by Imogen Clark
Another knock, closer this time.
‘Clare? Are you awake? Can I come in?’
It was her mother. Shit. Now they would all know just how very crap she was. The empty bottles were still on the floor where she’d left them and River was careering about the flat like some gypsy urchin. She was twenty-eight years old and her life was a disaster.
The door opened and her mother’s face partially appeared, peering round the edge as if she were afraid of what she might find. Clare buried herself deeper under the covers, hiding her head. She couldn’t bear for her mother to see her like this. They all thought she was a waste of space and now here she was, proving them all right.
‘Oh, Clare,’ said her mother. ‘Heavens preserve us now.’ Her voice was gentle and kind with no hint of judgement. She crossed the room and came and sat down on the bed. Clare felt the mattress sink as the springs gave way. She buried herself deeper under the duvet. ‘What’s going on here, love?’ asked her mother, gently lifting the duvet up to reveal Clare cowering beneath. Clare’s instinct was to snatch it back down, to preserve the dark world she had created for herself, but she knew that was both childish and pointless. Having found her in this state, there was no way that her mother would just turn round and leave without satisfying herself that Clare was all right.
Clare flinched from the light. She felt sick with shame. The T-shirt that she slept in was stained and smelled vaguely of vomit. Her hair hung in rat-tails and she could only imagine what yesterday’s make-up would have done to her face.
‘I’m okay,’ she said, despite all the evidence to the contrary. ‘I’m just having a bad day. I’ll be fine in a bit. Thanks for coming and all that but there’s no need to worry.’
She closed her eyes again.
‘River is so grown-up these days,’ said her mother, totally ignoring all the other aspects of Clare’s life that might merit comment. ‘He’s made his own breakfast, he was telling me, and him only four. You should be very proud of him, Clare, so you should. It’s so important to be independent.’
God bless her mother. She always managed to find the positive. Of course River was independent. It was either that or starve some days.
‘Thanks,’ she said in a voice so quiet that it barely sounded at all.
‘Now, let’s get you up and dressed. Shall I run you a bath? I’m sure you’ll feel much better with some clean clothes on you.’
There was nothing clean in the flat. She had neither the money nor the inclination to go to the laundrette. Despite this, Clare let her mother help her sit up on the edge of the bed. Her mottled legs were a mess of bruises – some fresh and purple, others raging yellows and blues. She tried to pull the T-shirt down to cover them but there wasn’t enough fabric to do the job.
‘And then we can all go down to the supermarket and get you some bits,’ her mother continued. ‘I’m sure there must be some treats that River would like.’
Clare knew how this went. She had been here before. By ‘bits’ her mother meant to fill her entire kitchen with food, as it was obvious that she was incapable of doing this for herself. Then she would set about cleaning the flat and finally they would go out for tea as a ‘treat’ for River. It was the same every time. It was all so humiliating. Clare didn’t move. She closed her eyes tight against the horror of it all.
‘You don’t have to do that, Mum. We’ll be fine.’
‘But I want to. If a mother can’t come and look after her own child, then what’s the world coming to?’
The irony of this statement was either lost on her or she chose to ignore it.
‘I’ve really fucked things up this time,’ said Clare. She saw her mother flinch at her use of an expletive but that couldn’t be helped. ‘I had a screaming match with this cow of a woman in the playground. She was being so fucking smug and patronising and I just saw red. Who do they think they are to judge me like that? Stupid bitches.’
‘Well, I can remember well enough how hard it can be, looking after a child on your own,’ said her mother. ‘It’s so tough and you feel like the whole world is out to get you.’
Clare had not heard her mother talk like this before. She had always been so perfect, with no chinks in her armour. It was hard to believe that life had ever been tough for her, not tough like it was for Clare.
‘Yeah, but you had Dad,’ Clare said, her tone dismissive.
‘Your father was away with his work. I spent a lot of time on my own. And it was hard, bringing up four of you. I felt like I was chasing my tail most of the time, trying so hard to do the right thing but not always being sure what that was.’
Her mother reached up and stroked Clare’s hair. Clare’s first reaction was to pull away but then she found that she quite liked the slow, reassuring strokes down her matted locks.
‘There was a time,’ her mother continued, ‘when I didn’t know which way to turn either. Miriam was a baby and your father gone and I really wasn’t coping. I slipped too, Clare. So I understand what it’s like. I really do.’
Her mother’s voice cracked and Clare finally opened her eyes. Her mother was clearly struggling to hold back her tears.
‘You just have to do your best,’ she continued. ‘Keep putting one foot in front of the other until you get to the other side. You’ll get things wrong, Lord knows I did. But you just have to learn from it and keep going. It will all work out, eventually.’
Clare doubted that. She had no real qualifications, no job, a child that she couldn’t look after and no one to lean on.
‘You have to stop the drinking, though, Clare,’ her mother added quietly. ‘That’s not going to help anyone.’
Clare bristled. How much she drank was entirely up to her. It was the only way she could get through the pain and no one was going to take it away from her.
‘I’m fine, Mum,’ she said briskly. ‘We’re fine. We just had a bit of a setback yesterday but we’ve had worse. And River’s okay. He’s doing well at school and he’s got some little friends . . .’
She stopped. He’d had friends. She had pretty much scuppered that for him with her outburst yesterday. Well, what did that matter? They would move house. There were other schools. They could start again somewhere else. The council could sort her out with a flat in a different town. Or perhaps abroad, India maybe, and he could go to school with the local kids, run around barefoot in the sun.
‘It’s not just about you any more, Clare,’ her mother was saying. ‘You have to do what’s best for your son. That’s what I’ve always tried to do for you. Even though I made mistakes, I always had you at the front of my mind.’
What was she talking about? thought Clare. Her saintly mother hadn’t put a foot wrong in her life. What did she know about fucking things up? She had absolutely no idea what Clare was going through, the guilt that she felt every day at the mess she’d made of everything. And then there were her bloody siblings, who’d never fucked anything up either. Well, they could all just piss off. She didn’t need them. She didn’t need anyone. Something hardened in her heart.
‘Actually, Mum,’ she said, ‘River and I have plans for today so it’s probably best if you just left us to it. Thanks for coming and all that.’
She stood up too quickly, her head spun and she saw stars.
‘Say hi to Dad for me,’ she added as she walked with as much dignity as she could muster in her dirty T-shirt towards the bedroom door.
River was sitting on the floor in the lounge, about a foot from the TV screen. At his side were an upturned cereal bowl and a can of Coke. He was still wearing his pyjamas. The Bliss children would never have been in their pyjamas later than 8 a.m. Her mother spoke quietly.
‘Let me help, Clare,’ she said. ‘You don’t have to do it all on your own.’
But Clare ignored her. She held open the door to the flat until her mother crossed the threshold.
‘Bye, Mum,’ she said, and then she closed the door.
DOROTHY – 1996
I
Dorothy wept as the reporter read out the names of the dead.
‘Can you believe this shooting, Frank?’ she said when she had managed to compose herself a little.
Frank looked up from his paper. ‘In Scotland? It’s a tragedy.’
‘All those poor little mites. Just imagine how frightened they must have been. Such a pointless waste of life. A whole community’s future wiped out. Just like that. And there’ll be no justice. Turning the gun on himself like a coward.’
‘They should have strung him up.’
‘And that brave teacher,’ Dorothy continued. ‘Throwing herself in the firing line to save her class. It’s shocking. And those that didn’t die will be scarred for life. Nothing in Dunblane will ever be the same. Never.’
Frank shook his head. ‘It is, as I said, a real tragedy. What’s for tea?’
Dorothy wiped her eyes with a cotton handkerchief and then stuffed it back inside her sleeve. Why did tragedy never seem to touch men the way it touched women? It was like they were wired in a totally different way. The futile loss of sixteen children, sixteen families decimated, and he was worried about his stomach.
‘Fish,’ she said.
‘Are we doing food on Sunday?’ asked Frank.
Dorothy noticed the plural pronoun and raised an eyebrow.
‘Just a finger buffet. And a cake, of course. You can’t have a birthday without a cake. I’m going to do a Black Forest gateau. That’s always been Anna’s favourite since she was a little girl.’
Dorothy had such fond memories of Anna helping her bake, the way her little tongue stuck out as she stirred the mixture, being careful not to slop it out of the bowl, how she licked the spoon mid-stir when she thought Dorothy wasn’t watching.
‘I’m sure she’ll love it. And are we expecting a full complement?’
‘I think so. Plus Sebastian’s new girlfriend if she can bear us until Sunday. And I think Clare is bringing Dicken.’
Frank tutted. ‘He’s a waste of space, that one. A potter? What kind of a job is that?’
‘Dicken is a good man, Frank. You shouldn’t be so hard on him. Clare could do a lot worse.’
‘She could do a lot better. Why can’t she pick someone normal for a change? You know he’s got his nose pierced. What kind of man wants to stick a bead on a pin through his nose?’
‘Well, Clare did that too, remember, so we’re in no place to criticise. You’re to be nice to him, Frank. I don’t want anything spoiling Anna’s day.’
Frank rustled his paper and disappeared back behind it.
‘We need to get that box of old toys down from the roof for Rosie and Abigail. I’m sure Miriam will be after bringing some things of theirs from home but other people’s toys are so much more interesting. Miriam said that little Abigail is quite steady on her feet now.’
‘Mmmm.’
‘I’m not sure what River will find to do. Ten is such an in-between sort of age, so it is. Maybe Sebastian can show him those cartoon books he used to collect. I do worry about that boy.’
‘Who?’ came Frank’s voice from behind his paper. ‘Sebastian?’
‘No! River! A child needs some stability in its life. He gets pushed around from pillar to post so often. It can’t be good for him. If Clare would just settle to something . . .’
‘It’ll do the lad no harm. Character-building. And it’s none of our business, anyway. Clare’s a grown woman. How she chooses to live her life is up to her.’
‘Well, I hope Dicken sticks around for a bit. It’s good for River to have a man in his life, especially at his age. It’s important he has a good role model.’
‘A potter with a nose piercing?’
‘Oh, be quiet, Frank.’
Dorothy worried about all her children but Clare was still the one that had her lying awake at night. There had been a string of men, each less suitable than the one they replaced. Lord only knew which of them had been River’s father. Dorothy had once screwed her courage to the sticking-place and asked Clare outright. It had not gone well. Clare had screamed at her, accusing her of interfering, of inflicting her values on her. She had been left with the clear impression that Clare didn’t actually know which one of them had fathered her son. Just thinking about this made Dorothy’s heart beat faster. Thank the Lord that her own parents hadn’t been around to see how Clare was turning out. She could virtually feel the breeze that was coming off her father spinning in his grave. She couldn’t help but wonder, though. Was there a reason why Clare was so troubled when the others were settled? Dorothy had thought about telling Clare of her suspicions more than once over the years. She had seen how much pain her daughter was in, comparing herself and her many failings to her siblings. Would it help to know that there might be an explanation? Dorothy couldn’t decide and always stopped shy of saying anything, worried that it might do more harm than good. She would tell Clare, though, eventually, before it was too late. She owed her that. Dorothy just had to wait until Clare was a little bit stronger.
‘Is Anna not bringing anyone?’ asked Frank, cutting through her internal monologue and bringing her back to the here and now.
Now here was another worry. Anna wasn’t getting any younger. She needed to stop working so hard and get on with finding herself a nice young man to look after her.
‘Not that I know of,’ she said, shaking her head sadly. ‘And I’m sure she would have said. Thirty years old and still single.’
‘Now that really is a tragedy,’ said Frank. ‘Anna will make someone a perfect wife. What happened to the one that came here that Boxing Day? What was his name?’
‘Justin? I don’t know where he disappeared to. The whole thing just seemed to peter out. Miriam said he was quite keen. She was certain he’d propose but then Anna was so off-hand about it all that the poor wee boy lost his nerve, so he did.’
‘Well, if he wasn’t the one for her . . .’ said Frank. ‘Anna knows her own mind. Always has done. She won’t go settling for second best.’
‘Sometimes you have to compromise, Frank. I mean, I married you, didn’t I?’
Frank lowered his newspaper and frowned at her over the top. She couldn’t see his mouth but she could tell from his eyes that he was smiling. If her daughters could just catch themselves a good man like she had done . . .
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?!’ Frank asked.
‘All I’m saying is that if Anna doesn’t choose someone to marry soon, it will be too late.’
‘Too late for what, exactly?’
‘You know. Children and things.’
‘Children and things? What kind of things?’
‘Oh, Frank, do you have to be so difficult? You know what I mean plain well. She’s thirty years old already. If she doesn’t meet someone and settle down soon then . . .’
‘She’ll die an old maid, eating cat food and surrounded by back copies of the Reader’s Digest. Don’t be ridiculous, woman. She’s fine. If she meets someone then all well and good, and if she doesn’t then she will be perfectly all right by herself. Better that than ricocheting from man to man like her wayward sister.’
The front door banged and a voice called ‘Hi’ from the hall.
‘Hello, Sebastian, love. We’re in here.’
There was the sound of a heavy bag being dumped on the floor and then Sebastian strolled in.
‘Hi, Ma. Pa.’
He walked over to Dorothy and gave her a kiss on her pink cheek.
‘Don’t I get one of those?’ asked Frank.
‘What do you think?’ asked Sebastian as he bounded over the back of the sofa and landed on the cushions with a bounce.
‘Don’t jump on the furniture! And take your shoes off. Honestly, you’ve been gone five minutes and already you’ve forgotten the way things are done around here.’
‘When’s tea? I’m starving.’
‘You’re not expecting to be fed as well, are you?’ asked Frank. ‘Isn’t that what your grant’s for?’ Dorot
hy knew he was only half joking.
‘It’s fish, or it will be if I can shake myself. I’ll go and put it on in a minute. Is Tessa not with you?’
‘Yes, she’s here.’
Sebastian turned to the door as a tall willowy girl with dark, shiny hair walked into the room. Lord but she was a beauty. Dorothy felt a ripple of pride that Sebastian had managed to find such a lovely girlfriend. For a moment she was lost for words but then she remembered herself.
‘Tessa,’ Dorothy said, rushing across to the girl. ‘How lovely to meet you.’ She went to give Tessa a hug but Tessa pulled away so that Dorothy had to make do with a pat on her shoulder.
‘Nice to meet you too, Mrs Bliss,’ she said tightly. There wasn’t much warmth to her, Dorothy thought, but she supposed it must be a bit intimidating, meeting them all in one weekend. She’d make allowances for now. She smiled broadly at her.
‘Oh, but you must call me Dorothy. And this is Sebastian’s father, Frank.’
Frank looked up from his newspaper and Dorothy was sure that he did a double take. She hoped Tessa hadn’t noticed but she suspected that she had. Tessa gave him a little half-smile and a nod.
‘Hi,’ she said baldly.
Dorothy felt a little thrown. She’d been expecting a little bit more enthusiasm. It wasn’t that Tessa was rude exactly, but she gave off an air of superiority that made Dorothy feel uncomfortable. She turned her attention back to Sebastian.
‘And how’s the course going, Sebastian?’ she asked. ‘Have you written any good essays lately?’
‘It’s Maths, Mum. We don’t do essays. We do sums!’
Dorothy was feeling stupid now but she ploughed on, hoping that she wasn’t blushing too much.
‘Well, I’m looking forward to hearing all about it. Has that boy in your flat settled in a bit better now?’