by Imogen Clark
‘These beds are so uncomfortable,’ she said without opening her eyes. ‘And my feet are freezing.’
‘You can see your breath,’ said Sebastian. ‘Look!’ And he breathed out as hard as he could so that the air in front of him formed itself into a little cloud.
Anna groaned again.
‘I don’t know why we come to this godforsaken caravan in the middle of the winter when we have a perfectly warm house.’
‘Technically it’s spring now,’ chipped in Sebastian.
‘I don’t care what it is. It’s flipping freezing. I’m not getting up until it’s warmed up a bit.’ With that she pulled her head down inside her sleeping bag and disappeared from view except for the very top of her hair.
‘Morning, you two,’ came a voice from the other side of the flimsy door.
‘Mummy, would you be a darling and make me a cup of tea? I may die from hypothermia if I have to leave my sleeping bag.’
‘Anna, you’re making such a fuss, so you are. There’s barely a chill in the air. Not like that year—’
‘—when it snowed,’ they chorused.
‘If you’re making tea . . .’ came Clare’s voice. They must have had to make up the extra bed for Clare.
‘Honestly, you’re all bone idle,’ said his father through the wall. ‘But if you are making tea, Dorothy, I wouldn’t say no to a cup.’
‘Okay,’ said his mother. ‘Here’s the deal. I will get up today and make you all tea but tomorrow one of you can do it.’
‘I vote Anna for tomorrow,’ said Clare.
‘All right. Anything just so long as I don’t have to get out of bed today. What’s the forecast, Dad?’
His father always knew what the weather was going to do. He would consult charts, examine the wooden barometer that was stuck on the inside of the door and read the countryside signs. Cows gathering, fir cones opening and various sorts of birdsong could all give clues as to what was about to arrive, according to his father.
‘I do believe that it’s going to rain today, sure as eggs is eggs.’
‘Great. That’s just perfect,’ said Anna as she burrowed herself still deeper into her sleeping bag.
‘Well, those lakes don’t just fill themselves, you know.’
His father said this every time they complained about the weather. Anna groaned, and Sebastian decided that it would be a good day to practise his tree-climbing, particularly if the sudden reappearance of Clare was going to keep his naturally cautious mother busy. Maybe he could try for a boat trip too.
Later, when they’d had breakfast and cleared away, Sebastian was sitting at the dining table with Anna. The others had donned waterproofs and gone for a wander into the village. Anna was doodling on the corner of the newspaper, a never-ending spiral that twisted round and around itself so that Sebastian could no longer see where it had started.
‘Anna?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is Clare all right?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘Well. I didn’t know she was coming.’
‘No. None of us did.’
‘So why did she?’
Sebastian was taking a gamble. He would need to pretend that he hadn’t heard anything of the previous night’s conversation. If he let anything slip that might give him away, then Anna would probably clam up and he’d be no further forward.
Anna didn’t say anything for a few moments. She sucked on her lip, her pen continuing to trace the spiral.
‘Clare’s made a mistake,’ she said eventually. ‘Quite a big one, as it happens. And now it’s all gone wrong and so she’s had to come running back to us with her tail between her legs.’
Sebastian thought this was a bit harsh but then Anna never did take any prisoners.
‘What kind of mistake?’ he ventured. This was a genuine question. For all that he’d overheard the night before, he still didn’t really have any idea of what had gone wrong.
‘She thought she was in love but she was just in lust.’
Sebastian didn’t know what being ‘in lust’ was either but he didn’t want to clarify things in case the interruption made Anna stop talking.
‘And it turns out that her new man felt the same way. She’s better off without him. He was far too old for her anyway.’
‘Who was? Rodney?’
Anna stopped doodling and looked straight at him.
‘Were you listening last night?’
‘No,’ he said, and then, ‘Well. Maybe a little bit. So who is Rodney anyway? Stupid kind of name, whoever he is.’
‘He’s some salesman who thought he was in love with Clare and then thought better of it. If you ask me, she’s had a narrow escape. Tied down with a married man who’s twice her age and with brats in tow. And her only twenty-two? It’s not how I envisage my life panning out, I’ll tell you that for free, little brother.’
‘So, will she be coming back to live with us?’
‘I think she’s supposed to be going back to poly but I’m not sure they’ll take her. If they won’t then yes, she’ll probably come home.’
Sebastian was quiet as he contemplated this. He liked it at home with just him and Anna. Whenever Clare was there, there were rows. Miriam had never caused any bother when she’d been around but trouble seemed to follow Clare about.
‘Are Mum and Dad cross with her?’ he asked.
‘A bit. Well, I think Dad is. Mum is just glad that she’s okay. Everyone knew that she’d made a mistake but we just had to wait until Clare worked it out for herself. Anyway, it turns out that old Rodney was a spineless git so she’s worked it out faster than we thought.’
Outside, it looked like the rain was easing and there were more people moving about the site, all dressed in dingy waterproofs and wellies.
‘I need to get on with some revision now, Monkey. If they get back and I’m not hard at it there’ll be hell to pay. Can you find something to do?’
Sebastian nodded his head and wondered what a git was.
CLARE – 1990
I
Clare stood in the playground and waited for River to come out of school. It was bitterly cold and her thin jacket did almost nothing to keep out the biting wind. It didn’t help that the zip was broken. She pulled it tighter around herself, tucking her hands under her armpits. The chill was rising up through her feet too, the thin soles of her Converse pumps providing very little insulation. She hopped from one foot to the other but then decided that she must look stupid and so stopped. Most of the other mothers were huddled in a little group near the shelter. They didn’t look cold in their warm boots and thick anoraks. They looked totally without style but they didn’t look cold.
A shriek of laughter went up from the main gaggle of women. A couple of the others turned round to see what the hilarity was all about but Clare didn’t. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of knowing she was curious. In fact, she wasn’t curious. She really didn’t care what they were finding so very funny. She ignored the small nagging voice that told her they were laughing at her. Why would they be? She hadn’t done anything to draw attention to herself and even if she had, what did she care about a bunch of stupid women who had nothing better to do with their time than drink coffee and bitch about people they knew fuck all about. Clare didn’t know that they did this but they definitely looked the sort.
Come on. It must be time for the bell to go. The waiting here on her own was the downside of getting here early but she was making a real effort now after River had complained to her.
‘Mrs Slaughter gets cross if you’re late, Mummy,’ he’d said, his pale eyes wide. ‘She said that it’s rude to make her wait for you. Please could you try to get there when all the other mummies do so I’m not left on my own.’
Mrs Slaughter can damn well wait, Clare had thought. That is what she’s paid for. But River had bitten his lip as he spoke and Clare had felt a sting of shame. It wasn’t her little boy’s fault that she couldn’t get to school on time to pick him up
. She had no excuse, anyway. It wasn’t as if she had a job. Most times she was late simply because she lacked the motivation to drag herself away from whatever mind-numbing crap she was watching on daytime TV when the clock reached 3 p.m.
‘I will try extra-hard,’ she had said to him, taking his little hand in hers as they left the playground, last again. She had given it a little squeeze and River had squeezed back. See. She could do this being-a-mother thing. She just had to stay focused on it. And she had been making a real effort. She hadn’t been late all week, and when Mrs Slaughter had released him, he had come skipping across the tarmac towards her with a big smile on his face. It gave her a warm feeling, seeing him smile like that, thinking that she was just as good as all those other mothers. She wasn’t, of course. You just had to look at her own mother to see what a piss-poor job she was doing with River. But she was trying and that had to count for something, didn’t it?
To her left, another woman was standing on her own. Clare gave her a sidelong glance, not wanting to accidentally make eye contact with someone she didn’t know. It was Rochelle, the mother of River’s little friend Joshua. Clare waited for a moment to see if she would come and join her but she showed no sign of moving. If she was going to fit in here Clare could see that she was going to have to make the running herself. She took a deep breath and sidled over.
‘Hi,’ she said when she got close enough to be heard. ‘How are you doing? River so enjoyed playing with Josh the other night.’
Rochelle gave her a tight little smile and nodded.
‘Yes, they were having a fine old time playing soldiers,’ Clare continued.
Rochelle shuffled a little on the spot and bit her lip.
‘Boys just love shooting stuff, don’t they?’ asked Clare. ‘My little brother was just the same when he was their age.’
‘Actually,’ said Rochelle, her eyes not looking up from the ground, ‘we don’t encourage that kind of play. I’m not sure it’s healthy. And Joshua doesn’t have any toy weapons.’
‘What, no guns? All boys play with guns.’
‘Not Joshua,’ said Rochelle. She threw her head back with a defiant little shake. ‘I’ve told everyone not to buy him any.’
Clare was starting to get just a little irritated.
‘Well, he certainly knew what to do with River’s. They were having a proper battle. It was just a bit of fun, though. I mean, it’s not like they’re real or anything.’
Rochelle nodded slowly. ‘And is it true that you let them watch a Rambo film?’
Clare smiled. ‘Yes. River loves them. We’ve got all three on video.’
Clare was proud that she had managed to get hold of an ancient video recorder. A friend of Anna’s had been throwing it out and so it had found its way to Clare’s flat along with a selection of videos. There was no way she would have been able to afford that on her own but she was pleased that River could have a video recorder just like his school friends.
‘You do know that it’s an eighteen certificate?’ Rochelle said, her voice dropping into a whisper so that the other mothers couldn’t hear her.
‘Well, yes, but they don’t really understand it. River just likes the blowing-things-up parts.’
‘But they’re four years old,’ said Rochelle.
‘That’s why it doesn’t really matter,’ said Clare. ‘They’re so young they don’t know what’s going on, not really.’
‘Dave and I were very unhappy about it,’ continued Rochelle, ‘and I spoke to some of the others and they agreed.’
Clare felt the world shift under her feet. So they had been bitching about her behind her back. She’d felt it. They were all so bloody superior with their flashy cars and their holidays in Majorca. She knew that they looked down their noses at her, a single mother with no sign of the father and barely a penny to her name. None of that was River’s fault, though. That was what made her angry. The fact that they took it out on him.
‘Oh,’ Clare said. She wasn’t sure what else to say. ‘Okay. Well, next time Josh comes round I’ll put a different video on. Does he want to come for tea tonight?’
Rochelle shook her head. ‘It’s his piano lesson tonight.’
‘Well, how about tomorrow, then?’
Rochelle’s cheeks went scarlet. ‘He’s . . . erm . . . busy tomorrow too.’
Oh. Clare could see what was going on here. She wasn’t good enough for them. They didn’t want their little darlings kicking round with River because he was the wrong sort of child, from the wrong background.
‘Well, fuck you,’ said Clare, and Rochelle’s jaw fell open. ‘I wouldn’t want your stuck-up little brat to play with my beautiful boy anyway. He definitely doesn’t need morons like you in his world.’ She was shouting now and the other mothers turned to see what the commotion was about. Clare didn’t care. She was on a roll. ‘I wouldn’t let River play with your precious son if he was the last child on the planet.’
That told her, thought Clare, spinning round away from Rochelle, a smug smile on her lips.
River was standing right behind her, having been released to her by Mrs Slaughter. His little face was a picture of concern as he tried to work out why his mummy was shouting at his friend’s mummy.
‘River, baby,’ said Clare. She felt about two inches tall. ‘I didn’t see you standing there.’ She knelt down so she was at his eye level. ‘Have you had a good day?’
‘Why did you say that I couldn’t play with Josh?’ he asked. His eyes were brimming with tears.
Clare took his hand and tried to lead him away but he wouldn’t move and just stood looking between her and Rochelle, his forehead creased.
‘I like Josh,’ he continued. ‘He’s my friend.’ And then he started to cry but he still stayed stubbornly on the spot. Clare could feel the eyes of the other mothers on her. She flicked a V-sign at them. She could hear the gasp and then the twittering voices as she yanked at River’s arm to make him move.
‘Mummy, that hurt,’ whined River, but Clare just had to get out of there and she ignored his complaints as she pulled him across the playground and out towards the street. She could hear the hushed voices of the other mothers whispering behind her back as she left.
II
It was freezing in the flat. The storage heaters were supposed to come on at night but you could only feel the feeble heat that they produced if you leaned your back against them, and then the draughts coming through the floorboards outweighed any benefit from the low-level warmth.
River had gone to sleep. He had cried all the way home from school, perking up only a little bit when she used the last of that week’s spare cash to take him to McDonald’s for tea. There hadn’t been enough money for her to eat as well so she had made do with a scorching cup of bad coffee and a couple of stolen chips. He had seemed fine, but as he was falling asleep he started to cry again.
‘Why did you say those horrible things to Josh’s mummy?’ he asked her, confusion written across his open little face. ‘Now he won’t want to be my friend, ever. And he’ll tell the others and then no one will be my friend. And it’s all your fault, Mummy.’
And it was true. She should have kept her temper. She should have just accepted Rochelle’s point of view and moved on. They were all entitled to make their own choices about how to bring up their children. So Rochelle didn’t want Josh playing with guns. Well, that was her choice. Clare wasn’t sure now why she had taken it as such a personal affront. Actually, who was she kidding? She knew exactly why. Rochelle’s objections hadn’t really been about the guns or watching Rambo. Anyone could see that. No, this was all about how she, and consequently River, didn’t fit in. They wore the wrong clothes, ate the wrong food and clearly watched the wrong television, and whilst the majority would tolerate her up to a point, there was definitely a line that she wasn’t supposed to cross. Except that she had. She had skidded over it in a burning car with no brakes. Again.
River had been at school for less than a term and alrea
dy she had messed things up. He hated her. The other mums hated her. The teachers probably did too. She was a crap mother. Could she give him up for adoption? The thought skittered across her mind but she pushed it away. Instead, she opened the second bottle of Thunderbird. It didn’t taste quite so bad as the first bottle now that her taste buds had been numbed. Soon the rest of her would be numbed too and she wouldn’t have to think about any of it until tomorrow. She pushed herself closer up against the heater and slopped the wine into her glass.
The phone rang. She’d ignore it. It would be her mother or Miriam and she couldn’t bear speaking to either of them right now. She only had a phone because her mother paid the call charges. How pathetic was that? Her own mother. Clare just wanted to make herself as small as possible so that this sick feeling in the pit of her stomach would disappear. Maybe if she just stayed here the world would melt away? The ringing phone jangled her nerves. They must know that she would be here – where else would she be? So they would also know that she was ignoring them. She didn’t care. She just sat there, working her way down the bottle.
When she woke up it was 5.30 a.m. The flat felt like an igloo and the empty bottles were lying upturned at her feet. Her head was thumping and her mouth was dry. When she tried to move her neck and shoulders they felt stiff and uncooperative. What day was it? She thought hard and concluded that it was Saturday. No school, thank God. If she could stand she could get herself to bed. River would be up soon but if there was no sign of her, he would just get on with things on his own. He’d had plenty of practice. Feeling sick and swaying slightly as she got to her feet, she stumbled across to her bedroom and fell on to the sheets, still tousled from the day before.
Next time she woke it was to a gentle knocking. She couldn’t place the sound so she rolled over, set on ignoring it, but then she heard voices. River’s cheerful chatter and another softer tone.
‘Mummy’s in bed so I made myself breakfast and now I’m watching cartoons,’ said River proudly. Clare couldn’t hear what the other person said. She should go and see who it was but she couldn’t find the energy to drag herself from the bed. If they wanted her they would come and find her. She groaned and rolled over, looking for a glass of water or in fact any liquid at all, but there was nothing within reaching distance.