The M Word

by Eileen Wharton

  Like I said, I would have given my “sister” half anyway. I really would, but the next revelation from Mother makes my blood fizz and my heart pound.

  ‘Felicity, I know you took Bertie’s watch and got your friend to sell it, pretending to be Drew. You knew how much it meant to me because of who it belonged to. That was such a spiteful thing to do. I could have forgiven that. Possibly. But what I can’t and won’t forgive, and I hope it haunts you for the rest of your days, is the fact that my Drew went through hell because of the accusations, and I go to my grave not having seen him because of you and your poison.’

  That’s what Mother had been trying to tell me in the hospital. Felicity had taken the watch and blamed Drew. What a bitch. The low-life, scheming, double-dealing, perfidious, pernicious bitch. Why would she do that to Drew? Jealousy. For some reason, Mother liked Drew. We’re talking about a woman who didn’t like herself half the time, but she had a soft spot for Drew. Felicity was jealous and wanted to ruin their relationship. That had to be it. She’d succeeded too. Drew was a pretty good suspect because of the shoplifting, the taking of phones from the other kids at school and the “borrowing” of the bingo winnings.

  ‘I would never do that to Gran,’ he’d said. And I’d half believed him. Only half.

  Mother would get her wish. Felicity wouldn’t see a penny of that money. Drew would. On the understanding that he didn’t smoke it, drink it or shag it.

  #mutinyandbounty

  I ring Shoni to tell her I’ll pay for the wedding. She can have a budget of twenty thousand and a designer dress. She sounds choked and won’t stop thanking me.

  ‘Give over with your mushy stuff,’ I say.

  I ring Drew and tell him I’ll buy the catering van he wants. He can’t believe it. There are even tears in his voice.

  Then, I ring Carolyn to say I’ll fund her PhD. She is actually speechless. For a full two minutes, she doesn’t say a word, and then, she bursts into tears.

  I have a funny, warm feeling I don’t think I’ve had for a very long time. So, this is what it feels like to be nice. I quite like it.

  18

  #normalservicehasbeenresumed

  I hate everyone today. The hot flushes are at their worst, and my mood swings are swinging like a couple of middle-aged…well…swingers.

  Being at home doesn’t suit me. There’s only so much Jeremy Kyle and Cash in the Attic one can stand without screaming at the telly. There’s a woman on Jezzer today who is taking a lie detector to prove she didn’t sleep with her daughter’s transgender girlfriend. I get a mental picture of Lisa, Carolyn’s girlfriend, and I’m a bit sick in my mouth. I switch over and watch an old re-run of Abbot and Costello.

  I miss a call from Mick. What does he want? Probably to deride me for being drunk the other night.

  I also have a Facebook message from Harry saying, ‘Where did you get to lol?’ So, if he hadn’t taken me home and undressed me, who had?

  I suppose I should call into work and pick up my stuff. I had better ring Tammy first to make sure I wasn’t too out of order the other night before I show my face.

  ‘Hi,’ she says. ‘You feeling better?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Think you had a little bit too much to drink.’

  ‘Yeah, I think my drink was spiked.’

  ‘Really? God, that’s terrible.’

  ‘So, how did I get home?’

  ‘No idea. Jonathon and me decided to have an early night.’ She giggles.

  ‘Jesus, Tammy, is he not a bit too young?’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For you.’

  ‘You’re as young as the man you feel.’ She giggles again, and I want to slap her.

  ‘Whatever turns you on.’

  ‘Exactly,’ she says.

  ‘I was thinking about coming into the office today to collect my things.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘Just some personal items. Things I had on my desk.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, the bitch mug and the photos. I think Mick threw them, but I might be wrong.’

  ‘He better not have. He’s no right to touch my belongings.’

  ‘Why don’t you come at lunchtime, and we can go out somewhere? Jonathon’s on a course, so I’m at a loose end.’

  ‘Oh, well, when you put it like that.’

  ‘I didn’t mean…I mean, you’d have been welcome to join me anyway…I just meant…’

  ‘Whatever, Tammy. I’ll see you soon.’ That girl makes my brain hurt, but she’s the closest thing I have to a best friend so…

  #tearsandfears

  Mick’s out with a client when I get to the office, so I text him to say I’m there to collect my personal effects. That makes it sound like I’ve died. He texts me to say he’d had them removed, but he’ll bring them to the pub when he gets finished where he is.

  Lunch turns into an afternoon drinking session, and at teatime, Mick joins us. He arrives at the pub clutching a small cardboard box containing the contents of my desk drawer. Twenty-five years with the company amount to a small number of obscure items that would fit in a much smaller shoebox. I plonk them on top of the bin and leave before I cry.

  What’s with the deluge of tears? It must be yet another middle-age thing. I only have to look at a picture of a puppy and I get pricks like nettle stings at the back of my eyes. I can’t even stand dogs. What on earth is going on?

  Mick sends a text saying, ‘Hope you’re ok.’ Sarcastic bastard.

  #hairtoday

  I check in the mirror for facial hair. There’s still no moustache, but I seem to be breeding a monobrow. I feel slightly relieved about the hairy lip situation and book an eyebrow wax at Saks.

  Shoni rings to say they’ve set the date for the wedding and had the invitations printed. Do I want her to WhatsApp a pic? I really couldn’t give a flying fox what the invitations look like, but my newfound bid to be nice has taken over. ‘That would be lovely.’

  When I open the picture, it takes a while to load. I think I’m looking at something else when the photo finally clears, and I can see it properly. A pink, fluffy, flamingo-like thing sits there. This can’t be it, surely? It looks like something Katie Price would wear on her boobs.

  ‘Very nice,’ I message back. ‘Very tasteful.’

  ‘You being sarcastic, Mother?’ is the response I receive. How come I can’t be nice without people thinking I’m being sarcastic? What is that about?

  If these are the invitations, I’m dreading seeing the dress.

  ‘G2G am having my brows waxed.’ It’s not a lie. I’m just neglecting to tell her I’m having them waxed tomorrow.

  #bridezillabombardment

  I wake up feeling like I’ve been punched all over. My head hurts, my throat hurts, my elbows and knees hurt. I feel like my body has been poisoned. Waves of nausea wash over me. I want to just stay in bed and weep. Surely this can’t all be down to middle age? I delete the selfie I’ve taken as I look as rough as toast.

  Bridezilla texts to say the venue is decided for the wedding: Hardwick Hall. I promise myself I will complain about nothing. I will let her enjoy the organisation of and run up to the wedding. After all, it’s downhill after that. Especially when you’re marrying a drug dealer from Dagenham.

  Drew texts to say his burger van has arrived, and he’s spent the last four hours cleaning it. He’s applied to the council for a pitch, and he’s just waiting to hear. He’s hoping to get a spot on the riverside, but they’re sought after, and it’s usually a case of who you know or how much money you have.

  Carolyn calls to ask if I plan to sell Mother’s house.

  ‘Why?’ I ask.

  ‘Because if I get a place on the PhD at Durham, I’ll need somewhere to stay.’

  ‘What about Lisa?’ Everyone knows Lisa is Carolyn’s girlfriend, and they’ve been living together for years. Why she doesn’t just come out of the closet, I don’t know. I’m not sure who she thinks she’s
fooling.

  ‘She’ll try and get a job in a school up there.’ Lisa is a teacher. She teaches English in an inner-city comp. She needs a bloody medal, as far as I’m concerned. They might get thirteen weeks holiday a year but imagine teaching nine different nationalities in one class. Not to mention the back-stabbings and assaults. And that’s just from the other staff.

  ‘It’ll require renovation,’ I say.

  ‘I’ll pay you rent, of course,’ she says.

  ‘No need.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Mother, what has got into you? Not that I’m complaining.’

  ‘I should think not,’ I say. ‘I’ll have a company go in and clean it. Then, it’ll just need a lick of paint.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Got to go. I’m off to the beautician. Yes, I know she’s got her work cut out before you say anything.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to say anything, Mother. Except thank you and I love you.’

  Oh, there it is again. Tears pricking the back of my eyes. What is wrong with me? Why have I turned to mush? Rarely have I heard my children tell me they love me, but then, I don’t tell them. I did when they were little. When I was rocking them in my arms and singing them to sleep. I’d kiss their smooth little foreheads and tell them I loved them to infinity and beyond. When Knobhead left and broke my heart, I changed. I tried my best not to feel love because love was painful.

  The beautician asks if I want my top lip done while she’s waxing my eyebrows.

  ‘Do you think it needs it?’ I ask in a panic. ‘I didn’t think it was that bad.’

  ‘Personal preference,’ she says.

  What’s that supposed to fucking mean? ‘So, it doesn’t need it?’

  ‘It’s entirely up to you.’

  For Christ’s sake. ‘Take it off, then,’ I say. Little did I realise how sensitive that area would be, never having had it done before.

  ‘Jesus Christ, you nearly took my fucking teeth along with it,’ I say.

  ‘Pride’s painful,’ she says in that tinkly sing-song voice they all have.

  It’s painful on the purse strings too. I must find a job like that. One where I can inflict pain and get paid for it.

  Another weird email arrives on my phone. “Let there be room in your togetherness and let the wind of change dance between you”. I open it, but there’s no content. I reply with, ‘Who is this?’ An email immediately bounces back telling me this is a ‘no reply’ address. I look back at all the others I’ve received and realise they all seemed to be hinting about my twin brother. Or am I just imagining that? Is it wishful thinking, knowing what I now know?

  I Google how to find a long-lost relative, and the Salvation Army website pops up. I click on the link and it takes me to a page entitled Reuniting Families. There’s an email address to send enquiries to so I email them, telling them what I know about my brother and asking for their help. I wonder what it would be like to have a brother. I spent my childhood wishing I had one, someone to look out for me, stick up for me, look after me, chase the bullies away. I longed for a brother, and now I know I had (or have) one, I desperately want to meet him. I’m excited at the thought of finding him, but anxious that I never will. What if he’s dead already? What if he doesn’t want to meet me? My mind is awash with questions.

  19

  #terminaltemperature

  I ring the doctors to make an appointment for this afternoon. I’m sure there’s something seriously wrong with me. A person cannot feel this crap for no reason.

  The doctor takes a pint or two of blood, then checks my blood pressure and my temperature. Both normal.

  ‘Really? I’m burning up.’

  ‘Not according to this,’ he says.

  ‘My joints burn too,’ I say. He prints me off a prescription for Naproxen, Fluoxetine, domperidone.

  ‘I’m gonna rattle at this rate. Shouldn’t we find out what’s causing the symptoms rather than just treating them?’

  ‘I think we know what’s causing the symptoms,’ the doctor says.

  ‘Do we?’

  ‘We discussed the menopause at your last appointment.’

  ‘Oh, so, because I’m middle-aged and possibly menopausal, I just have to put up with it: the sickness, the pain, the itching, the burning…’

  ‘It happens to all women at your time of life.’

  ‘Yeah, if it happened to men, I bet there’d be more research into it. I bet they’d have a cure for hot flushes by now.’

  ‘Ms Gallbreath, I don’t think that attitude is very helpful, do you?’

  I don’t think your prescription is very helpful, so we’re even. I leave with threats to complain to the practice manager.

  ‘You’re welcome to do so. My wife is the practice manager,’ he says.

  Bollocks.

  Bridezilla sends a photo of flowers and some annoying relation of the Drug Dealer from Dagenham in a peach “flower-girl” dress. ‘Doesn’t she look cute?’ She looks like flamingo sick is not an acceptable and tactful answer, so I type, ‘Yes.’ I’m getting good at this being nice lark.

  Mick texts to say my job has been left open for me and to get in touch if I want to reconsider my hasty decision. Cheek. The truth is, I am regretting my decision. I miss my job. It was one of the few things I was good at but there’s no way I’m having Mick the Dick tell me what to do.

  #feelingflaky

  My skin doesn’t belong to me anymore. It’s not the skin I’ve known all these years. I have bumps and lumps, itchy red blotches, flaking patches. ‘It’s eczema and acne,’ the doc says as though I should know and, worse still, should just accept it.

  ‘Yes, but why?’ I ask. ‘I haven’t had acne since I was a teenager or eczema since I was a small child.’

  ‘It’s the hormones,’ he says. ‘I’ll give you a course of antibiotics and some hydrocortisone. Don’t worry, it’s perfectly normal. We’ll take some bloods.’

  Mick texts this afternoon to say he’s left messages on my answerphone and I haven’t returned his calls. It transpires that the answerphone isn’t working properly. There’s a message from the doctor asking me to call him urgently. Shit, it must be the results of my blood tests. Already? There must be something wrong. By the time I get to the surgery, I’ve worked myself up into a panicked frenzy. I’m imagining months of chemotherapy and becoming bald and skeletal. I made the mistake of Googling the symptoms and came up with all manner of horrible diseases from liver failure and uterine cancer to non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma.

  ‘Roberta Gallbreath,’ I say to the receptionist, expecting pitying looks and an offer of tea.

  Instead, I get a brusque, ‘Wait there,’ while she disappears into the office behind reception. She returns clutching a small bottle. ‘Doctor wants a urine sample.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says.

  ‘I can’t just bloody perform on demand.’

  ‘Just pee in the bottle and hand it back in here,’ she says, tutting and scribbling something on the side of the container. I stuff it in my bag before anyone can see what it is and promptly forget about it.

  Another email pops up on my phone: “Not double the trouble but twice blessed”. They’re beginning to irritate me.

  #happyfamilies

  Carolyn and Lisa moved into Mother’s today. Carolyn calls to say Felicity came around to rant and rave, but Lisa threw her out and told her not to come back unless she was prepared to speak civilly. I’m liking Lisa more and more. Though not enough to have an affair with her and end up on Jeremy Kyle, I must add. Drew texts to say he’s got a pitch on the Quayside for his van and he’s over the moon. Shoni WhatsApps me her seating plan. As if I give a monkey’s who sits where, as long as I don’t have to sit next to her father. I text her to say, ‘Very good’ and ‘Looking forward to wedding.’ This isn’t a total lie as I’m looking forward to getting dressed up and drinking lots of gin.

  My car makes a loud noise, and smoke emanates from the exhaust. A huge bang resonates thr
ough the neighbourhood. My neighbour thinks I’ve been shot and pokes her head over the wall.

  ‘Oh, you’re alive.’ She sounds disappointed. Maybe my untimely death would have brought some excitement to her humdrum existence. ‘There was a man here for you yesterday.’

  ‘A man?’

  ‘Yes. Queer looking sort. Knocked on my door by mistake. I said you was out. He said he’d call back later.’

  ‘What did he look like?’ I ask.

  ‘Like he should be in prison or a loony bin.’ I have no idea who that could be. She knows Andy, so it can’t have been him. Mick hardly looks like he should be in Frankland. It couldn’t be Drew because Mrs Jones knows him.

  ‘Our local MP?’

  ‘No, not ’im. Though that bugger should be in prison. If he calls again, I’ll get his name.’

  Julian rings. I suppose you could call us friends. We’ve hung around together over the years. He often comes and spouts his problems at me, but then disappears when I have problems that I’d like to offload.

  It transpires his boyfriend has dumped him just before Pride. He wants to come round to analyse the situation. I can’t think of a good enough excuse in time, so here he is, perched on my sofa, parleying about his problems.

  Apparently, Dave has been a bit distant. In that he kept buggering off to Gran Canaria at the drop of a helmet. I said at the time there was something amiss, but Julian was all, ‘We’re soulmates, he wouldn’t do that to me.’

  I was all, ‘He’s a man, of course he would.’ He said I was just a bitter and twisted feminazi because of what had happened to me, and you can’t judge every man by Knobhead’s standards.

  Turns out Dave has been shagging a Liverpudlian holiday rep in Las Palmas.

  ‘A scouser!’ says Julian. ‘I bet he’s got chlamydia.’ On the back of this, Julian had been to get himself checked out, and the doctor noticed he was having some worrying symptoms.

  ‘He’s suggested a colonoscopy,’ Julian says.