The M Word

by Eileen Wharton

  ‘I haven’t bitten you yet,’ I say.

  ‘You’re a real softie deep down. Very deep,’ she says. ‘If you would just let people in once in a while.’

  ‘Let people in? Why? So they can break my heart?’

  ‘I knew it,’ Tammy says. ‘I knew that was the reason you come across as so hard. It’s because you’re really soft. Deep down you’re scared, Roberta Gallbreath. You’re just like the bloody rest of us. You’re terrified of being hurt.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ I say.

  She’s right, of course. Deep down, I am bloody scared. Having your heart broken is more painful than breaking any bones. Six weeks in plaster and a course of physio can’t fix it. For two full years, I screamed inside while Knobhead lived in blissful happiness with that tart of a travel agent. Two years wondering what I’d done wrong. I’d cooked and cleaned, brought up his children single-handedly, massaged his feet and his ego, all to be dropped like a shitty stick because he couldn’t keep it in his trousers.

  ‘You’ll have your day,’ my friends had said. ‘He’ll come crawling back, and you’ll be able to kick him in the teeth.’ But he didn’t come crawling back, and I never saw my day. He just looked happier and happier, and I got more and more miserable, hating everybody and everything. ‘Karma will get him in the end,’ they’d said. Those happy, settled friends whose mortgages were paid and whose kids were heading for medical school. There I was, trying to keep body and soul together by living on potato skins and offal, while he and the tart of a travel agent were travelling to London business class and eating at The Ivy.

  My heart completely shattered when I met her in town and she was buying nappies, her swollen stomach giving away the secret my kids had been warned to keep from me. That hurt more than anything else. I couldn’t even slap her then for all the pain she’d put me through. Who wanted to be the person arrested for assaulting a pregnant woman?

  That was when I finally knew he wasn’t coming back. I took to my bed for three weeks until a teenage Carolyn came, opened the blinds, threw out the congealed plates and made me take a shower. ‘You’ve wallowed long enough, Mother,’ she said. ‘Time to get your life back.’

  I started with walks to the park. The sunlight was blinding after having spent so long down the well of my misery. I jumped at the sound of traffic and blushed when people spoke to me. Going back to work was hell on legs. People avoided the water cooler when I was standing there; they took long cigarette breaks, and silence descended when I entered a room. I was the loony old female cuckold, best avoided. I became surly and disinterested. If people didn’t want to be around me, I wouldn’t be around them. I threw myself into my work and became very successful at what I did. Work became a substitute for love.

  ‘Ok, this pic is sooo important,’ Tammy says. ‘It’s the first thing men will see of you. You have to look approachable, attractive and sexy, or they won’t even look at your profile. It’s much more ruthless than Match.com or PlentyOfFish.’ She taps away on my screen. ‘There are unspoken rules. Not too many selfies, use some holiday snaps, a couple with sunglasses are ok, but we want to see your eyes, maybe one with a puppy…’

  ‘I’m allergic to dogs,’ I say. ‘Take one of me with a puppy and I’ll look like the Fly.’

  ‘A couple of group shots. Not too many,’ Tammy twitters away to herself. ‘You don’t want him to have to play Where’s Wally, but it’ll show you have friends.’ Tap, tap, tap. ‘Right, the bio needs to be short. What shall I say about you?’ Tap, tap, tap. ‘That should do it. I think we’re ready to roll.’ She passes me my phone, complete with Tinder app and my new profile.

  ‘That picture is awful,’ I say, pointing to a holiday snap of me in a low-cut cami, sitting by the pool drinking sangria.

  ‘Best of a bad bunch,’ she says. ‘I have to work with what I had. “Can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s arse,” my grandad used to say. I wanted them to see that you like to travel. It shows you’re not narrow-minded. Ok, let’s get swiping. Remember, swipe right if you like and left to lose.’ It would help if I knew my right from my left.

  I look at the men’s pictures popping up in front of me. ‘Tammy, I have leftover pizza older than these guys. What the hell are you trying to do to me?’

  ‘Give it here,’ she says, snatching the phone. ‘I’ll reset your age range. Jeez, you’ve got no sense of adventure.’

  ‘You’ve got no sense of decorum or decency.’

  ‘Rubbish. Age is just a number.’ A man posing with a lion pops up. I swipe left. Another with his obviously ex-girlfriend cut from the picture – left again. One with sixteen selfies, all with him wearing flowered shirts and sunglasses – left. Another left. Tammy snatches the phone from my hand and says, ‘There’s nothing wrong with him.’ She swipes right. I reach for the phone, and she holds it at arm’s length, swiping right again.

  ‘Give it back,’ I say.

  ‘Ooh, you’ve got a match,’ she says. ‘He looks quite dishy.’

  I peek. ‘Yeah, if you like a dog’s dinner.’

  ‘Don’t be cruel. Ooh, you’ve got a message.’ A message comes up on the screen.

  ‘ARE YOUR FEET SORE?’ I look at Tammy, and she shrugs her shoulders.

  I type, ‘No, why?’

  ‘BECAUSE YOU’VE BEEN RUNNING THROUGH MY MIND ALL NIGHT.’

  ‘Tammy, what the f…’

  ‘You just have to weed out the losers,’ she says. ‘It just takes a bit of effort, that’s all. Keep swiping.’

  ‘I’ll bloody swipe you,’ I say. ‘This is the worst idea you’ve ever had. Even worse than the gold lamé tracksuit that made you look like Jimmy Savile’s younger sister.’

  ‘I loved that shell suit,’ she says. ‘It was cutting edge. Everyone loved it at the time.’

  ‘Hmm, they all loved Jimmy Savile, too, and look what happened there.’

  I continued to swipe left for loser.

  ‘The more you swipe right, the more chance you have of meeting someone appropriate. In the meantime, you could practise your chat,’ Tammy says.

  ‘I’ve been chatting to people for nearly fifty years.’

  ‘Yes, but Tinder’s a different beast.’

  ‘Beast being the operative word,’ I say, swiping a monster in a pink tuxedo to the left. I swipe a couple to the right on Tammy’s insistence and eventually get another match.

  ‘HI ARE YOU AN “A” LEVEL?’ I have no idea what this means, so I just type a question mark. ‘COS I’D DO YOU FOR 3 HOURS STRAIGHT’

  ‘How do I block these losers?’ I ask Tammy.

  ‘I thought that was quite cute,’ she says.

  ‘You need help.’ I say. Another match.

  ‘WHAT DO YOU LIKE FOR BREAKFAST?’ Niko asks.

  ‘I usually skip breakfast,’ I type.

  ‘YOU’LL BE HUNGRY THEN. MAYBE I CUD BUY YOU DINNER?’

  ‘Ooh, smooth,’ Tammy says.

  ‘He can’t even spell could,’ I say.

  ‘You don’t want him for his grammar,’ Tammy says.

  Another message says, ‘SORRY, MAYBE I COULD BUY YOU DINNER?’

  ‘See,’ Tammy squeals. ‘Message him back. Quickly.’

  ‘Maybe you could,’ I type.

  ‘WANT TO SEND ME YOUR NUMBER?’ he types.

  Tammy squeals again, ‘Quick, give him your number.’

  ‘I’m not giving my number out to strangers on the internet.’

  ‘You bloody well are,’ she says, typing my number in and pressing send. My phone buzzes seconds later with a message from an unknown mobile.

  ‘It’s Niko. Meet me at the Italian Farmhouse at 7 Friday night?’

  ‘Bit pushy, isn’t he,’ I say.

  ‘Roberta,’ Tammy warns me. ‘You are going on a date. Let’s find you something to wear.’ She claps her hands excitedly. ‘Ooh, a little black dress and killer heels.’

  4

  #Karmakarmachickenshawarma

  I haven’t taken a selfie today due to having a chin
full of spots. I updated my Facebook status with an old holiday photo to make it look like I’m having a great time somewhere hot and exotic. I’m officially a sad sack.

  I received a weird email. It said: “He’s your brother” in the subject line but wouldn’t let me open the content. Bloody SPAM.

  Karma didn’t go well. I smiled at the girl in Greggs, and she thought I was a lezzer. I didn’t dare ask for a slice of pie after that. I bought a cheese pasty, and it gave me heartburn, so creepy Nigel thought I was smiling at him. He came to sit with me in the canteen, and I had to listen to tales of cat wars, Marvel, and his demented mother. Not to mention having to watch him inhale his chicken shawarma. Note to self: Do not eat in the canteen again. Never, ever smile at the girl in Greggs. Tell Nigel I have some horrible, contagious disease, and he should stay well clear for a few years as it’s a very long quarantine. Being kind is harder than it looks.

  #funeralblues

  I have to travel to Durham to sort out Mother’s death certificate. We can’t go and see her in the Chapel of Rest until we’ve produced it. It’s procedure, apparently. I’m not even sure I want to see her in the Chapel of Rest, but Fliss insists I accompany her.

  I avoid the quiet coach, in case I fall asleep. I sit alone, but I’m soon surrounded by a pack of Scotsmen returning from a stag weekend.

  ‘Are ye no gonnae crack a smile, hen?’ asks a large ginger man in a kilt with the Scottish flag painted on his face.

  ‘You speaking English?’ I ask.

  ‘Ach, no, darlin’, Ahm speaking Scottish. Wid ye like a swally?’ He holds out a tin of cider.

  ‘It’s ten in the morning.’

  ‘Is it? Jesus, I’m well behind. Best catch up quack.’ He cracks open the cider and passes it to me, pulls open another, takes a big slurp, sits back and sighs.

  So that is how I come to be steaming drunk on the train, singing football songs with a crowd of kilted men. I take a selfie of us all, then upload it to Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. It makes me look popular and a party animal. I’m awarded five “likes” immediately, and Dozy Darren from accounts has shared it. He needs to get a life.

  I miss my Durham stop and have to get out at Darlington after swapping mobile numbers and saliva with Hamish McTavish who’s actually from Glasgow. The taxi to Felicity’s costs me seventy pounds and a headache on account of my cider withdrawal and the driver’s love of Cliff Richard.

  ‘You’re drunk,’ says my sister when she opens her door.

  ‘Really?’ I say. ‘Hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘You’re disgusting. Mother’s not cold yet, and you’re spending your inheritance and pissing it up the wall.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware there was an inheritance. Thought you’d have taken care of that.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It means, sister dear, that you’re a lying, stealing, no good…’ I can’t remember the rest, because I must have passed out.

  I wake up shivering on the plastic sofa with Felicity’s dog licking my face. At least someone in this house is friendly. I hear a man’s voice from the kitchen, which jars my head. Note to self: If offered cider by steaming Scottish people, just say no.

  ‘I understand you perfectly, Fliss. You’re right, she can’t just show up after all this time and expect to take over.’

  ‘Who’s taking over?’ I croak from the couch.

  ‘Oh, you’re awake, then,’ my sister says, sitting on the sofa with a cup of something hot.

  ‘One of them for me?’

  ‘If you get up and make it.’

  I get up.

  Her friend looks at her, and she shakes her head in a “don’t ask” gesture.

  ‘We haven’t been introduced,’ I say when I’ve made a cuppa and had a few slurps. ‘I’m Roberta, Felicity’s sister.’ He takes my hand and shakes it, looking at Felicity for approval.

  ‘I’m Gerard. Felicity has told me so much about you,’ he says.

  ‘I bet she has,’ I say. ‘She’s never mentioned you.’

  He titters nervously. ‘I’m sorry to hear about your mother,’ he says.

  ‘It’s ok,’ I say.

  ‘It’s not ok,’ Felicity shouts, jumps up, flounces out of the room and back into the kitchen. I hear her crying. He follows, and I hear him there-there-ing her. I retch and a bit of acid jumps into my mouth. I run to the sink and spit.

  ‘For God’s sake, Roberta, you’re a bloody animal.’

  #deaddrunk

  I had ten pints of lager and a family-sized six pack of crisps last night. I slept in my clothes and wake feeling dirty (FYI grubby dirty, not sexy dirty). I delete the selfie I took due to having Hula Hoops crumbs on my chest. I update my Facebook with an old photo of me at the theatre.

  It hasn’t been a completely unsuccessful trip up to Durham. We manage to get the death certificate and produce it at the Chapel of Rest. They, then, allow us in to see a dead woman who doesn’t look like Mother at all. Her hair is swept to the side in a fashion I’ve never seen her wear, and the make-up makes her look like an old tart. I try to tone it down a bit after Fliss bursts into tears and says she looks like a hooker. Her waxy face is as cold as a mossy river stone. I still feel nothing. Perhaps it will hit me at the funeral.

  #olfactoryoddities

  I update Facebook with a cryptic message about dating, then retweet one of my friend’s posts about all men being bastards. Felicity messages me to say I’m mercenary and could I not wait until Mother is cold before I continue with my sordid love life. I resist the temptation to type, “Mother was always cold.” I feel an odd sense of loss and emptiness and wonder how I could miss something I’d never really had. Maybe I’m grieving because there will never be a chance to mend our broken relationship. I remember the letters. Releasing them from the band, I sit on the bed and begin to read.

  Letter number three:

  30th November, 1940

  Dear Michael,

  I can’t believe it’s been so long since I saw you. It seems like yesterday, and it seems like a lifetime ago when I left the station.

  Getting here was an operation. We were lined up along the roadside like soldiers. The streets were lined with sobbing and anxious mothers. Ours had stayed behind to look after you. I had a gas mask, a label pinned to my jacket and a bag holding my pyjamas, a change of underclothes and some sandwiches. I was alone. More alone than I’ve ever felt without you to keep me company.

  Some of the lucky kids got sent to Canada and America. They were the posh ones, not us lot from East London. We were too rough and ready. The train journey was a bit bewildering, and when we got there, we were herded onto a big field, lined up, prodded and poked, checked for head lice and selected. It was like being at an auction. The least damaged goods were sold off first. A little girl next to me cried the whole time and promised to be good.

  ‘Why are you promising to be good?’ I asked.

  ‘I must have been naughty to be sent away,’ she said. I tried to explain what I understood to be happening, but she just howled louder.

  When the Mister and Missus came, I tried to hide. They didn’t have kind eyes or smiley mouths like some of the foster-parents. I prayed they wouldn’t pick me. They felt my limbs, like you would check those of a horse you were buying at mart. They looked at my teeth. They were told they’d receive 8d a week for me, and they said they’d take me.

  I was lifted onto a cart filled with hay, and we trundled for what seemed like miles through smelly countryside until we came to the farm. A giant dog, who looked like the devil, greeted us with growls and barks.

  ‘Stay down, Satan,’ the Mister said. ‘It’s just us.’

  For the whole time I’ve been here, Satan eyes me hungrily, as if he’d like to tear me apart and devour me for his lunch. Hurry up and get here. Please.

  Yours,

  Alice

  Dear Alice,

  One night last week, I was lying in bed, and I heard a German bomber overhead. I limped into the
street to see it. A hatch opened underneath it, and two bombs dropped into the graveyard over the road. You’ve never seen such a God Almighty mess. Rotting body parts and skeletons were scattered everywhere. The smell of death made me physically sick. Lucky I’m ill, or I’d have had to join the others in reburying the bodies. Archie McGinty has gone weird since then. His eyes are glazed over, and it’s like there’s no one home. He wanders the alleys, muttering to himself. Mr Winter says he’s not the full shilling anymore.

  Mrs Patterson has lost her babby. During the air raid, she handed him to a nun while she ran to pull little Tommy from under the collapsed counter of the store. They ended up in different shelters, and she hasn’t been able to find her again. She wanders the streets with a lost look in her eye, crying the babby’s name into the darkness, while the wardens try to drag her back into the shelter.

  We were sitting in the street tonight, and I noticed a beautiful sunset. The horizon was alight with shades of red, orange and amber. A bittersweet sky. We marvelled at the spectacular sight until Mr Jones told us the colours were due to fires in the docklands. I waited with nausea for Father to come home, and when his familiar gait was a jaunty silhouette against the bloodshot sky and his boots crunched on the cobbles, I flung myself at him. ‘Steady on, soldier,’ he said. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ I told him the docks had been bombed, and I was worried he wasn’t coming back. He ruffled my hair and said, ‘It’ll take more than a few Germans to fettle me.’ No new Meccano set for me. Thank God.

  Your loving brother,

  Michael

  Letter number four:

  15th November, 1940

  Dear Michael,

  We hear tell of bombs dropping and thousands of people being made homeless. We hear of camps in Epping Forest and on the platforms of the Tube stations. I imagine the dirt, the dust, the smoke, the smell of burning timber. I see homes sealed, windows blacked out, fires glaring, blazing orange. I see bomb-blasted gardens and leafless trees as though winter has come too soon. I see houses sliced in half as though cut with a giant knife. I see upstairs floors jutting out in mid-air, beds and wardrobes standing like tombstones. I see slivers of glass and shattered lives coated with dust and shrouded in death.