One Day at a Time

by Susan Lewis

  I’m talking about Lainey’s brother, Mike, who’s dead cool – apart from his spots and curly hair. Lainey says he really likes me, and her mum agrees. She’s really nice, Mrs Dickson, and ever so pretty. I wonder what she’d say if I actually started going out with Mike. He’s seventeen and according to Lainey he’s had loads of girlfriends that her mum hasn’t liked much, but she likes me so that could work out really well. I could marry Mike and have Lainey as a sister-in-law and Mrs Dickson as a mother-in-law, and we could live in between our house and the Dicksons’ so we’d all seem like one great big family.

  Lainey’s going to ask Mike this weekend if he’ll go out with me.

  I bet he says no.

  ‘What’s the matter, my old love?’ Gran asks. ‘You don’t look very happy.’

  I didn’t realise she was awake because she was dozing when I came in, and I was so carried away in my thoughts I’d almost forgotten where I was.

  ‘I’m all right,’ I tell her.

  ‘You don’t look it. Your face is as long as a fiddle. You’re not still missing your dog, are you?’

  I turn my head away as tears sting my eyes. I know it’s stupid, but I can’t help it.

  She sighs and shakes her head. ‘What are we going to do with you?’ she says.

  ‘Nothing,’ I answer.

  She doesn’t say any more, and nor do I, but I know she’s watching me, and I’m afraid she’s about to start giving me the lecture I’ve been trying to avoid since Dad said she wanted to have a chat with me. ‘What about your old mum,’ she asks in the end, ‘are you still missing her too?’

  Suddenly everything seems blurred and horrible and wrong and I don’t think I’m going to be able to stop myself shouting, or running away, or crying, or I don’t know what.

  ‘Come on my love,’ she says, holding out her arms, ‘come and see your old gran.’

  I know I’m too big for her lap, but I go anyway, and bury my face in her chest the way I used to when I was little.

  ‘There, there,’ she murmurs, rubbing my back. ‘You have a good cry now, Granny’s here to make it all better.’

  I suddenly can’t stop myself sobbing and sobbing until my chest is tearing apart and my eyes are on fire. I keep wishing she was Mum, but that’s not very nice when she’s being so lovely. I love her more than anything, but with all my heart I want Mummy to walk in the door now and tell me she really did go off with another family, but she doesn’t want them any more, so she’s come back to us. I know it would have been a really mean and cruel thing for her to do, but I’d forgive her if only she’d come back. I remember the time I saw her standing outside our house wearing her pink pyjamas. She was smiling and looking all proud, but actually she was already dead by then, so I couldn’t really have seen her, it must have been a ghost. I’m afraid I might see her like that again, but at the same time I wish I could, because it’s horrible never seeing her at all. I’d give anything in the world to make her come back, not only for me, but because I know it would make Dad happy again and I hate it when he looks sad. I’ve always loved him the best, above anything and anyone, even Mum (I think), but he’s different now. He used to laugh all the time and swing us around and read us stories in funny voices that made Mum roll her eyes and tease him, until he chased her back down the stairs telling her he’d deal with her later.

  I know I ought to try and take her place so he won’t be sad any more, but really he’d rather have her and who can blame him? I’m no good at housework, or cooking, or bossing people around, the way she was. Well, I suppose I’m all right at bossing people around, but I bet Dad wouldn’t have beat himself up if she was still here. I didn’t manage to stop him doing that, and I know it was my fault, the same as it was my fault that I lost her ring, and that Lucky died, and it’s my fault that everything’s going wrong.

  ‘Oh there, there, my old love,’ Gran soothes. ‘What a state you’re getting yourself into. Don’t tell me this is all about your mum?’

  I try to nod, but I’m sobbing so hard that my head goes more from side to side than up and down. ‘I don’t – don’t … Please don’t … tell Dad,’ I beg, ‘or he’ll – he’ll get upset too.’

  She clucks and tuts, and pats my back some more. ‘You listen to your old gran now,’ she says. ‘Your lovely dad won’t mind a bit that you’ve had a good cry, but if you want it to be our secret, I promise I won’t say a word.’

  There’s a question I want to ask, but I’m half afraid to, because Gran is Mum’s mum and I don’t want to make her unhappy by talking about things that we shouldn’t mention really.

  ‘Come on, out with it,’ Gran says, when I start to stammer the words.

  ‘Do – do you … Gran, do you miss her too?’ I ask. I cross my fingers very tightly, hoping she’s going to say yes, because I don’t want to be the only one who admits that I do.

  ‘Oh, Susan, Susan, Susan,’ Granny sighs. ‘I miss your mother every minute of every day. Sometimes I picture her walking in that door and it seems so real I find myself waiting for her to say, “So how are you today, Mam? Legs still playing you up, I suppose. Let’s have a nice cup of tea and then we’ll rub in some cream.”’

  Even though I can see it makes her sad, I feel a bit better to know that she misses Mum too after all this time. I’m certain Dad does, but he never mentions her, and I don’t talk about her to Gary because I think he might have forgotten who she is by now, and that’s probably for the best. I wish I could forget too, but I don’t really, because she was my mum and I really, really loved her, even though she died and left us, but it wasn’t her fault. When God makes up His mind, there’s nothing you can do, you have to go, even if you’d rather stay here.

  For a long time Gran and I sit quietly in our cuddle, not saying anything until in the end I hear her starting to snore. I don’t want to wake her up, so I go as gently as possible as I ease myself off her lap. She snuffles, and clacks her teeth, and then her head lolls to one side, but she continues to sleep.

  I wonder what to do next. I’d like to watch telly, but I expect the noise will wake her up, so in the end I decide to get a duster and polish the room. These days we use a spray at home called Pledge, which Mrs Bees our home help buys and Dad pays her back, but Gran still prefers the tins of creamy wax that she buys from the Kleen-eze man when he comes round the door selling his buckets and mops. It’s more work, because you have to put it on with one rag, then buff it off with another, but the shine is lovely and the smell reminds me of when we used to come up here with Mum. She used to do Gran’s housework then, sweeping the carpets, scrubbing the kitchen floor and rubbing Windolene into the windows.

  It’s nearly ten o’clock now and Dad’s just come in looking very pleased with himself. ‘Look what I brought,’ he announces as he walks through the door.

  Gary leaps up from the game of donkey we’re playing and he’s losing. ‘Fish and chips,’ he cries. ‘Did you get me a Clark’s pie?’

  ‘Of course,’ he says, ‘and there’s a fishcake for Susan, and a lovely piece of cod for your gran. Florrie, are you awake?’

  ‘What? What?’ she mumbles, her teeth nearly falling out as she starts to come round. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Dad’s brought some fish and chips,’ I tell her.

  She looks around the room, blinking behind her glasses as though she can’t see, then she spots Dad and sounds surprised as she says, ‘Eddie, there you are.’

  ‘Here I am,’ he replies jovially. ‘Gary, go and get the plates, there’s a good boy.’

  ‘All right, but can I eat mine out of the paper?’

  ‘If you like.’ Dad puts his salt-and-vinegary parcel down on Gran’s yellow and green checked tablecloth, and shrugs off his coat.

  Gran’s staring at the TV, even though it’s not on. ‘Eddie, tell our Tom to come out from behind there,’ she says. ‘I don’t know what he’s hiding from, but if the police are after him, I don’t want them finding him here.’

  I stop unw
rapping the chips and look at Dad.

  He gives me a wink, then goes to check behind the telly. ‘He’s not there, Florrie,’ he tells her. ‘He must have gone when you weren’t looking.’

  She nods and grunts, and takes off her glasses to give them a wipe with her pinny. ‘Where have you been then?’ she asks, putting them on again.

  We’re not very sure who she’s talking to now, because she’s looking at the sideboard, so Dad answers, saying, ‘I’ve been to the pictures. Do you want to know what I saw?’

  ‘Yes,’ Gary cries, bringing in the plates.

  ‘Paint Your Wagon,’ he tells us. ‘Have you heard of it, Florrie?’

  She’s messing about with her glasses again, and seems not to have heard. Then she says, ‘The pictures, that’s nice. What did you see?’

  Gary starts to snigger, but Dad puts a finger over his lips and giving me another wink he asks, ‘Are you hungry, Florrie? We’ve got some fish and chips for you here.’

  ‘Oh, there’s lovely,’ she says. She gives her glasses another wipe and puts them back on. ‘Where’s our Susan? I’m sure she was here just now.’

  ‘I’m here, Gran,’ I tell her.

  She finds me with her eyes and says, ‘So you are.’

  I’m not sure what’s happening so I look at Dad, hoping he might be able to explain.

  ‘Ssh,’ he whispers, ‘she’s a bit confused, because she’s only just woken up.’

  I suppose that makes sense, because she’s quite old so it might take her a while to come round, so I go to give her a kiss, then I help Dad to lay our supper out on to plates. I’m nearly bursting with a question to ask him, but I’m not sure if it’s allowed. In the end I decide that I don’t care if I get told off, I have to ask it. ‘Who did you go to the pictures with, Dad?’ I make it sound chatty and casual, even though I’m feeling very stiff inside.

  ‘Oh, just a friend,’ he answers. ‘No one you know.’

  Now I’m sure it’s a woman, but I don’t say any more because if I’m right I don’t actually want him to tell me. I just hope that whoever she is, he doesn’t see her again, because he’s my dad and he belongs to my mum and we don’t want to share him with anyone else.

  ‘Here we are,’ he says, passing Gran a plate of cod and chips. ‘And I brought you a bottle of stout,’ he tells her, taking one from his pocket.

  ‘Ah, just what the doctor ordered,’ she replies. ‘There’s some lemon squash out in the pantry for you children, if you want some, and you can bring in the bottle opener when you come.’

  Gary does that, because I don’t want to let them talk without me being there in case there’s something I ought to hear. They don’t say anything though, until we start to eat our chips and Dad begins telling us all about the film. He even sings in a gravelly voice, ‘I was born under a wandering star.’

  ‘Oh no!’ Gary shouts, blocking his ears.

  Gran chuckles and stuffs another piece of cod in her mouth.

  I’m not feeling all that hungry, which is when it’s really good to have a little brother, because he can scoff anything. Down my chips go, hardly touching the sides!

  We play a game on the way home, running through the beams of the lamp posts and walking through the shadows. Run, walk. Run, walk. It gets us there quicker, and helps to keep us warm. I’ve got my hand in Dad’s pocket, all tucked up in his hand so we always run together.

  It’s gone eleven by the time we go in the door so Dad sends Gary straight up to bed.

  ‘You too, my love,’ he tells me.

  ‘Will you come in and say goodnight?’ I want to ask him not to go to the pictures again, but I don’t expect I will, because it’ll sound silly and selfish and he’ll only laugh and ask me what on earth I’m talking about.

  ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘Don’t forget to brush your teeth. I’ll go and set the fire, ready for the morning.’

  By the time he turns Gary’s light out and comes in to me I’m all snuggled in under the covers.

  ‘Tired?’ he asks, going to make sure the curtains are properly pulled.

  ‘A bit,’ I reply.

  He takes some clean pyjamas out of the airing cupboard for himself and sniffs them with a great big ‘aaaaah’ because they’re lovely and fresh and warm.

  ‘Dad?’ I say, as he tucks his pyjamas under his arm. ‘What’s wrong with Gran? Why did she say Uncle Tom was hiding behind the telly?’

  ‘Oh, sometimes old people do that,’ he tells me, putting his pyjamas on my old doll’s pram and coming to sit on my dressing-table stool. ‘They see things that aren’t there, or they get muddled up in their heads. It’s nothing to worry about.’

  ‘She’s not going to die, is she?’ I ask.

  ‘My love, we all die one day,’ he says, brushing back my hair, ‘but I don’t think your old gran’s going anywhere just yet.’

  I knew she wasn’t really, but I had to be sure, and now I’m ready to go on to the next subject. Only I wait till he’s turned out the light, and is about to close the door, before I say, ‘Dad, I don’t mind if you’ve got a girlfriend.’ (I do, I really, really do, but I’m hoping he’s going to laugh and say something like, ‘Where on earth did you get that idea from? Of course I haven’t got a girlfriend.’)

  ‘You’ve got an overactive imagination, my girl,’ he tells me, ‘now off to sleep with you,’ and with that he goes off and leaves me in the dark.

  Eddie

  It’s been a couple of weeks now since I went to the pictures with Anne. We had a marvellous time, eating choc ices in the interval and chatting all the way home about other films we’ve seen and finding we agreed about most of them. We caught the bus from the Centre up to the Regal in Staple Hill, where I got off with her to see her home safely. She has a Georgian-style house, as she described it, detached, and set in amongst several trees so you can’t quite see it all from outside the gates. She was kind enough to invite me in for a cup of tea, and I’d have liked to accept, but the time was getting on, and I still had to pick Susan and Gary up from their gran’s to take them home.

  ‘I’ve had a lovely time,’ she said, as we shook hands. ‘Thank you very much for taking me, but you really shouldn’t have paid for everything, you know.’

  ‘It was my pleasure,’ I assured her.

  ‘Well, my treat next time.’ She gave a girlish little laugh. ‘Listen to me sounding all modern and liberated,’ she joked.

  ‘It’s a man’s place to pay,’ I told her seriously, ‘and that’s how it should be.’

  Thinking about that now makes me feel absurd, because she’s obviously got a lot more than I have, so I can’t imagine how I think I’m ever going to be able to afford her sort of lifestyle. Still, a pound for two cinema tickets, a couple of sixpenny ice creams and a few bob for bus fares is manageable every now and then, should she be interested in seeing me again. I’m presuming she is, because of offering to make it her treat, but I haven’t rung her since because I don’t want her thinking I’m too eager, or that we’re actually courting, because I’m not sure I’m ready for anything as serious as that yet.

  Eddress has been on my mind more than ever since that night. I don’t know if she’s haunting me, or if it’s guilt that’s making me think about her so much. I keep wondering what she’d make of me having a fancy woman, if that’s what you can call Anne, though I find it a rather indelicate phrase myself. It’s almost certainly one Eddress would use, and I can’t work out whether I think she’d be glad I have a friend, or angry with me for being unfaithful, even though nothing in the least untoward went on. And as for what’s going on in our Susan’s head … There’s no hiding anything from that girl, I know that. ‘Dad, I don’t mind if you’ve got a girlfriend.’ Pull the other one, is what went through my mind when she said it, because I could tell by the tone of her voice that there would probably be merry hell to pay if I admitted I did.

  Still, there’s no point worrying myself about that now. If I do take Anne out again it’ll only be as fr
iends, so there’s no reason for Susan even to know about it, much less to start working herself up into a state over someone taking her mother’s place in our lives.

  Ever since the day I lost my mind and started hitting myself in front of her, I’ve been noticing a change in her. We don’t seem to be having quite so many rows now, and she’s not sneaking out at night any more. Certainly she’s always there when I go to check; however, I’m not a big enough fool to start believing we’re out of the woods with her yet. It’ll take some time, but at least we seem to be on the right road.

  I managed to have a chat with Florrie when I called in to see her earlier. She hasn’t been herself at all lately, forgetting what she’s saying mid-sentence, or who people are when she’s known them all her life. She’s started seeing things too, like strangers walking past the windows, and the table moving across the room on its own. She got very upset about that, Tom told me, but the next minute she was telling him to sit himself down while she put the kettle on and made a cup of tea.

  Yesterday she was more like her old self, grumbling about Reggie and the weather, and wondering if one of her grandsons had stolen her pension, because she’d sent him up the post office to collect it and he hadn’t come back yet. I’m happy to report that he turned up while I was there, handed over every last penny, gave her a kiss and was off again.

  ‘So how’s our Susan?’ she asked me.

  ‘Well, as a matter of fact, she doesn’t seem too bad,’ I told her. ‘She still has far too much to say for herself, but I’m not quite as worried as I was before.’

  She was nodding. ‘That’s good to hear,’ she said. ‘I wondered if she had it all bottled up about her mam, and it seems she did. Still, she’s had a good cry now, so it’s out of her system. She’ll probably be all right from here on.’

  She was talking as though her chat with Susan had happened a day or two ago, instead of a couple of weeks, but time seems to be as unstable an element in her life these days as her memory.