Out on a Limb

by Lynne Barrett-Lee

  ‘So go to bed, then!’ she snaps, slapping at her clothing. ‘Go to bed and leave me to it. I’m quite capable of washing a few glasses, you know.’

  ‘I’m well aware of that, Mum. I’d just rather you didn’t. They can go in the dishwasher in the morning.’

  She carries on regardless, while I stand there and scowl. Then she turns around, clearly with something else to say. Which she does. Oh, and then some. ‘Honestly,’ she snaps, orange dish-brush in hand. ‘Why do you have to be such a shrew about everything?’

  I gape at her. ‘What?’

  She exhales. ‘Well, for goodness’ sake, take a look at yourself, Abigail! You are becoming so joyless and shrill! Why are you always in such a bad mood all the time? So I had a few friends round. Is that such a crime?’

  Because I’m still stung on the joyless and shrewish bit, it takes me a couple of seconds to absorb the rest. No, it’s not a crime. And yes, I am in a bad mood. A very bad mood now, in fact.

  ‘No. Not a crime,’ I say, trying to keep my voice calm and measured. ‘But pretty off of you, even so. Tonight of all nights, Mum. With Jake’s gig and everything. And what on earth did you think you were doing, letting people smoke cigars in my house?’ I know I sound petty, but that’s just how I feel. ‘Why couldn’t they smoke in the garden, for God’s sake? I don’t want to be a kill-joy, but the whole place stinks!’

  She tsks again. Which is getting really irritating. ‘Abigail, I cannot believe you are making such an enormous fuss about a few perfectly civilised human beings sitting in your living room playing cards. “Oh, no! End of the world! People are smoking in my house!”’ She grabs the washing-up liquid bottle and wafts it towards me. ‘What is this place anyway, Colditz?’

  ‘That’s not the point. It’s the principle.’

  ‘Oh, and we mustn’t upset your precious principles, must we? Dear me, no.’ She fires washing-up liquid into the bowl and then slams the bottle back down onto the drainer. Three little rainbow bubbles float up and away. Much like fairies do. Sometimes. Not always. I want to cry.

  ‘And Jake has asthma. Or did you forget that?’ She says nothing. So, yes, clearly. Yes. Why does that not surprise me? ‘Mum, just leave this, will you? I want to go to bed.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ she says. ‘Oh, no. Not likely. I’m not having you tutting your way about the place in the morning with that look on your face.’

  I fold my arms. ‘Oh, right. Of course. And which face would that be? My mid-life crisis situation face, perhaps?’ She looks at me sharply. I glare right on back. ‘How dare you say that! I am not having a mid-life crisis, okay? Just a crisis, which is different.’ She continues to fill the sink with dishes and glasses, each one entering the water with a point making bang. I half hope she breaks one. Serve her right. ‘And it may have escaped your notice but if you had so much a shred of intelligence you might have realised the crisis might have something to do with you.’

  Now she turns. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You heard what I said, Mum. How dare you patronise me like that!’

  ‘I was not being patronising. I –’

  ‘Not being patronising? Yeah, right. Sitting in my living room discussing me with all your friends? “Oh, poor Abigail! Man problems. Oh, bless.” How dare you! Did you fill them in on all the details, too?’

  ‘I most certainly did not.’

  ‘I should bloody well hope so.’

  She lifts her hands from the suds and scrutinises me for a moment. ‘Hmm,’ she says then. ‘So it is still going on, then.’

  I could weep. I really could. I’m too tired for all this. ‘I don’t believe it,’ I say. ‘You really have no idea, do you? No. ‘It’ is not ‘still going on’, as you put it. This has nothing to do with bloody man problems, okay? This is all about me. Mylife. That thing that happens to meeveryday! You may not have actually noticed, of course, but I have one too! I get up. I go to work. I come home again. I shop. I cook. I clean. I wash. I run around after everyone. I run around after you. And then I collapse into bed. And then, you know what? I get up and do it all again. Every single day, Mum. Ad nauseam. Endlessly. My life is just one big round of attending to other people’s needs!’ I stab myself in the chest now. ‘Well, I have needs too. And it would be nice, now and then, if you’d appreciate that fact and not turn my home into a bloody bordello. But no. The only person you ever think about is you. So, yes, you’re right, Mum. I am feeling joyless.’ I cast an arm about me. ‘Can you blame me?’

  She stops banging about at the sink and dries her hands on a tea towel. Then she sniffs. ‘There’s no point in talking to you when you’re in this sort of state, Abigail. I think you should get yourself off to bed.’

  Something in me snaps as she says this. And she’s lucky it isn’t her neck in my hands. ‘That’s exactly what I’d planned to do when I got home two hours back! Except you’d taken it upon yourself to invite all your bloody luvvie friends round for a knees-up!’

  ‘That’s uncalled for, young lady.’

  ‘Don’t you ‘young lady’ me! I am not a child any more. I’m an adult. And this is my house, okay? Mine. Not yours!’

  She puts the tea towel, still in a ball, on the table. ‘I think you’ve made that much clear.’ She sniffs again. ‘Still, I’ll know to go elsewhere next time, won’t I? Somewhere a little more hospitable.’ She sniffs a third time, obviously going for the hat-trick. ‘You could at least have triedto be civil!’

  I snatch the cloth up and hang it from the hook, where it belongs. Civil, indeed. Yeah, right. As in civil bloody servant. And then I think some more and I find myself seething anew. Because I wascivil. I have been civil throughout. Yet, despite that, I realise that at no point since I got home tonight has it occurred to my mother to say sorry. Or if not that (one mustn’t push the bounds of probability too far), at least made some sort of enquiry about how I feel. Which is strung-out, strung-up, heartsick and lonely, and very much in need of a hug. ‘And you could have been less thoughtless!’ I bark back at her. ‘God, you are so selfish.’ I can feel tears welling up now. ‘You don’t care a jot about anyone else, do you? All you care about is whether you’re having a good time. Just the same as you always did. Me, me, me.’

  ‘I resent that.’

  ‘Well, resent all you like. It’s still true.’ I start to gather up the detritus that litters the kitchen table. She stands and watches, hands on hips now.

  ‘It most certainly isn’t!’

  I slap the papers that I’d collected up back down on the table.

  ‘Yes it is, Mum!’ I look at her now and all of a sudden I’m fourteen again. Waiting for her to come home from some rave-up or something. Making Pru’s packed lunch for the morning. Worrying. Fretting. Wondering when she’ll get home. Frightened that I can’t actually bolt the back door because she won’t be able to get in. Night after night. So many wretched nights. And then coming down in the morning to find her gone again. Just a note. Always a note, on the hall stand. With bus money, but not always. Scrawled in haste. Always. ‘Byee, girls! Have a nice day!’

  Then as now. Nothing’s changed. Nothing. ‘God, I don’t even know why I should expect any different!’ I rail at her. ‘It’s not like you’ve ever been any different, is it? You’ve never ever worried about anyone but you, and I’m sick of it, okay? I’m just sick of it!’

  She removes her hands from her hips and stabs a finger in my direction. ‘That’s not true.’ Her voice is cold. Each word tipped with its very own icicle. ‘You really have no idea, do you? You have absolutely no idea what I went through when your father died. Oh, you can be as misty-eyed as you like about him, but who do you think it was that kept things together? Who put the food on the table? Who was it that paid for all your fancy clothes, your school trips, your riding lessons? Me! Don’t you dare talk to me about selfishness, Abigail! You haven’t the first clue about the sacrifices I made!’

  ‘But I didn’t want that. We didn’t w
ant that. We didn’t want riding bloody lessons – we wanted you!’ I sound plaintive, I know. Fourteen again. Wretched. I spread my hands. Swallow. Feel the crack in my voice. ‘But you were never there, Mum, were you?’

  I flee the room, altogether too choked-up to speak now. She goes back to doing the washing-up.

  Symmetry. I’ve always rather liked symmetry. Especially the symmetry that is everywhere in nature. In a spider’s web, a crystal, a butterfly, a leaf. The human body, for which I’ve also always had a fondness, is symmetrical in so many useful regards. Almost everything in it has its own mirror image. Two hands to engage with, two legs for walking. Two kidneys. Two lungs. Two each of everything, from eyes, ears and nostrils to thumbs.

  But crucially, just the one liver to take care of. And also, more crucially, just the one heart. Which is why it so needs taking care of.

  And if it stops, so do you.

  My heart feels so full tonight that as I lie in bed I am actively aware of it. The shuntings and whooshing and general activity; the doppelganger effect of each lub and each dub. And beneath that, the steady and insistent sensation that it’s working on go-slow: not up to full throttle, as so much of its energy is channelled elsewhere.

  On Gabriel Ash. My mother’s fourth dead husband’s son. Who I very much wish I’d never met.

  But try as I might – and I do try, because it’s such a pointless occupation – I can’t stop thinking about Gabriel – I just can’t. How could I ever have imagined that what I felt for Charlie was anything even remotely connected with this? It’s a feeling so powerful, so exquisitely painful, that I’m quite at a loss to know what to do. Where does it hurt? Everywhere.

  It’s almost two. My mother has finally ceased crashing about, and the house, similarly, has long since ceased all its wheezings and mutterings and sunk slowly back into silence. And now I do sleep, fitfully, though not for very long, because the silence is almost as distracting as the noise was. And then, through it, I now realise why it is I’ve woken. Because there isnoise. Soft, indistinct, but still insistent. Cutting through brickwork and plasterboard and paint. Faint and yet keening. Impossible to ignore. And then, suddenly, I realise that what I can hear is the sound of my mother. Who is crying.

  I feel just like I did when my babies were tiny. I listen for a minute or two, anxious and fretful. Hoping it will stop so I can go back to sleep. But you never can, can you? It’s a sound that won’t let you. A siren-call, tractor beam, noose of a sound. I kick back my duvet, get out of bed, then I pad along the landing to see her.

  I push open the door to Seb’s room and look in. Despite all the announcements stuck on there to declare it (keep out, radioactive, enter at your own risk) it isn’t Seb’s room any more. It is in the process of being reclaimed by nature. My mother’s nature, which, little by little, is imposing its practices and rituals and ethos on to the organised, creative and exuberant chaos that it was before its real owner left.

  Only temporarily left, I remind myself. I cross the carpet and sit down beside her on the bed. ‘Look, Mum,’ I say softly. ‘I’m sorry. Okay?’

  She’s curled up foetally, facing the wall. Such a small shape in the bed. She doesn’t respond.

  ‘I’m sorry for what I said. I didn’t really mean it. I was just het-up and tired and irritable and unhappy, and…’

  Now she rolls over. Her face is streaked dark where she’s been crying. Runnels of make-up having coalesced into train tracks that fan obliquely across her cheeks to her temples. She looks old and tired and sad.

  ‘Why are you unhappy?’

  I smile wanly at her. ‘Oh, no reason. Just, you know, everything.’

  She pushes herself up into a sitting position. ‘That certainly sounds like reason enough to me.’

  ‘Life’s like that sometimes. I’ll get over it, I’m sure.’

  She pulls tissues from the cube beside the bed. ‘I wish you’d tell me. Is it honestly not about this man friend of yours?’

  Who was a friend. And then a lover. And is now a friend again. So much so that even he knows my heart is elsewhere. Irredeemably, hopelessly, achingly so. How ever could I have believed I had fallen for Charlie? I shake my head. ‘I told you, that’s history. Long over. It’s not that.’ I swallow. Perhaps this is not the best time. But will there ever be a good time? A better time, even? Perhaps now – this rare time of soul-searching – is the best time after all.

  I shift a little on the bed. ‘Mum, you know. Well, look…’

  She blows hard on her nose and speaks to me through the clump of tissue. ‘Well look what?’

  ‘Mum, we have to find you somewhere to live. You can’t live with us. Not permanently. I’m sorry, but you can’t. It won’t work. It’s just that –’

  ‘I know.’ Her voice is quiet. Almost mouse-like. ‘I realise that, Abigail. I know.’

  ‘It’s not about tonight. That was just me being silly. It’s just that it’s not going to work.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And I’m sorry –’

  ‘So am I. But there’s no need to apologise, Abigail.’

  ‘Yes there is. I should have told you before. We should have discussed this ages ago, Mum. I shouldn’t have let you build your hopes up. Let you think…’

  ‘No, Abigail. The fault is entirely mine. I built my hopes up all by myself. And I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have assumed.’

  She’s staring past me now. Not at anything in particular. Just at whatever thought is suspended in front of her. Then she puts her hands into her lap and sighs.

  ‘Funny, isn’t it? How things come around?’ I wait. She sighs. ‘You know, I never thought my life would end up like this. I didn’t plan for it to be like this. You do know that, don’t you?’ A remnant of a smile crosses her features. ‘My perpetual folly, you see. No sense of reality. Always assuming…’ She pulls out another tissue and dabs at the corner of her eyes. ‘But you know what, Abbie? You know why I did? Why I do? Because I’m scared.’

  ‘Scared of what?’

  ‘Scared of everything. Scared of living on my own. Scared of being on my own. Scared of dying. Scared of not dying. Scared of ending up drooling and incontinent and bereft. Just scared.’

  ‘But Mum, you have nothing to be scared of. You have so many friends. And Pru and I. And your grandchildren and everything. And okay, so you’ve had some problems with your knee, but you’re fit as anything apart from that. God, You’ll still be dancing on tables when Pru and I are in our dotage!’

  She smiles properly then, but it’s a strange sort of smile. One I’ve never seen before. And then she slowly shakes her head. ‘You’re so young, Abbie. So very young still. You think I want that? You really think that’s what I want for myself?’ She sighs. ‘You know, I look into the future and all I can see is this great grey gaping void. An endless procession of days that need filling. But you can’t, you know. You can try all you like but it’s all so much desperate window dressing. Every morning you wake up and you have to consider. How shall I fill today? What can I do with this period of time that will give it an iota of meaning?’

  ‘Mum, don’t talk like this. You’re just tired and over-emotional. You’ll feel a hundred percent better in the morning –’

  ‘No, Abbie.’ Her voice is sterner now. ‘You’re wrong. I will feel a hundred and one percent the same.’

  I don’t know how to respond to that, because I realise it’s true. A truth that I’ve never really thought about before. ‘You’re missing Hugo,’ I suggest hopefully. Slightly desperately even. ‘Aren’t you? After all, it’s been less than six months. You can’t expect to –’

  ‘Abbie, this is not about Hugo. This is entirely about me.’ She takes my hand in both of hers and strokes it absently. ‘You know,’ she says, ‘people don’t change. Not really. Look at you. My little mum.’

  I don’t know what she means and she can see it in my face. ‘That’s what you always were, you know. My stron
g one. My big girl. My proper little mum. That’s what we always used to call you. A proper little mum. Taking charge. Taking care. Looking after your little sister for me.’

  ‘It didn’t feel like that to me.’

  ‘Because it came so naturally to you. And you know, you areright.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About me. About how selfish I was. How selfish I still am.’

  ‘Oh, Mum, I didn’t mean that –’

  She pats my hand now. ‘Oh, no need for platitudes, Abbie. I’ve long since come to terms with myself. Let myself off, even, because that’s what I’m like. Oh, I can give you countless speeches about all the sacrifices I’ve made – Lord, I’ve rehearsed them often enough – but the truth is that none of it is true. I was a bad mother. I am a bad mother. How could I ever have been anything else?’ She looks at me earnestly. ‘You see, the thing is, Abbie, I never really knew how to be a mother. I didn’t have a clue. I loved my career. I loved my life. I loved success and fame and adulation and everything else that I took so much for granted. And the truth is that when your father died I was mortified. Grieving, of course. But mainly mortified. I simply didn’t know what to do next. Yes, I loved you girls – and more than you can possibly imagine – but not enough to give up everything I’d worked for. Not enough to give up on my life for yours.’

  ‘But you had to work, Mum. To provide for us. We knew that –’

  ‘Don’t pretend, Abbie. There’s no need to spare me. I know what I’m like. What I am. Always something or someone and moving on and moving on… Except in the end you reach a point where you realise that moving is no longer an option. That there is nothing else to move on to. The best years of my life are behind me, you see. So all I can do is look backwards. Revel in the glories – oh, I’ve done lots of that – but also to survey the detritus. Wallow in regrets. Torture myself with all the right things that I never seemed to find time to do.’ Her eyes are bright with fresh tears. ‘It’s a lot to come to terms with.’