I want to go down too, but I don’t want them to hear me. And I know there are a couple of creaky steps near the bottom that will give the game away. I sit halfway down and listen. The door to the sitting room is ajar and I can hear Mum sobbing.
‘I don’t want to go back,’ she’s saying. ‘But I don’t want to die here. I don’t want the boys’ last memories to be me, dying, in our home in this room, with some stranger looking after them.’
‘I’m here now. I can look after you all,’ says Uncle Stu.
‘No,’ says Mum. ‘I don’t want that. I don’t want my home turned into a hospital. I want to go back.’
‘Then I’ll stay here with the boys.’
‘You’ve got . . . your own . . . life,’ says Mum. She’s upset I can tell, but there’s something else too. The pain is bad. It’s that funny way she breathes that gives it away.
‘Have I?’ says Uncle Stu. ‘What about those kids upstairs? What about their lives, their futures?’
‘They’re not yours,’ says Mum. ‘I can’t ask that of you. It’s too much. They’re not your responsibility.’
‘So whose responsibility are they? Who’s going to look after them? Their father? I don’t think so. They need to be here – in their own home, at their own school, with their own friends. It’s bad enough losing a parent. They can’t lose everything else too.’
‘I can’t ask you to do that.’ Mum’s voice is quite low now, but I can still hear what she’s saying – just. ‘It’s not exactly the lifestyle you’d have chosen for yourself, is it Stu? Father of two teenage boys?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he says. ‘Could be worse. Always thought I’d make quite a good dad. Frankly, I could do with a change of scene – there’s nothing to keep me up north now. Look, Patty, I have a role here, I’ll find a new job. It’s a whole new start. The boys wouldn’t have lasted much longer with that funny old bird, Mrs McLafferty. She’s not exactly their favourite pin-up, from what I gather . . .’
‘At least they were being looked after,’ says Mum. ‘I didn’t have much choice.’
‘I know,’ says Uncle Stu. ‘But I’m not so sure that McLafferty woman had their best interests at heart. And, Patty, nobody’s sat down and told Jesse what’s going on yet, and Luke is buckling under the strain of it all.’
‘I know I should have told Jesse,’ says Mum, and I can’t hear the next bit. Her voice is very low and it begins to break.
‘I’ll have a chat with them separately,’ says Stu. ‘But I know what you mean about Jesse. I won’t spoil his weekend. I’ll tell him after you’ve gone back.’
Mum gives out a little cry.
‘I’ll get you some more painkillers from the kitchen,’ he says.
I quickly retreat up the stairs as I hear him getting up, and I jump back into bed. I lie there counting the cracks in the ceiling and I can feel my heart thumping. It’s the first time I really face up to the truth. Mum is dying, she’s not going to get better. She’s not beating the cancer. It’s beating her.
chapter nineteen
‘You know what I’ve forgotten? The charcoal.’
Uncle Stu is standing over a bowl of chicken that he’s been marinating. He’s gone to great lengths, grating fresh ginger over it, adding a shake of soy sauce, the zest of a couple of limes, and then carefully squeezing out the juice to avoid getting any pips in the marinade. He’s been mixing it all up with his bare hands like some kind of manic TV chef, only stopping to grind some salt and pepper over it all.
‘There may be some in the shed,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll go.’
‘I hope you washed your hands,’ Jesse tells him, ‘else that’s not very hygienic.’
‘Oh, and I suppose chucking food all over the kitchen is a much more hygienic way of preparing it, is it?’ says Uncle Stu, who’s up to his elbows in chicken and marinade. ‘Of course I washed my hands, you dope.’
Jesse shuts up. He obviously thought Friday afternoon’s fiasco was done and dusted, but it seems all is not forgotten. However, Uncle Stu’s not mentioned anything to Mum yet, so I reckon he’s not going to tell. Not after last night, anyway.
‘Ta-da! Look what I found.’
I come back in, triumphantly holding a bag of charcoal aloft. It looks a bit old and there’re some signs of nibbly gnawings going on in the corner, but Uncle Stu seems well pleased.
‘Perfect,’ he pronounces. ‘As long as it burns and gives off heat, we’re in business.’
Now he’s drizzling honey over the sausages. I’m slightly worried about this – I mean runny honey, sausages? It sounds like something the Teletubbies might knock up in the kitchen. But Uncle Stu gives me one of his sideways glances.
‘Sticky sausages,’ he announces. ‘They’re delicious, trust me.’
For once, the weather forecasters haven’t been telling porky pies, either. Jesse is playing keepy-uppy at the end of the garden and Mum is sitting contentedly in the sunshine, watching him bounce the ball up and down on his knees. We’ve wheeled her outside and she’s still got an old blanket that Gran crocheted for me when I was a baby draped over her knees to keep her warm, even though the afternoon is beginning to heat up nicely, and she’s wearing my NY Mets baseball cap that Uncle Stu bought me for Christmas last year. It looks kind of weird on Mum, but she says it keeps the sun out of her eyes. Polly has arrived and is sitting next to her on an old stool, sipping coffee and recounting some scandalous tale from her Saturday night. Mum is smiling and saying, ‘You’re terrible you are, Polly,’ and Polly is saying, ‘Oh, don’t you start – I thought you were on my side.’
I’ve got some history homework that I’m trying to do, but to be honest I’m finding it hard to concentrate on the social changes in Victorian England and it’s more for Mum’s benefit than mine. She keeps asking me if I’m up to date with everything at school, and, although I tell her yes (which is kind of true), she seems reluctant to believe me. Her eyes look heavy and they keep closing every now and then, as though she’s really worn out. Polly stops talking at one stage and tells Mum to ‘grab some zeds while I catch up on who’s looking skinny in the world of showbiz.’ She opens up a copy of Heat magazine, and starts flicking through it and tutting in mock horror.
Uncle Stu has certainly gone to town. There’s enough food for a whole football team as far as I can see. As well as the chicken, he’s done salads and baked spuds, sausages, burgers and bananas wrapped up in bacon to chuck on the barbie.
‘Bananas in pyjamas,’ he announces proudly. ‘They’re really good. The bananas go a bit squishy when they’re cooked and the bacon gets crispy on the outside.’
‘Urgh, sounds disgusting,’ I say. ‘But I’ll take your word for it.’
‘Do you want to invite a couple of mates round?’ he asks me, as he starts wiping down the kitchen surfaces. ‘There’s more than enough food to go around.’
‘No, you’re all right,’ I tell him. ‘Anyway, Jesse’s like a one-man eating machine at the moment. He’ll work his way through it all eventually.’
‘Must be all that energy he burns up training,’ says Uncle Stu. ‘They need their calories, these sporty types.’
There’s a pause. This seems like a good time while everyone else is out in the garden.
‘Uncle Stu,’ I say, ‘what’s going to happen? Is Mum still going back to the hospital later?’
He’s standing at the sink with his back to me. He turns around slowly.
‘Your mum was always going back tonight, Luke,’ he says. ‘That’s what she wants. It’s all arranged.’
‘But is Mrs McLafferty coming back? To look after me and Jesse, I mean?’
‘No,’ says Uncle Stu. ‘I’m here now. I’m the one who’s going to be looking after you. I spoke to Mrs M this morning and she’s staying on at her sister’s for a few days. She’ll come and get her stuff tomorrow.’
I almost want to jump up and punch the air like Jesse does when they score on the pitch, but it doesn’t seem appropriate somehow.
He takes a step closer and says, ‘Is that all right by you, Luke?’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘It’s fine by me.’
Like he hasn’t guessed. There’s a moment’s pause.
‘Luke, I know you understand what’s wrong with your mum, don’t you? You know, about the cancer?’
‘Yeah,’ I say, trying to sound grown-up and casual about it all. ‘Yeah, I know about all that.’
‘Jesse doesn’t know though, does he?’
‘No,’ I say, ‘he wouldn’t understand, Jesse. He only really thinks about football. And occasionally food. I haven’t told him yet. Mum didn’t want me to.’
Uncle Stu nods.
‘That’s a big secret for you to carry around, isn’t it?’
‘It’s not a secret from everyone,’ I tell him. ‘Just Jesse. You know, and Mia and Polly know.’
‘Your mum wants him to know now. I promised I’d tell him after the weekend.’ Uncle Stu’s voice goes a bit quieter. He looks over at the door to the garden.
‘Luke, you know your mum’s not going to get better, don’t you?’
He puts his hand on my shoulder, as though to steady me.
‘I’d kind of worked that out,’ I say.
‘I thought you had,’ he says. ‘You’re a bright kid, Luke. You see, your mum wanted a weekend at home with you guys while she still can. A special weekend . . .’
His voice trails off. I’m not going to fill in the gaps, but I know what he is trying to say next. He swallows hard. I don’t think this is easy for him either, but I really don’t want to hear the next bit. I pick up the plates and grab the cutlery.
‘Then that’s what we’ll do,’ I say. ‘Make it special. For Mum. I’ll take this stuff outside. Do you think that charcoal is hot enough yet?’
Once we get outside, Uncle Stu starts rattling around among the white-hot charcoal with some barbecue tongs before pronouncing it’s ready for cooking.
‘I’m starving,’ shouts Jesse, running over. ‘Can you put the sausages on first, Uncle Stu?’
‘Have you done this kind of thing before?’ says Polly. ‘You look very domesticated in that pinny.’
‘Barbecues?’ he says, ‘Nothing to it. It’s all in the preparation, isn’t it, Luke?’
When we get going, it’s like a little production line. I’m shoving the sausages over to Uncle Stu, he’s stuffing them into hot dog buns and handing them to Jesse, who eats them and occasionally passes the odd one on. There’s a nice vibe.
Mum says, ‘I feel so useless sitting here.’ She means ‘in this wheelchair’ but she doesn’t say it. We know what she means.
‘Relax,’ says Uncle Stu. ‘It’s all under control. The blokes are in charge today, right, lads? All you girls have to do is stuff your faces with the fruits of our labour.’
‘A man who cooks and has a sense of humour,’ says Polly. ‘You’ll be telling us you know how to wash up next.’
‘Washing up?’ he says. ‘What’s that?’
‘Anyone fancy playing “Dodge the Frisbee” when we’ve eaten?’ asks Polly.
‘Don’t know how to play that,’ Jesse mutters through a mouthful of burger.
‘Basically, you run round the garden like lunatics and I chuck a frisbee at you. If it hits you, you get to chuck the frisbee.’
‘Yeah, sounds cool,’ says Jesse with a big cheeseburger grin.
And that’s what we do. We eat and we drink and afterwards we run around the garden chucking the frisbee at each other and it’s a really good laugh. Jesse throws one too hard and it sails over the fence into old Mr Mankin’s garden, and Jesse jumps over the fence to retrieve it. As he’s climbing back over, Mr Mankin’s dog, Boris, comes bombing up from round the corner where he’s been snoozing and barks so hard at Jesse, he almost gives him a panic attack. It’s only Polly chucking a sausage up the garden to distract Boris that allows Jesse the time to jump back over. We’re laughing so much we all collapse in a huge heap on the lawn.
‘I don’t think that dog gets enough to eat,’ says Uncle Stu. ‘Boris was looking mighty hungrily at your bum, Jesse.’
Polly throws another frisbee at Uncle Stu and it whacks him on the side of the head and he chases after her and we laugh some more, and then we notice that Mum has nodded off.
‘Let’s move Pat into the shade,’ says Polly.
So I take the brake off her wheelchair and, as Uncle Stu starts to push her, Mum’s eyes open and you can see there’s something troubling her.
‘Are you all right, Pat?’ says Uncle Stu.
‘I think I’d better be getting back to the hospital now,’ says Mum.
chapter twenty
‘I’m sure I’ll be fine.’ Mum is rubbing her shoulder and grimacing as she touches it. ‘I’d best get back, though. Just to be safe.’
She’s trying her best to sound casual, but there’s some kind of anxiety that’s crept into her voice and everyone keeps asking her how she’s feeling. We’re in the lounge, gathering all her stuff together so that Uncle Stu can drive her back. It’s obvious she’s in pain and needs proper help. She’s twisting a little scrap of blue satin ribbon around her fingers in a strange distracted way. It’s as if she’s trying to keep her fingers busy to keep the pain at bay, but I don’t think it’s working.
‘Are you coming next weekend too?’ says Jesse. ‘We could have another barbecue, couldn’t we? I liked those pyjama banana things.’
Mum tries her best at a smile, but now she’s abandoned the ribbon – it’s just fluttered down to the floor – and she’s pressing away at her pain relief machine so hard I can see the effort on her face. She beckons Polly over, whispers something in her ear and Polly nods and goes into the hall to make a whispered call on her mobile.
Uncle Stu tells Jesse, ‘See, I told you you’d love the barbecue.’
Mum’s stuff is packed up by the door. Polly has been rushing around the room like a human whirlwind. Uncle Stu asks Mum if she wants us to call an ambulance, but she says, ‘No, no. I don’t want all that fuss. You drive me, Stu.’
So here we are, not even forty-eight hours after Mum’s homecoming, and she’s leaving again. Jesse’s standing on the pavement with me and Polly, ready to wave her off. Polly’s trying to be very casual about it all, but she’s biting her lip anxiously, which is a sure sign this is serious, I reckon. Then her mobile phone goes off and she walks a few metres away from us for another whispered conversation. The suddenness of Mum’s departure is even starting to get to Jesse, who’s looking a bit bewildered, and I notice that Uncle Stu is doing his best not to make eye contact with us.
‘Are you okay to stay with the boys?’ he asks Polly. ‘I can always drop them at Mia’s.’
‘No, don’t worry, we’ll all have a cup of tea and watch some telly, eh?’ says Polly. ‘I’ve spoken to the ward and someone will be there to meet you when you arrive. Just park outside and call them on your mobile – they’ll come straight down to help.’
She turns to us and puts on an extra-perky look.
‘I can tell you all about the new yoga course I’m thinking of signing up for. It’s meant to make you brainier and more relaxed, but I’ll settle for firmer thighs and a bit less cellulite, frankly.’
Jesse looks alarmed at the prospect. ‘There’s a match on the telly this afternoon,’ he says quickly. We lean into the passenger door of the car to kiss Mum goodbye.
‘Come and see me . . . tomorrow after school,’ she says, but it’s more of a moan than words now, and there’s little gaps and pauses. Her skin is slightly sweaty, slightly damp. ‘I’ll be feeling better . . . then. Once I’m back.’
Only she isn’t. The next day, when I get back from school, it’s like the Marie Celeste at home. There’s no sign of Uncle Stu, and all Mrs McLafferty’s stuff is gone. She’s left a note for us on the kitchen table. Well, it’s addressed to both of us, but I can tell it’s really for Jesse. I don’t think she gives a monkey’s about me, but then the feeling’s kind of
mutual. I pass it to Jesse to open.
He starts reading it but he’s having trouble with her slightly shaky old-lady handwriting, it’s all loopy and smudgy with big lumpy bits of biro ink, and after the first sentence he passes it to me to decipher. I read it out, but I don’t bother with the accent.
Dear Jesse and Luke,
‘She’s put your name first, even though I’m older. That’s typical . . .’
‘Just get on with it,’ says Jesse.
Sorry to hear your mammy’s not feeling any better. Your uncle tells me he’s coming to look after you now while she’s in the hospital. Well, that’s fair enough. What you boys need at a time like this is relatives and some good home cooking. I don’t know what your uncle’s cooking is like but I know you’ll miss me and my casseroles so I’ve left you a little something for this evening.
Normally I’d ask for at least two weeks’ notice, but under the circumstances, beggars can’t be choosers.
Yours sincerely,
Bridie McLafferty
‘Bridie?’ says Jesse. ‘That sounds like the Bride of Frankenstein.
‘It suits her,’ I say.
‘What does “beggars can’t be choosers” mean anyway?’
‘It means,’ I explain, ‘that she doesn’t have any choice. It’s push off, or push off.’
‘Look over there,’ says Jesse. He nods his head in the direction of the cooker. There’s a casserole standing silently on the side. It’s an unexploded device, primed to go off at any minute.
‘It may be her Irish stew,’ he says.
‘It may be her liver casserole,’ I remind him.
Mrs McLafferty’s Irish stew was one of the few dishes in her repertoire we had come to be less afraid of. I can’t honestly say we’d grown to love it, but compared to the liver casserole (foul), the hotpot (rank) and the sausage pie (‘A lot of sausages suffered in the making of that,’ Jack declared one evening when Mrs M had managed to persuade him to stay for supper), it was less of a crime against tastebuds.
‘Don’t open it,’ I tell Jesse as he approaches it, ready to remove the lid and discover what lurks beneath. ‘Let’s take it straight round to Boris. Make him a very happy dog.’
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