do.’
It turned out she had a folder in the house with photographs and a description of every item of jewellery she owned, for the insurance, and she asked me to bring it into the hospice, with Naomi, so we could leaf through it and choose what we wanted. I used my door key to visit the house when Graham wasn’t there, sneaking in and opening Mum’s bedroom cabinet. I felt like I was violating her. She lost her dignity in so many ways.
Naomi went first, while I sat on the bed with an aching throat.
‘I love this ring,’ Naomi said excitedly, pointing to a page in the folder. ‘Can I have it?’ She looked at me. ‘Daze? You don’t want it, do you?’
I shook my head. I didn’t want it. I didn’t want any of it. I just wanted Mum to keep on wearing it for the next forty years.
‘Excellent.’ Naomi pulled the sheet of paper out of its plastic sleeve and wrote a large black ‘N’ on the page next to the photograph. ‘Lovely.’ She slid it back in and continued turning the pages until eventually she had labelled about ten things. ‘Here you go, Daze,’ she said, handing the folder to me. ‘You choose ten, and then we’ll fight over the rest.’
I took the folder but didn’t open it. Mum had gone to sleep and I stared at her for a few moments, watching her chest rising and falling, willing it to keep going. I started counting the seconds that elapsed between the end of an exhale and the start of the next inhale, and as it grew from three seconds to four, then five, I began wondering if today was going to be the day.
‘Wakey wakey,’ Naomi said suddenly, and I jumped a bit and turned to look at her. She wasn’t talking to Mum, though; she was talking to me. ‘Get a move on, Dozy, I’ve got to get going in a minute. We’re going to Ikea.’
So I picked my ten, and then Naomi divided the rest out between us. By the time Mum woke up again twenty minutes later, Naomi had gone and each item had either an ‘N’ or a ‘D’ next to it.
‘Oh, hi, Daisy Duck,’ Mum said, smiling at me. ‘When did you get here?’
I’m glad she did it now. It gave me a chance to wear some of it when I went to visit her, which she loved. She was so thin by this time that she hadn’t been able to wear any of it for ages, so she was happy to see it again.
‘Just don’t let Graham see you wearing it,’ she said, fingering a gorgeous aquamarine and diamond ring I had just taken off. She slid it onto her own pathetically thin finger and it dangled there loosely like a curtain ring, the heavy gem immediately sliding round to the underside. She laughed and slid it off again. ‘Here you go, it looks a lot better on you. But don’t forget, poor Graham would be devastated if he knew you had it already, before … anything has happened. Don’t let him see, sweetheart. Promise me.’
‘I promise, Mum.’ I slid the ring back on my finger, not realising how devastating that promise would turn out to be.
Of course, because she was so organised about all that, it meant she didn’t have to put any of those things in her will. Which meant the letter from Owen and Lake was about the house and whatever liquid assets Graham left. I knew that as I took it from Abby last Sunday.
‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ Abby asked me, while I ran my fingers over the heavy paper.
‘Yeah, course I am.’ I folded the envelope in half and tucked it in my own jeans pocket. ‘Just not right now.’
‘Might be important.’
I shrugged. It would wait. Nothing was all that important any more.
This route that Abby and Tom have worked out for me isn’t too bad actually. It’s a circuit, which means I just have to keep walking until I get back again, minimal orienteering required. I start off along the road and go down to the park – one and a half miles. I skirt around the edge of the park and go through a little gap in the fence at the top end, which leads to a footpath – half a mile. I follow the footpath alongside the canal, then cross over the dual carriageway and keep on the same path all the way to the next town – four miles. Then I come back along the road for a bit, use the underpass to get back to the other side of the bypass and cut through a housing estate back to Abby’s – three miles. In total, it’s about nine miles. I know this because I have a brand new pedometer in my pocket, which counts my steps, multiplies that number by the length of my average pace, which I had to input in advance, and converts that figure to a measurement of how far I’ve walked. Also because Abby told me.
Daisy Mack
Clothed in cobwebs; feasting on flies.
Suzanne Allen Jesus, Daisy, do some shopping for the love of Gucci.
Georgia Ling LMAO! xxx
Nat ‘Wiggy’ Nicholson You sound like you need a makeover, hunni.x
I’m on the approach to the footbridge over the motorway now. I’m not happy about this part of the walk, for two principal reasons. Firstly, the path is a bit overgrown and I keep swallowing insects. They stay in your throat for ages and I never know whether to swallow them to get rid of them, or try to spit them out. I’m also finding this part of the canal path is permanently festooned with cobwebs, which of course are completely invisible to the naked eye. It’s not until you walk through one and find yourself trying to pull swathes of sticky strands off your face that you even know they’re there. And of course, as you’re trying to free yourself from their deadly little silken traps, you know that the eight-legged architect is no doubt now somewhere about your person.
Not that I’m scared of spiders. I’m not. Why would I be? They’re wonderful because they don’t live on leftovers, like some insects do, they set traps and hunt and provide for themselves without involving anyone else. OK, so they’ve got eight eyes and eight hairy legs, and let themselves down out of nowhere into your hair, and sometimes move really fast just when you’re least expecting it, but –
Shit. What was that? I think there’s one on me. I just felt something tickling the back of my arm. I swat at myself a few times, then rub my arm roughly, to make sure. Then I have to rub the other arm, just as roughly, then both my legs, the back of my neck and finally my hair, all while hopping about madly on the spot and yelping.
I think I inherited my casual indifference to spiders from Mum. ‘Spiders are fantastic,’ she used to say, letting one she’d rescued from the bath run across her hand. ‘They hunt and kill their own food. And you know what that food is? Flies. Flies eat poo and rubbish and give birth to maggots. The fewer of them on the planet, the better, as far as I’m concerned.’ She never used to hoover up cobwebs from the corners of the rooms at home either. ‘Cobwebs are nature’s own flypaper,’ she would say to anyone who questioned it. Although no one ever did, really. Only Graham. And only once.
Mum was pretty cool with just about everything. She could complain about bad service in shops. She could not tip taxi drivers. She could send food back in restaurants. She could even say she wasn’t happy with a haircut. But she was paralysingly terrified of
one thing. Which brings me to the second reason why I don’t like this part of the walk. The footbridge. Mum was petrified of heights. And so am I.
When I was about eight and Naomi was eleven, the three of us went on a weekend away to London. I’m not entirely sure why – it may have been Mum’s birthday or something like that. On the first day, we checked into our hotel, before going out for dinner and a show. We had a family room, which turned out to be a quad. Mum was not happy about that at all, I remember.
‘It’s a quad room,’ she said to the receptionist half an hour after we’d arrived, ‘presumably because that is what this hotel thinks of as a typical family: mum, dad, little John and little Jane. But we are a family, and there are only three of us. Sadly our fourth member decided three years ago to follow his dream, and his colleague’s arse, to Peterborough in search of clichés.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘Do you know what that means?’
The receptionist smiled. ‘Well,’ she started to say, then realised very quickly that she didn’t need to.
‘It means,’ Mum went on calmly, ‘that we only have one income. I am supporting myself and my two children here on only one lot of pay. So probably roughly half as much as the standard family that this hotel would usually put in the quad room.’
‘Madam,’ the receptionist tried, but got nowhere.
‘So although I have half as much money as the people you would normally put in that room, you still want to make me pay exactly the same amount of money as they pay, by charging me a supplement for the empty bed.’ She smiled at this point, and tilted her head on one side a little, as if she was watching a chimpanzee juggle oranges. ‘It’s hardly fair, is it, Kirsty?’
We had a slap up meal that night. They must have refunded the supplement. ‘Don’t let hotel bastards wear you down,’ Mum said to us over dinner. ‘You fight for what is right, girls, and you keep on fighting, no matter what.’ She leaned towards us across the table and whispered behind her hand, ‘I’ve never lost one yet.’
She did lose one eventually. It was her final fight, last November.
Anyway during that London trip, the three of us got stuck on a bridge somewhere. I don’t know what bridge it was, but I remember it was over water, so it didn’t feel dangerous to me. Not at first, anyway. But apparently it did for Mum. Naomi and I hadn’t noticed that she’d slowed her steps quite a lot as we set out on it, and scampered off ahead. By the time we heard her faint voice calling our names and turned round to see what she wanted, she was motionless, white and crouching. I stared at her in horror as she moved one arm about two inches away from her body and pulled her fingers very slowly towards herself twice. I looked up at Naomi, not understanding what was going on.