‘This isn’t as easy as it sounds,’ he moans.
‘Don’t be such a wimp,’ I tell him. ‘Look, do you want to get rid of Mrs M or not? I’m not doing this just for me, you know. Stomp this into the rug.’
I tip the contents of a full ashtray that lies by the side of the bed on to the shaggy rug. Then I fling open Mum’s wardrobe and start chucking the contents around.
‘I know,’ says Jesse, finally cottoning on as he grinds the ash and butts into the pile with his heel. ‘The rubbish bin.’
He picks up a bin from the corner of the room and starts strewing the contents about. It’s got empty fag packets, loads of sweet wrappers (seems Mrs M loves her Rolos) and what looks like a big clump of hair that she must have scraped off a hairbrush – disgusting. There’s also a used tin of talc that I shake about a bit, although, urgh, it stinks of her, and then Jesse finds all this paper rammed down into the bottom of the basket.
‘What’s all that?’ I ask. Jesse is chucking it up in the air, like some cheesy Euro Jackpot billionaire. He’s definitely getting the hang of this now.
‘I dunno.’ He stops a minute. ‘It’s rubbish, isn’t it?’
I’m delving back into the bin and extract a handful of envelopes, unopened envelopes. Big bloody hell. There’s a whole load of stuff. Bills, get well cards, mailouts from school, the child benefit people, loads of official stuff. All addressed to Mum. All unceremoniously dumped without being opened. I can’t believe it.
Jesse stops scattering and looks over my shoulder.
‘Where d’you find that?’
‘At the bottom of the bin,’ I tell him. ‘You didn’t put this stuff in here, did you?’
He looks at me in amazement. ‘Shut up. What would I do a thing like that for?’
‘What would she want to do a thing like that for?’ I say. ‘This is Mum’s mail. Her private property. It’s nothing to do with Mrs McLafferty.’
‘Why is she chucking it away?’ asks Jesse. ‘I don’t get it.’
‘I’m not sure,’ I say. ‘It’s like she’s pretending Mum doesn’t exist any more. She’s been slowly taking over her home and her life. And it’s stealing. We could report her to the police for this . . .’
‘Bloody old cow.’
Jesse’s nostrils are flaring in a dangerous way. I know that look. It’s a sure sign he’s about to lose it. Next thing I know, he’s flying down the stairs, screaming, and heads for the kitchen. When I get in there, he’s strewing Rice Krispies all over the kitchen worktop like a thing possessed.
‘I’ll show her,’ he snarls. ‘She’s our mum. She can’t just shove her in the bin. Let’s mess up her kitchen.’ And with that, he tips the kitchen bin on its side and kicks it, leaving a trail of stinky smelly garbage across the floor. As he does it, I can see a wild, demonic look in his eye, and I think, yeah, he’s right. Let’s mess up Mrs M where it hurts most. Right here in the kitchen. Let’s show her.
‘Hold up,’ I say. ‘What we need is a little music. Something we can trash to properly.’
I run upstairs and quickly rummage through my CD collection.
‘Gotcha!’
I jump back downstairs, two steps at a time.
‘Just the thing.’
I whack on the old kitchen CD player and give the volume a bit of welly. ‘Teenage Dirtbag’ comes bellowing out.
Jesse starts whooping like a loony and chucking stuff all round the kitchen. Instant coffee, rice, bread. I’m crumbling up the remains of a packet of digestives over his head, jumping around and screaming to the music. Jesse opens the fridge and grabs a yogurt and lobs it at me, overhand, like he’s chucking a grenade into a trench. I watch it rise and, I have to say, he’s timed it to perfection. There’s a beautiful arc as the yogurt flies through the air and, like some evil buzz bomb, it just stops and starts to plummet. As it drops, it picks up speed. It’s all happening in slow motion but, as I watch, I suddenly realise it’s heading straight for me. I try to dodge, but it’s all too late, and the little plastic pot whacks me on the side of the head then bounces off and smashes against the window. There’s a big smear of strawberry yogurt running down the pane of glass now, and I’ve got a yogurt scar streaked across my forehead. Jesse bursts out laughing as though this is the funniest thing he’s ever seen. He’s laughing so hard he can hardly get his sentence out which comes in short, hysterical gasps.
‘You . . . look like . . . Harry Potter!’
I grab the nearest thing to hand: a jar of Olde English chunky-cut marmalade that Mrs M slathers all over her toast every morning after she’s had her first fag of the day. I twist open the lid and scoop out a pile of the sweet, sticky, orangey mess on my hand. Jesse tries to bolt for the door, shrieking with laughter still, but I’ve put the jar down now and I’m grabbing him with my other hand and smearing marmalade across his face. Then I reach out for the porridge, and tip the box all over his head. He looks like he’s got some hideous skin condition, standing there, still convulsed with laughter, his face covered with nasty bubbled contusions, and porridge oats dropping into his open mouth.
I’m laughing too, and now he’s chucking cornflakes at me like a demon. We can both tell that this trashing business is getting out of hand, but it’s too late now. Something within has just snapped, something tight and taut and pent-up, and it just feels so good. We give in to it, abandoning ourselves completely in a morass of mess. It’s as though we’re participating in some weird kind of pagan ritual, throwing things at each other, tipping anything we can lay our hands on over our heads. There are herbs and honey and sugar and cereals and jam flying across the kitchen. You name it, we’re chucking it around like a pair of naughty chimps, howling uproariously with laughter. Jesse is laughing so much that he’s clutching at his groin, which normally means he’s in danger of actually wetting himself. As a kid he used to do this quite often, and Mum would always try and blame me, presumably to make Jesse feel less embarrassed.
‘Don’t make him laugh like that,’ she’d say. ‘You know he can’t control himself,’ when she actually meant, ‘You know he can’t control his bladder’. Meanwhile Jesse would scamper off to the loo clutching his nether regions with a big dark stain the shape of Africa emerging on his shorts.
I can see he’s reaching the point of no return now, when he chucks a mushed-up-looking banana that’s already been back and forth a couple of times and yanks the door open to rush off to the loo.
And there he is. A bloke, just standing there in the kitchen doorway with his mouth hanging open, a bag in one hand that he lets drop to the floor.
Jesse just lets out a wail and dashes off up the stairs; the lettuce I’ve armed myself with from the fridge falls to the floor with a swish and Uncle Stu says, ‘Bloody hell fire, it looks like the lunatics have taken over the asylum.’
chapter fifteen
By the time Jesse has come back downstairs, all spruced up and wearing a dry pair of trousers, I notice, I’m on the receiving end of Uncle Stu’s wrath, and believe me, he’s in full flow. This is a side of Uncle Stu I have not previously seen. He’s chucking about some rather grown-up words in the same kind of way that Jesse and I were both hurling breakfast cereals around the kitchen just a few minutes previously.
‘Your mother is due home for the first time in several . . . several weeks,’ he says. He’s speaking quite slowly because he’s:
a) making a point
and
b) absolutely furious.
‘Do you two know how ill your mother is?’ he demands.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I do. She’s very ill.’
I’m keeping all answers to a minimum and speaking very quietly. I find that works best when adults don’t really want you to contribute, but they do want you to grovel profusely.
‘Then what the hell are you playing at?’ he roars. ‘What kind of welcome do you call this?’ He’s pacing backwards and forwards now, like some kind of demented sergeant major giving his troops a proper rollicking.
<
br /> ‘She could be home any minute now, and she’s going to walk into this . . . this . . .’
I can tell he’s trying to find some word to sum it all up without swearing, but he can’t quite pull it off.
‘. . . this shit heap.’
Jesse has such a serious look on his face that I can tell he’s in danger of bursting out laughing. I know that look. If he starts laughing now, it’ll be disastrous. We’re both in the poo as it is.
‘Really sorry, Uncle Stu,’ I mutter, hanging my head in shame. A drip of jam falls off the end of my nose, on to the tiled floor. ‘I don’t know what came over us.’
‘Right, well, I don’t know how long you’ve got . . .’ he looks at his watch, ‘but you’d better get cleaning – this place and yourselves. I’ll make a start upstairs and you two can sort out the kitchen.’
‘Yes, Uncle Stu,’ we murmur together, like a couple of pre-school kids caught misbehaving.
‘And get a move on,’ he says. ‘We haven’t got all day.’
Today is turning into some freak game show, and I have to admit it’s all of our own making. First you trash the place, then you clean it up, and you’re racing against the clock. Oh, and by the way, there’s no car to be won.
Uncle Stu snaps the Wheatus CD off, and although I could really do with a bit of music to jolly things along, this is probably not the best time to put in a request. Instead I take off upstairs in search of clean clothes and a quick shower.
‘What’s he doing here anyway?’ says Jesse when I come back down, sweeping a pile of dry macaroni and lentils up. ‘It was meant to be just Mum and us this weekend, wasn’t it? I don’t remember anyone inviting him.’
‘Maybe nobody told him,’ I say.
I’ve got to admit, I’m feeling kind of silly. I mean, I’ve hardly seen this guy in years and suddenly he’s standing in front of us in his jeans and polo shirt like some Ralph Lauren ad while we behave like some kids straight out of the infants. It’s not a great way to make an impression.
After about forty-five minutes, the kitchen is almost back to normal. There’s still yogurt dripping down the window, but as Jesse threw that one, I figure it’s his job to sort it. I just point at it and say ‘Yours’ and he seems to understand. He doesn’t even bother to argue, which is something of a first for Jesse.
I can still hear cleaning noises coming from upstairs. I decide to raise my head above the parapet and head up to Mum’s bedroom.
‘How’s it going?’ I say as I walk in gingerly.
‘Yeah, nearly done.’ He has his back to me, but I can tell from the tone of his voice that most of the anger has abated. ‘We need to bring Jesse’s bed down for your mum,’ says Uncle Stu. ‘Perhaps you can give me a hand to help carry it, Luke?’ He pauses for a moment. ‘Unless you’re thinking about chucking it down the stairs?’
‘I’m sorry,’ I tell him as we go into Jesse’s room. ‘We both went a bit mental there. I really don’t know what happened.’
‘Not like you,’ says Uncle Stu, ‘You’re not usually tearaways – not according to your mum anyway. Maybe that Mrs McLafferty has been getting you into bad habits . . .’
‘Oh her,’ I say. ‘Let’s not go there.’ I’ll tell him about her secret life as a letter-snatcher later. It could tip him over the edge right now.
Jesse saunters in. Always quick to pick up on a change of mood, he tries to keep off the subject of mess and furniture.
‘Uncle Stu,’ says Jesse, plonking himself down on the bed we’re about to move, ‘what are you doing here anyway? You never told us you were coming.’
‘I spoke to your mum on the phone yesterday and she told me she was home for the weekend. Said she was worried about how she was going to cope with it all, though.’
‘We’ll be all right,’ I say. ‘Polly’s bringing her back and she says she’ll pop in tomorrow too. And Mia’s coming round.’
‘Well, I’ve had a quiet week,’ says Uncle Stu. ‘I had an interview on Tuesday and nothing since. So I thought I’d give your mum a bit of a surprise. Drove down at lunchtime to spring a little visit on her.’
‘And you’re the one who ended up surprised,’ says Jesse, trying to make light of the situation. Uncle Stu’s not ready to laugh it off yet, I can tell.
‘How did you get in, anyway?’ I ask.
‘You two bloody nanas left the key in the door.’ He tuts out loud and shakes his head. For once, it actually feels really good to have an adult in the house. Well, one who’s not over sixty-five. Then the doorbell rings.
‘Mum!’ yells Jesse and goes stampeding down the stairs. Suddenly he stops short.
‘Wait! I haven’t put my banner up yet . . .’
In all the confusion, Jesse’s forgotten his beloved banner that he’s spent the last two weeks on (with a little help from me). He races upstairs and brings it down. One end is handed to me, and he takes the other and stands nearer the door. It’s a tight squeeze but you can make out the message, WELCOME HOME, MUM.
‘Okay, Uncle Stu,’ commands Jesse. ‘Open the door.’
And there’s Mum in a wheelchair with Polly standing behind shouting, ‘Ta-da!’ Mia is hovering in the background with some bags, and the paramedic who’s driven Mum home is hanging about at the back of the ambulance. I’m relieved to notice that it isn’t Sam who I threw up over a few weeks ago.
‘Mum!’ shouts Jesse and chucks himself at her as though he hasn’t seen her for years.
‘Jesse,’ she murmurs and, although he’s hugging her much too tightly, I can see her pale blue eyes sparkle and she’s blinking back tears, and she’s glad to be home. Her right hand cradles his head in the way that mothers hold their newborn babies. She doesn’t want him to catch her crying though, so she’s wiping the corners of her eyes furiously as though she promised herself this wouldn’t happen, she wouldn’t cry, and he wouldn’t see. He doesn’t notice. Everyone else seems to be sniffing a bit and turning their heads away and then Mum looks across and sees Uncle Stu and says ‘Stuart . . .’ in a strange, dreamy voice, as though she’s questioning why he’s here. It’s almost as though she’s in a trance, everything seems to be moving in slow-motion.
I’m a bit overwhelmed by the sight of Mum in a wheelchair. They’re for disabled people or old people, aren’t they? I never thought about how Mum was actually going to get home. Although she’s always in bed when I see her, I suppose I thought she could still walk.
Polly moves towards me and hooks her arm through mine. ‘Let’s get the kettle on shall we, Luke? I’m desperate for one of my herbals . . .’
She propels me towards the kitchen, leaving the reception committee on the doorstep.
‘Ooh, everything ship-shape and Bristol fashion in here.’ She’s as cheerful as ever, searching for teabags and pouring milk. ‘Never go anywhere without these.’ She waves a camomile teabag at me that she’s produced from her basket.
‘Mrs McLafferty looking after you all right, is she?’ she enquires, eyes wide open, and I just nod and smile as I turn away to fill the kettle.
chapter sixteen
By the time we get the bed downstairs (the mattress isn’t a problem, it’s the base that proves to be a bit of a scrape-the-walls nightmare) and Mia’s made it up for Mum, it’s seven o’clock and time for another cup of tea. That’s what seems to happen when you have sick people around you, I discover. You drink tea and eat biscuits.
‘So what do you do, Uncle Stu?’ says Polly. She leans forward with her chin on her hand.
‘Do you mean what did I do, or what do I want to do next?’ says Uncle Stu.
‘Ah,’ says Polly, ‘that’s what we actors call resting.’
‘I thought you were a nurse,’ I say.
‘Oh, I am,’ she says. ‘But I’ve done a few jobs before. Actor, waitress, bartender, barista . . .’ She ticks them off on her hand as she goes through her mental list. ‘Multitalented, me.’
‘Barrister?’ says Jesse. ‘Do you have to wear a wig? In court?
’
‘Talking of which,’ sighs Mum, and she runs her fingers through her hair again, and a few wisps hang from her fingers as if to prove the point. ‘It’s coming out in whacking great clumps now,’ she exaggerates.
‘Oh, Mia and I can sort you out tomorrow, no problem,’ says Polly, as if buying wigs for balding women is the sort of thing she does every day. Well, maybe it is.
Mia nods and drains her mug. I get the impression she isn’t comfortable talking about Mum’s hair loss in front of ‘the boys’.
‘And I said “barista” not “barrister”.’ Polly leans forward towards Jesse and stage-whispers conspiratorially. ‘It’s a posh word they use in Starbucks for someone who makes the coffee.’
‘You were a translator, weren’t you, Stuart?’ Mia asks. They’ve met a couple of times over the years, but not for ages.
‘Yeah, German and Spanish,’ says Uncle Stu. ‘And a smattering of Cantonese. Though there doesn’t seem to be much call for German these days. May have to retrain . . .’
‘Mandarin and Cantonese,’ says Polly knowingly. ‘That’s where the markets are moving. It’s boom time in China.’
Mia is standing up, and she’s holding Mum’s hand.
‘I need to get back to Andy and the kids,’ she says, ‘but you can call me any time, you know that. You’ve got all my numbers on your mobile haven’t you, Patty?’
Mum nods.
‘Don’t keep her up too late tonight, she’s looking worn out,’ says Mia quietly to Uncle Stu as she passes him on her way out. ‘I’ll pop by tomorrow. Bye everyone.’
‘Right,’ says Uncle Stu, ‘I don’t know about you lot but I could eat a scabby horse festering with flies, and it’s a bit late to start cooking, so what do you all say to a takeaway?’
‘I really ought to be going too,’ says Polly, standing up and reaching for her basket. ‘But do you know there’s an amazing little Italian pizza place up the road? Papa Giorgio’s. I’ll show you if you like.’
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