‘Yes, yes, I’m fine. And don’t worry about food, we are getting a takeaway later.’ She watched her mum’s shoulders sag with both relief and disappointment.
Jessica stood in the hallway and let her eyes rove over the threadbare patches of carpet in the middle of the stair treads and the sheet of wallpaper behind the telephone table that had begun to peel away. A flush of guilt spread from her toes to the roots of her hair. Living with Matthew in his world meant she forgot how carefully her parents had to budget. A new carpet for the stairs would mean a year of planning, saving and going without. They constantly juggled things to balance the pennies. Picturing her beautiful shoe collection and all the presents from her wonderful husband, Jessica wondered how much carpet all her new possessions would buy.
‘Come in, come in! You don’t need telling!’ Coral ushered her along the hallway. ‘You look tired and I wish you’d cut your hair!’ These were two of her mum’s staple comments. Jessica ignored both. ‘Matt okay?’
‘Yeah, he’s great. Working hard, you know, knackered as usual.’ Jessica shrugged, feeling the usual flicker of embarrassment at mentioning her husband’s fatigue when he got to sit in a plush office every day and return every evening to their luxurious home.
She stepped into the cosy kitchen, where her dad was sitting at the table, cutting into a pork chop. She had also forgotten how early they ate.
‘Hello, Jess! I thought I heard you.’ Roger wiped his lips with his fingers, swallowed his mouthful and placed his cutlery on the table as he stood to embrace his daughter. ‘Well, this is a lovely surprise. Matt not with you?’ He looked over her shoulder as though his son-in-law might be lurking there.
‘No, he’s just got in from work. I’ve left him at home.’ She pictured her excited husband secretly texting his friend with their news and smiled.
‘Cuppa?’ Coral was already filling the kettle.
‘Finish your supper, Mum!’ Jessica pointed at the abandoned plate on the table and wished she had said tea, not supper.
Coral made a dismissive gesture with her hand. ‘No, no. I wasn’t enjoying it anyway, only eating it for the sake of it.’
Jessica nodded, noting how easily the white lies slipped from her mum’s mouth; anything to smooth a situation, ease a conversation or avoid having to tell the truth.
‘Everything okay, love? We don’t usually see you midweek.’ Roger smiled and Jessica filled in the gaps: we don’t usually see you unless it’s prearranged and always on a Sunday, when we come to you.
‘Yeah, everything’s good. Great.’ She smiled, feeling suddenly self-conscious about her pregnancy and having to confirm to her dad that she had indeed had sex.
‘Work going all right?’ Coral asked as she slipped teabags into mugs.
Jessica nodded. Her mum didn’t fully understand how you could have a job but not go to an office, shop or factory. How you could earn money without having a weekly wage slip with the usual deductions. She didn’t understand a lot about her daughter’s life. ‘Yes, I’ve been doing some lovely illustrations of flowers. And they got the okay today.’
‘Oooh, will it have your name in it?’ Coral smiled, giving this her full attention.
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘We’ll have to have a copy then, won’t we, Roger? We can leave it on the coffee table and when we have company, I’ll say, “Oh, that old thing? That’s our Jess’s book!”’
‘I’ll get you a couple of copies, Mum.’
‘Let me know how much they are and I’ll settle up with you.’
Jessica nodded.
‘I was going to call you, Jess. I’ve got something for Matt.’ Her dad pushed past her and raced up the stairs.
As he left the room, Coral closed in on her daughter, whispering conspiratorially into her face, ‘He wants Matt to have them. He’s thought about it a lot.’
She withdrew as her husband came back into the room and placed an old green shoebox on the table. He removed the lid and carefully parted the tissue to reveal two shiny gold-coloured plastic trophies. Both were faux-marble pillars sitting on wooden plinths. One had a footballer balancing on the top, mid kick. A small plaque on the base read: ‘Under 15s Player of the Year, 2000’. The other was identical but read: ‘Golden Boot – Top Scorer 2000’.
‘Oh, Dad!’ Jessica ran her fingers over the precious mementos.
‘I reckon Danny would like Matt to have them, even if he is a QPR fan.’ He gave a half smile.
‘I don’t know what to say.’ Jessica spoke the truth, overwhelmed by the gesture. ‘He’ll treasure them, Dad, I know he will.’
Roger nodded, choked.
She wasn’t sure it was now appropriate to give them her news, not when the room was so full of Danny. ‘I’ll just spend a penny.’ She ducked into the little cloakroom under the stairs and sat on the loo, looking at the small corner shelves crammed with photos of her and her brother when they were little.
Her eyes were drawn to one in particular. It made her smile. She was about five and was sulking on a step in a tutu with her chin on her fists and her elbows on her knees, clearly miffed about something. There was another of her blowing out the candles on a cake that was twice the size of her. She was seven; she didn’t remember anything about being seven. Holding the picture, she studied every detail, laughing at her hair, which had been curled and anchored with a large velvet headband, and at the flecks of spit that an eagle eye could see flying towards the buttercream frosting. It was hard to blow with no front teeth. Narrowing her eyes, she studied the image of the boys and girls that stood either side of her, classmates from her primary school; Polly’s was the only name she could readily recall.
Jessica looked at her mum, who was holding up the homemade cake at an angle. In the photograph she was a young woman with her head bowed slightly, a young woman whose hair fell in soft layers; she looked happy, satisfied with her lot and with no idea about the heartache that lay ahead. Now, she was hollowed out, cracked and stooped with grief. In the picture she was wearing a royal blue T-shirt and had a set of pink bangles sitting loosely on her wrist. Jessica felt a wave of panic spread through her veins. She was going to be a mum, a mum that would have to bake cakes, hold birthday parties, write thank-you notes and click the light off after checking under the bed for monsters. Jessica swallowed the wave of responsibility that threatened to swamp her. Please let me be good enough. Help me figure it all out.
Jessica clutched the photo to her chest and headed back along the hallway. Her parents were sitting quietly, staring at the shoebox with what could have been regret.
‘I need to get back to Matt, I told him I wouldn’t be too long.’ She held the photograph in her hands before laying it on the table.
‘Oh, okay, love, but you haven’t drunk your tea!’ Coral was confused; worried she had offended her daughter in some way.
‘I don’t really fancy a cup, Mum.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Matthew will be so touched with his present, Dad, he really will. Thank you. I think Danny would have liked him, don’t you? I imagine them chatting sometimes, but it’s difficult because Danny is still a little boy in my head. He never gets any older, does he? I can’t imagine him in his twenties, going for a pint with Matt, so if I picture him, he’s still young and Matt chats to him like he’s a child.’ She swallowed, knowing she was babbling, her emotions getting the better of her. ‘It’s when you reach milestones that you miss him the most, isn’t it? And today’s a milestone because I’m pregnant.’ Her mum gasped as her hand flew to her mouth. ‘And Matthew is the father of course, not Juan, my imaginary Spanish lover. Oh and I have a tattoo of a cherub on my arse and so does Polly.’ With that she burst into tears.
September 24th, 2013
I didn’t realise it was my parents’ usual visiting day. They come once a month and it comes around more and more quickly. Too quickly for my liking. That’s a horrible thing to say, but it’s true. I feel guilty when people are sympathetic, which they are surprisingly often.
I don’t deserve sympathy and I definitely don’t want it. They tell me that it wasn’t really my fault, that I was ill – but I can’t accept that. It just adds another layer of guilt for me to try and hack through.
I walked along the corridor and into the little room known as ‘the family room’. I hate that term. To me, a family room is somewhere you choose to be to sit together with those you love, a place where laughter bounces from the walls and precious photos line the windowsill. A room like our front room at Hillcrest Road used to be, with its smear of meat sauce just above the skirting board and the tiny crack by the fireplace where Mum dropped a heavy plate one Easter Sunday. A room full of stories. This room is nothing like that. It’s austere, cold and beige. Metal-framed chairs scrape along the industrial-style flooring. The windows are opaque and the outside bars cast long shadows on the opposite walls.
I peered through the door and saw my mum and dad sitting side by side, their thighs touching where they had pushed the chairs close together. Their forearms rested on the laminate-topped table. My dad looked older – he always does – and my mum looked… my mum looked like a ghost, frail, pale and just like she did when she was first grieving for Danny. She is grieving again and this time it’s because of me; the wave of guilt threatened to engulf me.
None of us found it easy to start the conversation. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t seen them for a month: most normal topics are out of bounds. They couldn’t comment on how well I looked, because I don’t, and I didn’t need to ask how they were because it was obvious from their faces. References to the outside world are too painful for any of us to mention; none of us wants the reminder that I am trapped in here. The weather is a no-go: they don’t want to talk about a burst of sunshine when I am reduced to forty crappy minutes of fresh air a day, which I always take, rain or shine. My dad has given up work and my mum spends her days on the sofa, full of sadness and regret. This last month has been different for them, but we’re all ignoring that. I know they’ve just had two weeks of respite. I picture them sitting on a plane with twitchy fingers and stomachs knotted with guilt and anticipation as they travelled overseas. The temptation to bombard them with questions is almost overwhelming. But I don’t, knowing that their responses would keep me awake and drain the small amount of sanity I have stored inside my head. I can’t cope with anything they might tell me. Better to pretend. Better for us all. Instead, they smile stiffly and nod as I sit down. My mum avoids my gaze and my dad opens his mouth as if to speak, but closes it again as words literally fail him.
I tell them that they don’t have to visit. I say it with as much conviction as I can muster. The truth is, I don’t want them here, I don’t want to associate them with this place, preferring to think of them in the kitchen in Hillcrest Road, pottering and chatting with the radio on. I don’t want them to see me like this.
The hour passed slowly, each of us periodically glancing at the clock on the wall, frustrated by how slowly the second hand crept along. My mum reached into her pocket and pulled out an acorn. ‘A present,’ she whispered. I took it from her shaking hand and placed it in my pocket. I have it on my bedside table.
When the bell finally rang, Mum looked at me and asked, ‘Do you pray, Jess?’ I didn’t know if she was saying I should or merely asking out of curiosity. I was thinking of how to respond when a guard came along and, taking me by the elbow, escorted me from the room. I looked back over my shoulder in time to see my dad take my mum’s shaking form into his arms and pat her back as she cried into his jumper.
Eight
Jessica felt the light touch of her husband’s kiss on her forehead as he crept from the room. She smiled. This pregnancy malarkey certainly had its advantages. Instead of nuzzling her awake for speedy sex and then almost insisting on having coffee together before he left for the office, he now left her in bed every morning, encouraging her to sleep for as long as she was able. She was performing the very important task of baby growing, so Matthew had taken over most of the running of the house, not wanting her to hurt herself. Although how she might be injured by a hoover or a duster was beyond her.
Last night before falling asleep he had read aloud from their baby book, again. ‘Oh my God! Our baby has fingerprints! Actual fingerprints, can you believe it? And if it’s a girl she has eggs in her ovaries. That is mind-blowing.’ He shook his head.
Jessica smiled. She loved that Matt was so involved, so excited about their future and so protective of her. Sometimes he could go a bit too far, like when they had rowed furiously about whether she should take on another illustration commission or not. He had inadvertently mumbled through a mouth full of food that she should relax, it wasn’t as if she had a real job… She had shouted at him, and he had shouted back. It was one of those rows that had been simmering for some time and brought out into the open something she had long suspected. Matthew had tried to backpedal, but only succeeded in making matters far worse. Stuttering, ‘But my mother was happy not to have the worry of working, she was free to keep the house nice—’
‘You think my job is to keep the house nice?’ Jessica had squealed.
‘No! Well, a bit. Yes!’ Worryingly, he didn’t know why this might cause offence.
‘Jesus Christ, Matt, what is this, 1950? Why don’t you tell me which way you think I should vote while you’re at it!’
‘Don’t be like that,’ he said. ‘You know what I mean. Just imagine if your mum didn’t have to work every day at a job that she doesn’t love, she’d have a much more pleasant life.’
‘My mum has an unpleasant life because she is a dinner lady and isn’t wealthy enough to stay at home?’ This she squealed louder and higher.
‘That’s not what I meant!’ He pushed at his eye socket with his forefinger and thumb.
‘Well, that’s what it sounded like. And for your information, my job, my creativity is a very important part of me!’
Matthew laughed. ‘Oh God! You sound like one of those arty-farty types who carry a book bag and collect vintage teacups.’
He soon stopped laughing when he saw her stricken expression. He apologised straight away, and they had a proper talk about it all. In the end, though, she had agreed it did make sense and she gave up her job nonetheless. She loved her work, but she loved the idea of making him happy even more. Okay, her days were a bit more boring, and she missed the rush of a commission, the sense of promise she derived from a freshly sharpened pencil and a blank sheet of paper. But it was a small price to pay for the enormous amount of sleep she was now allowed.
Jessica buried her face in the pillow and sprawled against the mattress. Despite her initial misgivings, she had to admit that she rather liked the mornings when she was all alone. She could sleep like a starfish and snore with her mouth open, knowing she could wake naturally. No employment meant no boss to answer to. It had always been her definition of success and luxury to wake without an alarm clock. She was renowned for her sleeping ability. Her sixth-form report had stated: ‘If sleeping anywhere at a moment’s notice, such as in church, at assembly or during the fourth form production of The Caretaker, were a valid subject or sport, Jessica would be heading for a straight A.’ She had meant to photocopy this and put it up in their loo.
A loud hammering on the front door woke her suddenly. Lifting her head and pushing back the thick curtain of hair that obscured her view, she tried to focus on Matthew’s bedside clock. It was eleven o’clock. Surely she hadn’t slept until eleven? But she had.
Grabbing her tartan dressing gown, Jessica thrust her arms into the holes and opened the front door. At first she thought someone had knocked and run away, a favourite prank of the schoolboys on whose route to school she happened to live. She was about to shut the door again when a hand waving from the ground to her right alerted her; it was accompanied by a trickling sound.
‘What in God’s name are you doing?’ Jessica looked on horrified as she spotted her friend squatting on the small paved area where the wheelie bins lived, b
eneath the front bay window.
Polly looked up and smiled. ‘I’m having a wee.’
‘Christ, Polly! Why are you weeing in the front garden? Can’t you just use the loo like a normal human?’
Polly snorted her laughter. ‘I was absolutely, completely desperate! I got off the train and ran. I don’t know how I hung on, I really don’t. I only just made it to here. I banged on the door but couldn’t wait a second longer. I’m nearly done. Don’t watch.’ She shooed at her friend with her hand.
Jessica drew breath and was about to respond when she heard Mrs Pleasant’s door bang shut.
‘Ah, morning!’ Jessica waved at her over the shrubs and miniature wall.
‘Mor—’ Mrs Pleasant didn’t quite manage to get her words out: the girl on the ground with her jeans bunched down around her knees fixated her.
‘Sorry about my friend,’ Jessica mumbled. ‘She has an illness and has to go when the need takes her and… I’m just glad she managed to get behind the hedge in time.’ She nodded apologetically.
‘We are both glad about that!’ Polly snorted again.
Mrs Pleasant fastened her mackintosh and hitched her shopping bag over her shoulder before making her way down Merton Avenue without uttering a word.
Jessica smiled widely at a mum with a pushchair that passed by, trying to look as if she had been awake for an age.
Polly came bounding into the hallway. ‘Jesus Christ, you lazy cow! Come on, get up, get dressed.’
‘I am up, just not dressed. I hope you are going to wash your hands!’ Jessica shouted.
‘Of course! Don’t you have work to do?’ Polly asked, who was herself between roles, having just finished her latest temping assignment, and considering training as a florist.
Jessica shook her head. ‘No. I’ve kind of given up my illustrations for the time being. Matt thinks it’s better I just concentrate on the baby and the house, y’know…’
‘Actually, I don’t know. You mean he just said “stop working” and you said “okay then”?’ Polly asked with incredulity.
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