Mum doesn’t even see me. OK, the place is steamed up, but would she not at least wonder why? She really is on her own channel right now. It’s a major worry.†
She’s now sitting on the loo. Mega EEP! I am naked in the bath‡ and my mother is on the loo. Spot what’s wrong with this picture, much, anyone???
‘MUM!’ I yelp.
She looks over and smiles. ‘Ah, Jen, there you are.’ Then the penny drops as she notices where we both are. ‘Oh, right, I see. Sorry about that. I was away somewhere else.’
‘I noticed,’ I tell her.
Neither of us feels like striking up a chat,б although it is nice to be with Mum and to have her attention, however briefly.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ she says, and goes.
I can’t risk any further invasions, so I have to curtail bath time. I do feel better, though, and I take lovely deep breaths through my nose to savour the clearness of nostril that Doctor Eugene Nightingale has provided. I quickly dry off, get into some fluffy jimjams and climb into bed. I’m propped up against all my pillows reading when Gran pokes in.
‘That young fella has a real notion of you,’ she says.
I roll my eyes at the idea. ‘He’s me Best Blokepal, Gran.’
‘I brought you this.’ She produces a vapour rub for my chest. ‘My uncle Marty was a farmer in County Meath, one of the old-style codgers who didn’t understand medicine for the animals, or humans either. He thought if one tablet was good, two was better. And I don’t think he ever read the instructions for anything in his life.’
I’m wondering where this is going and if it will be the sort of meandering story Gran is fond of and good at. In other words, this could be a long night.
‘Anyhow, I was on holidays there once and I had an awful cough. In the middle of the night he came into the room, grabbed a jar of this stuff and gave me two handfuls of it to swallow. I can still taste it!’
See? Is it any wonder this family has evolved into a bunch of lunatics? It’s coming down through our genes.
This also goes some way to explaining why Gran thinks odd combos of food are edible.
‘Cured the cough, mind you.’
‘I won’t eat it,’ I tell her, with a solemn expression.
‘Promise,’ she says, equally solemnly.
Then we both laugh. It’s nice: what they call a feel-good moment.
It’s also clearly visiting time at the zoo, with my room as the fave exhibit, because next up is Dad.
‘Just wanted to say thanks for all your help earlier, Jen. Appreciate it. I really enjoyed it too.’
‘Ditto. Fingers crossed they like the ideas, and we can get some info to back them up from Teen Factor X.’
He sniffs the air. ‘You smell like a little cough drop.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ I say.
All Hell
‘Toppest news of all time, hot off the press,’ Dixie declares, as she catches up with Uggs and me in the schoolyard.
We wait for her to continue, in a prime example of how she can keep eejits in suspense.
Uggs cracks first. ‘WELL?’
‘Dermot and Sam Slinky are no longer an item.’
‘SHAAAP!’ I say. ‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Oh, believe. It’s on the grapevine plus I have just caught sight of her and she looks DREADFUL.’
On all levels this is interesting and a little bit delicious.
‘Let’s go see.’*
Sam looks v bedraggled. She is flanked by her fellow Slinkies, Dan and EmmyLou, who are warding off anyone who would dare approach. Sam’s hair has gone from blonde and braided† to mousey and a mess. Her face is blotchy and her eyes are red, like mine, but probs from crying (in her case) and not a manky disease (in mine). The goddess don’t look good!
‘I did hear Dermot arguing with her on the phone,’ I tell the Gang.
‘Word is that she can’t handle all the attention he’s getting from women because of his new showbiz lifestyle. So she gave him an ultimatum and, instead of commit, they split.’
‘How do you find this shizz out?’ Uggs asks.
Dixie shrugs. ‘It’s one of my many talents. Plus, I have contacts everywhere.’
‘Young women are flinging themselves at him, and it’s only going to get worse if they make it through the semi-final and on to the final,’ I confirm. ‘All the lads are feeling the lurve from their fans.’
Dixie shoots me a look. ‘To varying degrees,’ I emphasize, remembering her (maybe) plans for the Dork.
‘Nice to see that she’s human after all,’ Dixie says. ‘I feel a bit sorry for her, actually. I know what she’s going through.’ She gives what has now become her trademark put-upon sigh, the sigh of the thwarted-in-love.
‘So, what’s the latest on your own, erm, love life?’ Uggs asks, grabbing the perfect opportunity to check on the horror.
‘Kev wants to meet up … and …’
I’m almost afraid of what else lies in store for us, but I have to find out. ‘And?’
‘And I kind of have a blind date that we need to go on, with the lonely-hearts Barnacle Café guy.’
There’s that ‘we’ again …
UGGS: ‘Which one is first?’
DIX: ‘The local Lonely Heart.’
ME: ‘When?’
DIX: ‘Tomorrow, around five or so.’
UGGS: ‘Around?’
DIX: ‘OK, OK, you pair of pedants.‡ Sheesh, you’re like a tag team of annoyers. It’s at 5 p.m. exactly. Choose your glad rags – we can’t go in uniform.’
You know BAD and WORSE? Well, we’re back there.
I lag behind with Uggs and say, ‘I’m seriously thinking of hunting out Jason Fielding and fixing him and Dixie up again.’
‘He’ll be playing rugby with me later today, if you want to drag Dixie along and talk him up while you’re watching, or whatever.’
‘Or whatever’: this is our plan. Slim, I know, but it’s what we have to work with: rugby, it is. I shiver already at how cold it’s going to be out there on the sidelines. Just as well I’m running a slight temperature still; it’ll help keep me warm against the elements.
To say that Dixie is unimpressed with the prospect of standing in the mud and cold to watch boys running around after a madly shaped ball is to understate a v big understatement.
‘It’s for Uggs,’ I say. ‘We have to support him. He gets a lot of slagging off for having two female best friends, and the knitting we make him do, and all the craft-based schemes we involve him in. So we owe him. It’s payback time.’
I don’t know if it’s my stern tone or my brilliant argument that sways her. Or neither.
‘I can call it a random act of kindness,’ she says. ‘They’re good karma.’
Whatever her reasons, Dixie comes along to the match with me.
Run Ragged
There’s quite a crowd gathered to watch the match, which surprises me. Maybe everyone is using it as an opp to be seen and check out what little talent there is in Oakdale High. I can’t say I know what the rules are, but there is a lot of tussling over the ball and scrums and shouting and running at one another. The menfolk of the school are v v vocal, particularly against the referee if they feel he’s got something v wrong, which he seems to a lot.
‘Jason Fielding looks fit out there,’ I try, hoping it’ll reignite something in Dixie that isn’t scorn.
‘Hmm,’ is all that gets.
‘And Uggs is fast, just like he said.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Dork alert.’
‘Where?’
Now I
have her attention.
‘Incoming, from the left.’
‘Hello, ladies.’
‘Hi, Gary.’ Dixie gives a high-wattage beam. ‘How are preparations for Saturday’s show going?’
‘Good, thanks. A long process. It’s hard trying to decide on a number and then making sure it’s not too difficult for all ten of us to play.’
‘Fast or slow this week?’ I ask.
‘Dunno. There’s a difference of opinion about whether we should show diversity or stick with another rockin’ track.’
‘Well, I, for one, am really enjoying it. Well done.’ Dixie is full-on-charm gushing now.
‘Thanks.’ He’s not paying her half enough attention and I’m worried she’s going to latch on to this mad idea everyone has that it’s me he’s interested in. ‘What’s the score?’ he wants to know … from me …
‘Er, don’t know. We’re here for Uggs,’ I explain.
‘Do you play yourself, Gaz?’* Dixie enquires.
‘Can’t afford to at the moment,’ he says. ‘In case I injure the hands.’
‘Or the face!’ exclaims Dixie.
‘Truth,’ he says, nodding, pleased with a compliment.
Then he’s doing funny handshakes with some mates. He doesn’t seem worried those might injure his ability to play guitar.
‘Look,’ I say, pointing and trying to wrestle Dixie’s attention back. ‘I think Jason just scored.’
‘Oh, how very,’ she says disdainfully. She picked that up from some film and uses it whenever it’s a WHATEVER situation. I fear Jason Fielding may be a lost cause.
There’s a v rowdy element amongst the spectators. Firstly there’s low-level jostling, then someone starts throwing balloons full of water around. Then Hugo Pheifer proves why he is the unluckiest boy in Oakdale: he gets hit and drenched by a missile, and it’s clear that it’s a special one.
‘I don’t think that water bomb was full of water,’ Dixie says.
‘Who threw it?’
‘Mike Hussy.’†
UH-OH.
‘Not likely to be H2O, then,’ I confirm.
‘No. Not at all likely.’
‘At least it wasn’t anything more solid than, well … that.’
Small comfort to Hugo, who is now soaked with Mike Hussy’s pee. That poor guy is doomed to misfortune. It also illustrates why anyone watching a match is pleased when Mike Hussy is playing and not in the crowd. At least if he’s on the pitch, he is only a danger to the opposing team, not free range and a pest to all supporters when he’s not chosen to play.
On the way home Dixie discusses her plans for a mini makeover. ‘I’ve seen this great article about how to cut your own hair and I thought I might try it.’
I’m hoping this is a plan for some time in the distant future, but no, oh no.
‘Want to come home with me now and we can try it?’
‘Are you sure you want to cut your own hair, Dixie? Is that not best left to a professional? You’ll go mental if it goes wrong.’ I don’t add that I so don’t want to be there for the event, and blamed for supervising a disazz (opposite of pzazz!).
She ignores my protest and, much quicker than I can say, ‘I’m off,’ we are in her room and I’m looking at the magazine with this most foolhardy of beauty plans. Whoever wrote this is a v irresponsible style guru. Basically, the process involves tying your hair in a ponytail high and tight just over your forehead and then cutting straight across the hair hanging out at whatever length you judge to be good. I feel vomitous as Dix takes the scissors to her locks, and even worse as she takes the elastic band off.‡
BUT …
Wonder of wonders …
It’s OK! Somehow the shape is fine and Dixie’s barnet simply looks freshly tidied up.
‘If I say so myself, that is a total triumph,’ she says. ‘Another string to my bow.’
Just as well there are many strings to Dixie’s bow, because if there was only one and it snapped, all she’d have left is a stick, and she would Not. Like. That.
At. All.
Suddenly I am all wrung out.б Well, it’s no surprise. There’s the stress of the TFX semi-final coming up; the worry of Dad’s job and whether our SASS make-up range will do the trick; Mum’s mind;§ and Dixie’s bonkers plans for l’amour. And that’s just for starters. I’m only human. I feel overwhelmed. How many threads in this rich tapestry of life are in danger of becoming completely unravelled without some serious Jenny Q attention?
The Handy Hiding Place
Home, even Quinn HQ, is usually a handy hiding place. There is usually SOME sanctuary to be had in my room, if I make sure to announce that I want to be left alone.* Today, though, has other plans for JQ at HQ.
I run straight into Dermot, literally.
‘Watch it, squirt,’ he says, and not in a nice way.
‘Gee, sorry for breathing,’ I retort. And, of course, I can’t leave it at that. ‘Heard the news about you and Sam, by the way. Bummer.’
‘I suppose everyone knows,’ he says crossly. ‘All of them noseying around for info. Why can’t people just stay out of other people’s business?’
I don’t think he’s expecting an answer to that, so I don’t give one. Probably the safest thing to do, as he’s looking V cross now.
‘Gary says the Guitars are having probs choosing a number.’
Wrong way to go, Jen, but it’s out of my mouth before I can stop myself.
‘Oh, for GODSAKE!’ he roars, and thunders up the stairs and BANGS his door shut.
Normally I’d be secretly delighted to have driven my bro into a rage, but today it’s oddly UNsatisfactory. I wonder if that’s maturity creeping up on me, or just that I am exhausted.
‘Hi, Mum, I’m home,’ I call as I enter the kitchen.
No reply. She’s there, right in front of me, but not a peep out of her.
‘Oh, Jen, my lovely daughter, how good it is to see you,’ I also say, loudly into the air. ‘Aw, thanks, Mum, it’s so good to know that you care.’
Still no acknowledgement.
‘MUM,’ I roar, before I can stop myself.† ‘Would you please pull yourself together and rejoin the human race!’
She looks at me then.
‘I want my mother back,’ I tell her. ‘Any chance of that in this lifetime?’
Then Mum bursts into tears and runs, sobbing, from the kitchen.
Gran has witnessed the whole thing. ‘Well, I hope you’re pleased with yourself now, Jennifer Quinn, you spoiled brat.’
What? Me? Spoiled? A brat? WHATDIDIDO?
‘Can you not see how depressed your mother is? Do you only ever think of yourself? You’re supposed to be a young adult now. It’s time for you to start taking some responsibility for the people around you and how they might feel. It’s not all about you, you know.’
Shereek! Gran never speaks like this. She’s supposed to be the kinda mad, old, doteypie bat we keep in the converted garage, not a speaker of truths.‡
‘Get real, Jennifer. You think you’re the only one who ever felt like this, the only one ever to feel abandoned or ignored or neglected? Or so misunderstood by the world? How do you think the rest of us have ever felt? How do you think we got by? You’re not the first, you won’t be the last. We’ve all experienced it. We’ve all been there. Now stop being a mollycoddled brat and try to appreciate that you have a great life and a great family, and right now you need to help someone who loves you very much but who’s in a dark place.’
It’s practically unbearable. I am lower than the lowest creature that is lowly crawling across the depth of the deepest ocean that has not
yet even been discovered because it is too, too deep. I am worthless crud.
I realize I do take Mum for granted. I guess we all take our family as read = present/correct/OK, so. Don’t we? It hadn’t occurred to me before that this is a two-way street. When I consider this, though, I can’t exactly see what reward there is in having me around, barring the odd sing-song (and Mum hasn’t participated in one of those for ages), and sometimes I make her laugh (not for ages now). Other than that, it’s all her giving me things, like advice and comfort and hair products and Kit Kats and, well, safety. Mum makes me feel safe. Dad does too. Our whole life in our little Oakdale house is where I am safe, and myself, and now everything is under threat, what with Mum being a stranger and Dad about to lose his job. It’s scary. And v uncomfortable to realize and admit.
‘Sorry, Gran. I didn’t know Mum was actually depressed.’ How could I have missed it, though? I must have been too wrapped up in myself. I realize I have been putting off my worries about Mum, hoping things will just get better on their own. I am so ashamed of myself. I feel tears well up. Then I see Gran is going to cry too.
‘I’m so worried about her,’ I blub. ‘About all of us. And I miss her.’
‘Me too,’ Gran squeezes out, then she starts mopping her eyes with a tissue.
‘I’ve been so distracted with Teen Factor X and school. But there must be something we can do.’
Something I can do, I think. It’s time for Jenny Q to kick some (serious, emotional) ass, though what or how is beyond me.
I go to my room and Google post-natal depression to see what we’re dealing with here. A lot, it appears. But that doesn’t mean giving in or standing idly by. I am done with that now. I bring my findings back to the kitchen and Gran.
Jenny Q, Unravelled! Page 11