Jenny Q, Unravelled!

by Pauline McLynn

‘It seems to me we need to get Mum moving again, and out into some fresh air.’

  Gran agrees. This calls for a Jenny Q ‘to-do’ list.

  So, exercise, fresh air, a change of scenery – check.

  Get her talking, engaged with us all again – check.

  Look for a mum-and-baby group in the area and maybe she could go meet them – check.

  Gran adds ‘regular showers and getting dressed in something other than a dressing-gown’ to the list – check.

  It feels good to be proactive and I say this to Gran.

  ‘Yes,’ she agrees. ‘This PND is the mother of all depressions, but together we will beat it.’

  ‘I see what you did there with the “mother” thing,’ I tell her, ‘and it was v v clever.’

  ‘I have my moments,’ she says.

  Action is everything now and there is no time to lose, so I go to Mum’s room. She’s lying in bed, facing the wall = not good.

  ‘Mum, I’m so sorry about earlier. I was totally out of line. I just feel we’ve lost touch and I hate that.’

  She sits up and gives me a big, mummy, bear hug. ‘I’m sorry too, Jen. I haven’t been myself lately.’

  ‘Tell you what. Why don’t we meet for a coffee when I’m finished school tomorrow? You could walk Harry down to the Barnacle Café and we can meet there and go home together afterwards.’

  It is a brilliant plan because it’s where Dixie is meeting her blind date, but I can have a look at him while doing something else and text her as to whether she should turn up or not. Sometimes, j’amaze myself with my (natural) brainy intelligenceness.

  Mum starts spluttering some excuse based on Harry being too young to go out.

  ‘I am not taking “no” for an answer,’ I tell her. ‘We have a date. That’s that.’

  I leave before she can squirm out of the deal.

  Now it’s over to Gran to get her washed and dressed and out of the house the following day. I issue that to her as her mission, should she choose to accept it, like in Mission: Impossible. She does. Operation Help Mum is ‘go’.

  Every piece of me is tired, from my (strawberry blonde) hair to my badly painted toenails. I wedge myself into an armchair and start knitting Harry’s blanket and let the rest of the world go by without me for a while.

  Rebirth

  Sam Slinky now has bags under her red-rimmed eyes and a crop of spots on her chin that she hasn’t even bothered to pop or cover up.* She is falling apart before our very eyes. She is now a mere, teen mortal. The other Slinkies look DAGGERS at Dermot whenever they pass him and Sam makes as if to faint.† It’s fascinating to watch. I’m not sure Dermot notices too much of it, because whenever I see him he’s deep in convo with one or more of the Guitars as they try to plot their next showbiz move, and so he is not really paying attention to lovelorn exes.

  There is a lot of tension in the Oakdale High air today. The pressure of the approaching semi-final is starting to take its toll on the TFX contestants. Delia is worried about having a new routine for it. The Guitars need a song they can all agree on. The Gang is also facing problems of its own: to wit‡ Dixie has a blind date later, which means Uggs and I do too. On the Jenny Q home front, I need to/must jolly my mum out of herself. My dad is nearly unemployed. And what of l’amour? Stevie Lee Bolton is even more aloof than ever because of his showbiz commitment and so even more unattainable. Gary O’Brien keeps smiling at me/paying me attention.

  To add yet another layer to things, there is another letter in the band’s fan mailbox telling them they’re shizz. I know it’s from the same source as the first one because I recognize the paper and the writing. This one is slightly nastier, more threatening. It says, ‘Be careful. When you’re on that stage you are asking for trouble. Anything could happen.’ Does that mean something is planned for the next live performance? Surely not. It unsettles me. What is this troll trying to achieve?

  I have a growing feeling of apprehension as the day proceeds, and I allow my mind to wander as I sit in class. There is so much anxiety to life now. I try to visualize Harry and how happy and uncomplicated he is. I try to get some calm from that image. And when I think of him smiling, I smile too.

  ‘Do share the joy,’ Miss Harding says, when I am caught in my reverie.

  I desperately try to remember what she was banging on about before I zoned out but cannot dredge anything up, so I say, ‘The words, I love them. They make me happy.’

  There is no way she can challenge that, even though she is a sarky weapon.

  Words to the rescue, yet again. Phew for Jenny Q!

  Dixie texts: LMFO

  This is her (nicer) version of LMAO and is simply Laughed My Face Off and, actually, I like it better than the original rude version.

  I go: SMFO got me in trouble!

  I hope she figures it’s Smiling My Face Off.

  She returns a simple:

  That’s her cover-all, but I think she knows what I meant.

  I can taste the pasta for lunch for the first time in agesб and, although it’s on the mushy side, it’s not bad at all. We used to have tragically bad caterers,§ but since the new lot took over there have been hardly any reports of poisoned students.

  ‘Where are your civvies** for later?’ Dixie wants to know.

  ‘Ah, that,’ I say. ‘I have a foxy plan.’

  ‘Do tell.’

  ‘Well, I’m meeting my mum at the Barnacle for a coffee. She needs to get out of the house. And this way, I can enter in full disguise as a schoolgirl and check out the Lonely Heart. If he’s worth it, I will say so via text, and you can change your kit and arrive in glory.’

  ‘Good, I think. Where does Uggs fit in?’

  ‘He can casually have a Coke near our mark and thusly judge him from a masculine perspective and report all to you.’

  ‘What happens to me if he’s a total loser?’

  ‘You come in and have a coffee with Uggs, in uniform, and no one but us will be any the wiser.’

  ‘Weirdly, Jen, I approve of your schemey scheme.’

  Surely this day is going too smoothly now? Gran says you shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, so I won’t, though it must be noted that the Trojan horse that was sent by the Greeks into the besieged city wasn’t v good as a gift for the people of Troy to whom it was sent. Just saying.

  As I’m leaving school I see the Guitars heading towards the Assembly hall to practise. They all carry a guitar and look grim and determined. Entertaining people is a tough business, plus they have internal frissons and disagreements that must be taking a toll.

  I ring home using a code I have agreed with Gran. Two rings, then hang up, then ring again. She knows then that it’s me on Mumwatch and answers.

  ‘She’s up, washed, dressed and gone out with Harry. WE are GO.’

  Phase One has been a success. Now it’s over to me.

  Mum looks around like she’s never seen the café before, even though she has. A lot has happened to her since she was here last, so maybe it looks a bit alien. I seriously doubt it has seen even a lick of paint since then and the menu certainly hasn’t changed. I order a cappuccino and a slice of carrot cake from Mr Barnacle, who narrows his eyes at me. If I had been alone, or with Dix and Uggs, he’d have insisted on cash up front. He’s been caught out a few times by school kids eating lots they can’t afford to pay for.

  ‘I’ve just had some cheesecake,’ Mum says. ‘At this rate I’ll never lose the baby fat.’

  Magazines don’t help, with all of those pics of celebs looking skinny again only a few weeks after having a baby. It is added pressure on normal human beings lik
e my poor mum. It’s kind of odd that her face looks so drawn yet she has a plump body, like someone put the wrong head on her this morning.

  ‘You look great,’ I tell her.

  I covertly scope the joint to see if Dixie’s date is here. There is no one who looks likely.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to ask about this,’ Mum says of my bracelet.

  ‘It’s a friendship band that the Gang made in support of Ten Guitars. We used the colours of the hats I knitted for Dermot and Harry for Christmas and now we sell them at school to the Band fans.’

  ‘We should get a tiny one for Harry. He’s their Number One fan.’

  ‘Consider it done, Mrs Quinn,’ I say. ‘I’ll make that one myself.’

  ‘It’s so strange to be out,’ she tells me. ‘For a while there I thought I might never leave the house again.’

  ‘I’m not surprised, the weather was totes shizz recently.’

  ‘Yes, but it was more than that. I got into a rut of thinking this would be the last of this and the last of that.’

  It’s v strange to sit in front of your mum and have her open up like this. Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled. It has been so long since Mum and I talked properly. And Gran and I did say we needed to get her talking again, but I am thirteen years old, not a grown-up, and I realize when we usually talk it is generally about me. I am a little lost with this new way of things where Mum tells me how she is feeling. What do I do? What do I say to her? Nothing, I’m guessing, and I really hope that’s the right thing! But it’s really good that she feels comfortable enough to talk to me in such a way, though. We’re pals.

  ‘It’s like everything has become the “last” time I’ll do something. When Harry was born, I thought, “Well, this is the last time I’ll give birth. This is my last child.” And I don’t want that to be a sad thing, but it’s sort of taking over and heading in that direction.’

  ‘In fairness, Mum, you thought I was your last child for thirteen years. And you were wrong.’

  Mum actually laughs – a genuine, happy, delighted laugh. I am so thrilled!

  ‘Jennifer Quinn, you are a clever little lady. That’s true.’

  We’re both grinning widely.

  ‘Precocious is what Gran says I am. Cheeky.’

  ‘Just like her,’ Mum says.

  The idea that I might be v like my gran is not one I want leaving this table, so I am glad we are not on home territory. What’s said in the Barnacle, stays in the Barnacle.

  ‘Mind you, I sort of hope Harry is the last. Childbirth is scary, but most of all it hurts like hell, whatever way the baby comes out.’

  ‘Eating, Mum,’ I say, indicating my carrot cake.

  Why is it that unsavoury topics involving human ‘functions’ often accompany meals or a snack? And while I’m at it, much as I love Harry, I’m not sure I’d be thrilled to have a new brother or sister regularly from now on. There are enough Quinns to deal with at this present moment in time.

  Uggs sneaks in and sits at the back of the café and immediately holds the menu over his face. He might as well be wearing a trench coat and dark glasses and have a badge that says ‘amateur sleuth’ for all the subtlety he displays. Mr Barnacle is on to him in an instant. It is as if he smells trouble. He pockets cash for whatever Uggs has had to order to be able to stay in the establishment.††

  A few moments later a geeky type in a parka comes in, looking around expectantly, and sits in a window seat. He places a copy of the local paper prominently on the table in front of him. The place is filling up now and he looks nervous about keeping a space for his date.

  He’s no oil painting but he’s not a mutt either. However, there is one major detail that Dixie would have probs with. Mainly the fact that this guy is in a class below us at school and therefore a kid! All in all, not the sophisticated gent that Dixie needs to wipe the eye of Jason Fielding! He might be v nice but the clincher is he is twelve, i.e. so not happening.

  I text: won’t do, stay in uniform

  Uggs must have a similar opinion because next thing Dixie is through the door, resplendent in Oakdale maroon, saying, ‘Hi.’ Uggs joins us and we have Gang plus Guests. I feel sorry for the date and I can tell the others do too. He is too young to be worrying about love. All the same, we send positive vibes his way and I hope he doesn’t have to wait too long for them to work.

  Harry stirs while we’re telling Mum about Hugo Pheifer’s latest mishap with the wee-filled balloon. He’s hungry. So Mum picks him up and starts to feed him – natch. I am scalded with embarrassment, of course, even though you can’t really see any of her boobage because she has tucked Harry under a vast blouse she is wearing that handily unbuttons in the right area.

  After a while, Mr Barnacle comes over with a face on him and asks if she could stop. I feel even more scaldy, though I’m furious with his attitude. Who the fajita does he think he is? We’re customers and we’re not bothering anyone. In fact, no one has mentioned Harry being tucked into the blouse and on to the buzoom.

  Something in Mum changes, like she’s getting some steel in her veins. She also has a glint in her eye that I haven’t seen in a while, and this manager would do well to heed it.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Sorry? Why what?’

  ‘Why do you want me to stop?’

  ‘We don’t allow breastfeeding on the premises.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why what?’ again, from Barnacle.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s, erm, upsetting to the other customers.’

  Mum’s voice gets a little louder. ‘Why?’

  ‘Em …’

  ‘It’s the most natural thing in the world.’

  Well, now we have attracted the attention of the whole café. I slide as far down in my chair as I can go without sitting under the table.

  ‘Madam, it is not allowed. It’s not … hygienic.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I mean, it’s … not food bought on the premises, so it can’t be consumed here.’ This final argument from the management is as brilliant as it is preposterous.

  ‘That’s just stupid,’ I hear Uggs say.

  ‘I agree,’ says Dixie.

  I stand. ‘Mum, let’s leave.’ They look at me as if I am betraying the Cause.‡‡ I raise my chin and my voice to say, ‘I don’t want Harry staying here a moment longer, he might catch something nasty from this place.’

  We gather our things and leave with our heads high. At the door, Mum turns and says, ‘I’ll be back.’

  Uh-oh, that place has not seen the last of Mrs Quinn. She’s in Terminator mode.

  But she did say she’s coming back! That means on all levels, I just know it! I text Gran phase 2 more or less a success and get back HRA! I’ll explain the complexities of using the word ‘success’ when I see her, as it clearly comes laced with trouble – Mum has a hatching-a-plan look about her that doesn’t bode well for all mankind, especially Mr Barnacle.

  Fussy Hussy

  In normal* circumstances, we would just pack up and go, leaving an angry whiff of sulphur behind, but this is the café visit that keeps on giving. We halt outside, as Mum is fuming and muttering to herself, Harry is complaining about his interrupted meal, and we click various bits of the baby’s buggy together. Suddenly we are hit by an overpowering smell of body spray and Uggs nudges me in the ribs. When I look, who should I see wandering ever so casually into the Barnacle but Mike Hussy.

  It takes me a moment to compute what’s going on. Hussy is dressed in civvies and seems to be looking around for something … or someone … There isn’t anyone he wants to join,
so he leaves again and spots us still trying to get the enormous amount of equipment that comes with a baby in order and ready to go home.

  ‘Hey, Ginge,’ he says to me. I cringe. Although I also note that ‘ginge’ and ‘cringe’ rhyme and I might use it for one of our poetry slams some day.

  ‘Mike,’ I acknowledge.

  ‘Is that the latest?’ he says of Harry.

  ‘Yes.’

  Mum clocks Hussy and asks him his name and, wonder of all wonders, he blushes and goes all stammery.

  ‘Nice b-b-b-baby,’ he tells her.

  ‘Thank you,’ Mum says, and he goes even more crimson.

  It’s surreal to see him like this, like reality has been bent out of shape but is still recognizable.

  I really wish he’d just bog off, though. The smell of whatever he sprayed himself with is rank: it would have been better for the world if he had just washed himself and avoided covering one pong with another.

  Uggs is in with, ‘Were you looking for someone in particular in there?’ His face is a vision of boldness and a beamy smile is about to break out across his face.

  Dixie gives him a murderous glare.

  ‘Nah,’ goes Hussy. ‘Just passing, so I thought I’d take a look in.’

  None of us Gang can meet the others’ eyes. This must be Dixie’s Lonely Heart. HAS to be! I feel like I might burst from trying not to laugh.

  Mum goes, ‘Got it,’ as the last of the bits of the buggy click into place and we make for home, with Dixie leading a quick march.

  ‘Mike Hussy must be …’

  ‘NO!’ She even holds up her hand to halt that line of talk. ‘Nonononono. NOnononono. Do not go there. Besides, it couldn’t be him. For one thing, he was way late for a five o’clock rendezvous, so it is so not him. Couldn’t be. NO.’

  ‘Could so be,’ Uggs says.

  ‘Au contraire, Eugene,’ she tells him.

  ‘Oh, contrary, more like,’ Uggs mutters and I get a fit of the giggles.

  Who would have thought that Mike Hussy, of all people, was on the search for love? Wonders truly will never cease, though I think Dixie will cease placing adverts in the local schools’ rag now. So, while one thing is a relief, the other is worrying, i.e. Hussy on the hunt for a ‘significant other’, a fact that means he actually does have a heart after all.