‘Once,’ says Freya. ‘I’ll do it once. If you don’t haul your bony carcass out of bed tomorrow, boy, you can do your own detention.’
Jack’s phone beeps.
‘We’re on,’ he says. ‘You can stay at mine tonight.’
‘What about Jesse?’ I say. ‘He should be home tonight.’
‘Bring him too,’ says Jack. ‘Mum won’t mind.’
‘Oh cheers,’ I say. ‘Didn’t fancy another night home alone.’
To tell the truth, I’ve eaten the last pizza anyway.
chapter six
When I arrive at the hospital, there’s Jesse perched on the end of Mum’s bed like some kind of chirpy pet, his head nodding away, looking all perky and reading another stupid football magazine. Mum, on the other hand, is propped up on a pillow, looking even greyer than last time. There are dark rings under her eyes, and she holds me for a moment too long as we hug, so I know that things still aren’t right.
‘I missed school today.’ Jesse looks up, pleased with himself.
‘Yeah, well, you’ll have to catch up when you get back, bird-brain, won’t you?’ I say.
‘C’mon boys,’ says Mum. ‘Let’s not have any arguments. Not while I’m in here. Feeling like this.’
‘Like what?’ says Jesse. He’s lobbing grapes into his mouth like they’re Maltesers.
‘Did the doctor say anything today?’ I ask.
Mum sighs.
‘No, just took lots of blood. Tests and more tests. I feel like a pin cushion.’ She rubs her arm inside her elbow, and I can see the little tell-tale red pricks.
‘Can you run out of blood?’ says Jesse. He’s throwing grapes in the air now and trying to catch them in his open mouth. The grapes are going all over the floor.
‘Why don’t you go and get yourself some chocolate from that machine downstairs, Jesse?’ says Mum. ‘Here, take some money from my purse . . .’
He’s already scrabbling about in Mum’s purse looking for change, he doesn’t need asking twice, and then he’s off down the ward like he’s heading for goal. I can tell Mum wants a word with me on my own. She grabs hold of my hand.
‘Look, love,’ she says, biting her lip nervously, ‘I may be in here a bit longer than I expected.’
‘What? How long? You said you thought you’d be home tonight.’
‘Yes, I know I did,’ says Mum. ‘But they don’t want to let me out until they know what it is.’ She passes a hand over my forehead now, gently pushing back a lock of my hair. It flops back again immediately. ‘They won’t know until they get the test results back. And that takes time, it’ll be a couple of days.’
‘A couple of days? What are we supposed to do?’
‘It’s the NHS, you know,’ says Mum. ‘It’s not geared up to instant results.’
She squeezes my hand tighter.
‘You’re going to have to be very grown-up about this, Luke,’ she says, ‘for Jesse’s sake, as well as for mine. I know it’s not ideal, but remember he’s younger than you. He needs looking after.’
‘By who?’ I say. ‘Not by you. You’re stuck in here.’
I feel cheated, let down. Mum gets ill and I get stuck with Jesse. Where’s the fairness in that?
‘I can’t take care of him properly while I’m in here. So . . . I’ve arranged for someone to come and look after you both,’ says Mum.
‘I don’t need looking after! I’m nearly fifteen.’
‘You may not think you need looking after now,’ says Mum, speaking slowly and patiently in a quiet voice to counteract my increase in volume, ‘but you do.’
‘Who is it?’ I ask, picking at her bedspread. I’m so wound up by this I don’t even want to look at her. ‘Who are you sending to babysit us?’
‘She’s called Mrs McLafferty. She’s the auntie of a friend of Mia,’ says Mum. ‘She can start tomorrow, so you’ll need to spend another night with Jack.’
‘You don’t even know her,’ I say. ‘How do you know she’s not some kookie old pervert?’
‘She’s not,’ says Mum. ‘Mia knows her and says she’s a lovely lady. Older lady,’ she adds quietly.
I give Mum one of my defiant looks.
‘Older? What – how old?’
‘I don’t know, Luke,’ says Mum. Her voice sounds tired now. ‘Younger than the Queen, older than Marge Simpson. How’s that? I’ve only spoken to her on the phone. She sounds . . . fine.’
‘Fine,’ I say with all the sarcasm I can muster. ‘That’s probably what they said about Attila the Hun.’
‘You know what the alternative is, don’t you?’ says Mum. ‘Social services. Fostering. It’s messy. You and Jesse may get split up and that’s the last thing I want right now.’
‘I could go and live with Jack,’ I say. But even as I say this, I’m thinking of that horrible mattress and I know that’s not going to happen.
‘No you couldn’t. They haven’t got the space. Oh, the odd sleepover is fine, but . . . I just don’t know how long I’m going to be in here, love,’ says Mum. She puts her hand back up to touch my face again, but this time I push it away.
‘I want you and Jesse in our house – your house,’ Mum explains. Her voice is rising and I can hear she’s getting a bit teary. ‘So I know where you are. So you’re sleeping in your own beds and going to your own school and you’re there when I come home . . .’ Just then, Sister Calder is passing the bed. She looks over towards us. She chooses her moments.
‘Everything all right here?’ she asks, glancing down at Mum’s clipboard that she’s picked up from the foot of the bed.
I mumble yes, and Mum turns her head to the side so that Sister can’t see she’s crying.
‘Luke, can I have a quick word?’ Sister says. ‘In private. In my office.’
Oh, here we go, I think. She’s just another Mrs Halloran.
I can hear the supper trolley arriving as we head off down the ward. It smells like school dinners, only it’s possibly worse. Presumably it all comes from the same slop factory.
‘Take a seat,’ says Sister Calder. There’s a chart on the wall and a washbasin in the corner. She’s washing her hands under a big BEAT MRSA – WASH YOUR HANDS poster. I sit down quietly.
‘Your mother isn’t very well, Luke,’ says Sister. She’s scrubbing away between her fingers as she speaks.
‘What is it? What’s wrong with her?’
‘Oh, it’s too early to say.’ She is pulling green paper towels from a dispenser to dry her hands. ‘But it looks as though she won’t be going home for a while yet. Now, I know you don’t have a dad around, and I know it’s not ideal, but your mum has spent most of today worrying about you and your brother and trying to sort something out so you can both carry on living at home. I think you’re going to have to trust her on this one, Luke. If your mother’s worrying about you and your brother, she’s not going to get any better, is she? All that energy that could be spent recovering . . . well, it’s wasting away fretting about the two of you.’
She fixes me with her deep brown eyes.
‘She needs her rest, Luke.’
I can see her point here.
‘Yes, I know,’ I say.
‘So no scenes, eh? No fusses? The best thing you can do is stay cheerful and look after your brother. That’s the best way to help your mum get better, quicker.’
There’s a huge crash from outside. Sister stands up and looks over my shoulder through the glass panel in the door.
‘Ah, talk of the devil,’ she says. ‘Here’s your brother now. Does he like baked beans?’ she asks me.
‘Not much. Why?’
‘He’s had a small collision with the supper trolley,’ says Sister Calder as she opens the door. ‘Seems he’s been bathing in them.’
chapter seven
That’s how Mrs McLafferty comes into our world. The next day, before we’ve had time to turn our lives into a Lord of the Flies meets Big Brother type experiment, she just turns up on the doorstep with an ol
d battered green suitcase and a fluffy grey hat that must date back to the war. The Boer War, probably. When I open the door, and I see her standing there, things don’t quite connect at first.
She’s all of four feet ten inches tall, leering out from behind her very scary red lipstick. So red I can’t help wondering what animals she’s been slaughtering. You can’t tell how old Mrs McLafferty is, she has a certain Sphinx-like quality about her. She could be over a hundred for all I know.
‘Luke?’ she enquires with a big question mark at the end, like she doesn’t know. Her pencilled-in luminous ginger eyebrows rise an inch or two to emphasise the query.
‘Yes?’ Two can play at that game. I try to raise my eyebrows too, but I can tell I’m failing miserably.
‘The name’s McLafferty, Mrs McLafferty. But you can call me Mrs M.’
Her soft Irish accent rises and falls, lulling me into a false sense of security.
‘I’m here to look after you while your mammy’s in hospital,’ she explains, roughly shoving the door open as she breezes past.
‘Now, perhaps you’d like to show me up to my room,’ she declares, marching up the stairs. ‘Don’t forget my case now. Nothing for a big strong boy like you.’
I have no idea what she’s got in that case but it feels like a ton of bricks.
As we get to the landing, Jesse sticks his head out of his room.
‘Hello, young man,’ she says matter-of-factly. For a moment I think she’s going to shake his hand, but she just pushes her bosoms back into position and barges past.
I still have no idea where she is heading. We only have three bedrooms – mine, Mum’s and Jesse’s. I suppose I could direct Mrs M towards the sofa.
As if she can read my mind, she opens the door to Mum’s room.
‘This looks like me,’ she says, waltzing in and looking at the furniture with disdain, running a finger along Mum’s dressing table to check for any tell-tale sign of dust. ‘No ensuite, I suppose?’
‘Sweets? Where?’ Jesse can’t resist a quick look.
‘Not sweets,’ she explains. ‘An ensuite bathroom. It’s a bedroom with a bathroom attached.’
‘We only have one bathroom,’ I tell her.
‘Then we’ll just have to share, won’t we?’ she says, waggling her head from side to side. I wonder if she’s trying to take the mick.
‘What are you doing in Mum’s room?’ asks Jesse.
‘I’m Mrs McLafferty,’ she explains, grabbing Jesse’s hands in that way that grown-ups do when they want to talk to you like you’re still a toddler. ‘I’m here to look after you boys while your poor sick mammy languishes in a hospital bed, worried half to death by the two of yous, no doubt, and the thought of what you’re getting up to in her absence.’
We should be so lucky, I think. Jesse looks aghast. Mum had told him we were getting someone to look after us but the reality has clearly knocked him for six.
‘Now you,’ she points at me, ‘can put my case on the chair – Luke, isn’t it? – and you,’ she points at Jesse, ‘can go and put the kettle on. What’s your name?’
She can’t get her head round ‘Jesse’.
‘But sure, it’s a girl’s name, isn’t it?’ she says scowling and turning up her nose. ‘Jesse . . .’
‘No, it’s not,’ says Jesse. ‘It’s my name. And what about Jesse James? He wasn’t a girl.’
‘Jesse James?’ Mrs M rolls her eyes up to the sky. ‘Your mother never went and named you after a notorious outlaw. Jeez, I’ve heard it all now.’
She sits her lumpy little frame down on Mum’s cream bedspread. Mum saw it in some swanky catalogue months ago and saved up for ages. We’re not allowed to go anywhere near it, let alone touch it. Somehow it doesn’t seem right, this stranger smoothing Mum’s cream bedspread down with her hand as she plonks her bum on the bed.
‘Ow, that’s hard,’ she says, squinting her eyes up in mock pain. ‘I’ll never get a wink on a tough old bed like that.’
‘Mum says it’s the best bed in the world,’ I tell her. ‘She always says that.’
‘Well, any port in a storm, I suppose,’ she says, ignoring me and looking round the room. She’s pricing everything up in her mind’s eye, I can tell.
‘What’s your name again?’ asks Jesse.
‘Mrs McLafferty, but you can call me Mrs M,’ she says. ‘Everyone does. And I don’t know what you’re gawping at, Jesse,’ she spits his name out venomously, ‘have you not got that kettle on yet?’
‘That’s better,’ says Mrs M. She’s hunched over a cup of tea in the kitchen, alternately blowing into her mug and slurping enthusiastically.
‘Mind you, I’ll never get used to these mugs. I never drink out of mugs. Are you sure your mother hasn’t a cup and saucer stashed away somewhere?’
Jesse and I shake our heads.
‘No?’ She looks crestfallen. ‘Well, I don’t suppose either of you boys knows where I’d lay hands on a cigarette now, do you?’ She shrinks her nose up in disdain. ‘What’s a cup of tea without a cigarette?’
‘Smoking kills,’ says Jesse, dunking his fifth Jaffa cake. ‘We did it at school.’
‘Ah, did you now?’ says Mrs M, confiscating the rest of the Jaffa cakes and putting them back in the biscuit tin. ‘Well, I’d kill for a puff right now, I would. Are you sure there’s not a packet lying around somewhere? Some secret stash . . .’
She looks at me innocently.
‘Just one ciggie. No questions asked.’
‘I don’t smoke,’ I say. ‘It’s a disgusting habit.’
Mrs M starts rummaging in her fake leather handbag now, with the ‘leather’ peeling off in places. She shoves her head right into the bag as though she’s being devoured.
‘Now where was it . . .’
She scrabbles around a bit more and eventually resurfaces, triumphant, with a beaten-up-looking cigarette held aloft between two fingers.
‘Ha!’
She holds it up closely to her eyes, snaps the filter tip off at one end, and sticks the other end in her mouth. Then she lights it, breathing the smoke in deeply, and shutting her eyes in pleasure.
‘Aren’t they more dangerous without the ends on?’ asks Jesse, picking up the filter tip to examine it at closer quarters.
‘Possibly,’ says Mrs M, drinking in the smoke, ‘but these mild ones have got no flavour with the filters.’ Taking another gulp of tea, Mrs M turns to face me.
‘Now, what do you want for your tea tonight?’
I shrug my shoulders.
‘Don’t mind. Anything. We like pizza.’
‘Pizza!’ She screws her nose up in disgust, and takes another drag on her fag.
‘Sure, it’s nothing but a bit of old dough with a smear of ketchup on the top. Where’s the nutrition in that? No, while I’m here it’s proper healthy meals for growing boys like you.’
She drops the fag end in her mug and it goes out with a sizzle and a little puff of smoke like a damp squib.
‘Not much in here,’ she says, rooting through the fridge and tutting away to herself. ‘I’m heading off up to the shops now – your mother’s given me some money. I’ll get you some nice liver for your tea.’
She says it like it’s a treat.
As the door slams shut, I look across at Jesse. He looks at me.
‘Liver,’ he says. ‘I don’t like the sound of that.’
‘No,’ I agree. ‘I’m not so keen on her either. She seems to have taken over the whole house and she’s only been here half an hour.’ I shake my head. ‘She’s got to go.’
chapter eight
‘Orange. She sounds like a complete nightmare,’ says Freya as she bites into the Revel. We’re sitting on the top of a mound (you could hardly call it a hill) in Edgerley Park, just round the corner from Freya’s house. It’s a Saturday morning bathed in sunshine, the whole weekend stretching ahead, and we’re discussing Mrs M and playing ‘I’ll Name That Revel’ at the same time. It’s our favourite game. A
ll you need is a packet of Revels, and you take one out at a time – no peeking in the bag first – then guess what it is just by looking at it before you put it in your mouth.
‘She treats the place like it’s her own home,’ I say. ‘First she moves into Mum’s room, then she starts bossing us around, and now she’s started wearing Mum’s clothes. Caramel.’
The caramels tend to be easier to spot on account of their slightly irregular shape. I bite in and hold the evidence up to Freya, who nods to recognise I’ve got another right.
‘You sound like Angela moaning about me.’ Angela’s her mum. ‘Mind you, wearing your mum’s clothes is a bit creepy,’ says Freya sympathetically.
‘I know. It started with the odd cardigan and I just assumed she was cold – but now she’s wearing her dressing gown and nightie – and she had one of Mum’s skirts on the other day.’
‘What you need,’ Freya says, delving back into the Revels, ‘is a concerted plan of attack to get rid of the old bag. But you’ll have to get Jesse on side or it’s doomed to failure. Malteser.’
The Maltesers are dead easy to spot: they’re bigger and lighter than the others. It’s the orange and coffee creams that can catch you out. We both love the orange ones and hate the coffee creams, so it’s a bit like playing Russian Roulette with chocolates. There’s nothing more distressing than thinking you’ve got a juicy orange cream and then biting in to discover it’s actually the revolting coffee filth.
‘Yes, but say we do manage to drive her away,’ I point out, ‘who’s going to look after us once she’s gone? They’ll probably send social services round.’
‘Oh yes, I hadn’t thought of that,’ Freya agrees. ‘Wait a minute, what about your dad?’
‘My dad? You are kidding? All I know is he’s up in Scotland somewhere, living a new life with a new family and new friends for all I know. Let’s not open that particular can of worms.’
‘Looks like you’re stuck with Mrs M for a bit longer, then,’ says Freya. ‘Mmm, chocolate.’
She bites into a flying-saucer-shaped Revel, a total gift in this game.
‘How is your mum? Is she getting any better? You never talk about it at school.’
Life, Interrupted Page 4