The Not So Perfect Life of Mo Lawrence

by Catherine Robertson

  ‘Because ultimately it’s the mother who has to shoulder the responsibility,’ said Aishe. ‘With the exception of Father Time, the male of the species is pretty bloody unreliable.’

  Michelle was about to protest but was silent. After a moment she said, ‘Darrell’s father is still around. Not the most dynamic of men. But definitely reliable.’

  Aishe gave her a look. ‘He was the only one you could think of, wasn’t he?’

  ‘My father is also still around,’ said Connie. ‘He does his best not to show his disappointment that I didn’t provide him with grandchildren.’

  ‘Jesus.’ Aishe’s upper lip was curling. ‘Seriously?’

  Connie turned her big blue gaze on Aishe. ‘And how would you feel if you knew your line was coming to an end? I’m his only daughter. After me, without a child, there’s no one.’

  Aishe blinked, but made no reply. Connie went on.

  ‘It’s more than a social norm, our desire for family,’ she said. ‘It’s a fundamental instinct. To belong. To be part of the continuum of life — secure in knowing that people came before us and will come after. It’s what makes us human.’

  Aishe looked over at Michelle, who shook her head.

  ‘There are no words,’ said Michelle. ‘Trust me.’

  The baby monitor on the kitchen bench crackled and through the static came a small, high-pitched cry. All three women stopped still and listened intently.

  After a minute with no further noises, Michelle sat back in her chair and blew out a breath. ‘Nope. Still asleep, thank God. Probably dreaming about stabbing someone.’

  ‘When Gulliver was a baby, he had a toy gorilla that made grunting sounds when you pressed its stomach,’ said Aishe. ‘He rolled over on it in the cot one night and I just about had a heart attack. Thought he had whooping cough or something.’

  Michelle pushed back her chair and stood up. ‘More coffee? I won’t bother to offer either of you cake.’

  ‘I’ll have cake,’ said Aishe.

  When Michelle glanced at her in surprise, Aishe pouted. ‘Why the fuck not?’ she said. ‘It’s not like anyone gives a shit if I get fat.’

  ‘Are you saying I’m fat?’ Michelle filled the coffee plunger with boiling water. ‘That I’m a fat-arsed cake-scoffing cow?’

  Aishe gave her an even stare. ‘You could lose a few pounds.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  Michelle brought the coffee plunger to the table, and then the cake. She proceeded to cut two huge slices, one of which she offered to Aishe.

  ‘Of course, it would hurt worse if I gave a crap,’ she said, and took a large bite of the one on her own plate. ‘And anyway,’ she went on, words muffled by cake. ‘You can’t have a thing against fat people. You were married to one.’

  ‘Frank transcended fat,’ said Aishe. ‘Seriously. He was so fat you didn’t really think of him as such. I know I didn’t.’

  ‘You have to admit,’ said Michelle, once her slice was eaten, ‘you and he were an odd couple.’

  Aishe’s own slice of cake was only nibbled on, Michelle observed. So much for packing on the pounds.

  ‘You think so?’

  Michelle noted the edge in Aishe’s tone and chose to ignore it. ‘I suppose it’s no weirder than that young chick who married Pavarotti,’ she said. ‘Although of course, he was loaded.’ She turned innocent eyes on Aishe. ‘Was Frank loaded, too?’

  Aishe gave her a contemplative stare. ‘One of these days that mouth will start a fire that will consume you.’

  Michelle grimaced. ‘You know what? I think it already has.’

  It was then she noticed that Connie had not said a word for quite some time. And that she was sitting upright in her chair with both hands in her lap, one crossed over the other. Her head was bowed.

  ‘Connie?’ said Michelle. ‘You OK?’

  Connie touched one fingertip to her wedding ring. ‘I still feel like that.’

  Aishe and Michelle exchanged a glance.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like a tailor’s dummy.’

  ‘Oh God, Connie,’ said Michelle. ‘You mustn’t.’

  Michelle slid from her chair and onto the one next to Connie, and put her arms around her.

  ‘Jesus, Connie, it’s like hugging a hummingbird! Nothing but tiny little bones and air. I’m afraid to squeeze.’

  She squeezed anyway.

  ‘What can I do?’ Michelle said.

  To her surprise, Connie lifted her head and laughed. ‘I do believe you’re convinced you can solve any problem.’

  ‘Of course I can. I am like the person who tackled the thing that couldn’t be done. But in my case the rhyme wouldn’t end with me not being able to do it. It would end with me kicking the shit out of the thing to get my own back.’ She gave her friend’s shoulders another squeeze. ‘Connie, I know you stand up for Phil, like a good wife. But are you happy with him?’

  ‘I think I wouldn’t be happy without him.’

  ‘You think? You don’t know?’

  Connie was quiet for a moment. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I don’t know.’

  ‘I just feel there’s more for you,’ said Michelle. She waved her hand towards the front window. ‘Out there.’

  ‘Out there is a big place,’ said Connie.

  ‘That’s my point,’ said Michelle. ‘And it doesn’t mean it’s a bad place. I’ve been out there. Aishe’s certainly been out there. We’ve avoided being tortured, raped and killed. At least—’ She glanced at Aishe.

  ‘No torture or rape,’ said Aishe. ‘One guy tried to kill me at a concert, but I got away.’

  ‘There you are then.’ Michelle gave Connie’s shoulder a last pat.

  Connie took a deep breath. ‘I could take Phil with me.’

  ‘Would he want to go?’ Michelle looked doubtful.

  ‘I have no idea.’ Connie smiled at her. ‘So I suppose the first thing to do is to ask.’

  ‘You don’t have to take Phil,’ said Michelle. ‘Really.’

  ‘Phil is nowhere near as bad as you think. When Chad’s back, you must come to dinner. Just us,’ Connie added, ‘at our place.’

  Michelle wasn’t sure which part of that statement was responsible for the sudden lurch in her gut. She assumed it was most likely the thought of Chad’s return, on Sunday evening, only five days away.

  God, she thought. Five days. That means he’s been gone over three weeks. In the grand scheme of things, that’s a mere blip, she thought. But in my life, it’s been three weeks where it feels like all the pieces have shifted, and I can no longer see what pattern they make.

  ‘We should go out,’ she heard Aishe say. ‘For a drink.’

  ‘You keep threatening me with that,’ said Michelle. ‘Last time, you said something about a blues band?’

  ‘I’m off that idea. But I’m still keen on the drink part.’ She sat back in her chair. ‘OK then, let’s commit to a date. How about this Friday night?’

  ‘Fine with me.’ Michelle shrugged. ‘You know my social life’s a desert. Connie?’

  Connie gazed at her. ‘You’re inviting me too?’

  ‘Of course!’

  Connie touched a hand to her chest. ‘I don’t really drink.’

  ‘Well then, be the driver,’ said Aishe.

  ‘Oh, I don’t drive,’ said Connie.

  ‘What?’ It came from both Aishe and Michelle.

  ‘How the hell have you been getting to my place?’ Michelle demanded.

  ‘Why, the bus, of course.’

  ‘You’re shitting me.’

  ‘I like the bus,’ said Connie. ‘It gives me time to read. And think.’

  Michelle stared at her.

  ‘Come for a drink with us, Connie,’ she said. ‘You can catch the freaking bus out here and stay the night.’

  Connie’s face lit up. ‘Can I feed the children in the morning?’

  Michelle slowly shook her head. ‘Sometimes, I struggle to believe you’re for real. Yes, of course.
And if you want to be a true martyr to the cause, you can bring me toast and coffee, too.’

  26

  ‘Do you mind?’

  Benedict threw Gulliver a pained look.

  Gulliver smirked. ‘Sorry. Couldn’t hold it. Lucky it was only a small one, not a fart-tastrophe.’

  ‘This is a small room. It’s bad enough. Open a window.’

  ‘I let one rip in the car when Mum picked me up from rock school,’ said Gulliver, as he unlatched the window. ‘I don’t know what it is about band practice — they just build up. It’s the girls, I think. If it was all guys, we’d just cut loose. Man,’ he added, as he sat back down at the computer, ‘that one was a fart-pocalypse. A fart-mageddon. Mum made me get out and walk. Said it was worse than having an old dog.’

  ‘You’ve lived in America most of your life, haven’t you?’ said Benedict.

  ‘Yup,’ said Gulliver.

  ‘Then why do you call her Mum instead of Mom?’

  Gulliver blinked. ‘I dunno. Never thought about it. I suppose that’s what she called herself when I was little.’

  ‘She never wanted you to call her by her first name?’

  ‘No, because that’d be weird,’ said Gulliver. ‘What did you call your mother?’

  ‘Mother,’ said Benedict.

  ‘Really?’ Gulliver screwed up his face. ‘That’s kind of anal, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is not,’ said Benedict. ‘It’s perfectly normal.’

  ‘Yeah, sure. So I’m guessing you called your father Father? Or — wait, what’s that toff word? Oh yeah — Pater. Pater and Mater. Now, that’s really anal.’

  ‘I called him Sir,’ said Benedict quietly.

  Gulliver stopped moving the mouse and stared at him.

  ‘What kind of asshole wants his kid to call him Sir?’

  ‘You should watch your language,’ said Benedict. ‘Not everyone will be as tolerant as I am.’

  ‘Seriously,’ said Gulliver, ‘why did you have to call him that?’

  ‘I didn’t have to. I chose to.’

  Benedict was sitting on the edge of Gulliver’s bed. His elbows were on his knees, and he was staring at his hands, which he was twisting together.

  ‘It seemed like a wise decision at the time,’ he added.

  Gulliver swivelled around in the chair so he could see Benedict more easily.

  ‘You were afraid of him,’ he said. ‘Wow. Harsh.’

  Benedict looked up. Gulliver’s expression showed curiosity, but was free of condescension. Benedict wondered if years with Aishe had made Gulliver more accepting of the foibles of human nature.

  ‘I was.’ Benedict lowered his eyes again. ‘I am.’

  Gulliver’s head jerked back. ‘Even now? Whoa! But you’re like — old.’

  Benedict sat up straight. ‘I am not old. I’m not even thirty.’

  ‘Still twice as old as me.’

  ‘Old is eighty.’

  ‘No, that’s ancient,’ said Gulliver. ‘That’s triple old-tacular! Thirty’s more like old-trocity.’

  Benedict narrowed his eyes. ‘You know I could kill you with my thumbs.’

  Gulliver smirked. ‘You mad?’ he said in the wheedling Troll voice.

  Benedict blew out a breath and leaned back on the bed, propping himself on straight arms. ‘Is it acceptable, I ask myself, in a pedagogic relationship, that our entire conversation revolves around Halo kill levels and Memebase?’

  Gulliver reached out the toe of his trainer and pushed to rotate the swivel chair idly from side to side. After a moment, he said, ‘Tell me about your dad.’

  Benedict’s initial reaction was that he couldn’t. Gulliver was fourteen. But in almost ten years, Benedict had told the truth about his father to only one person — Aishe. The relief of that unburdening, despite her scepticism, had been so immense that Benedict had gone home and slept for twelve hours straight. It was only in the morning that he remembered she’d accused him of not being a man, and a different kind of weight had begun to settle.

  And I hardly told Aishe anything, Benedict thought. There were so many other stories, and as far as he knew, there were only two people in the world who could relate them — him and his father. He himself had never told, and he suspected the same was true of his father, a man who would sooner die than admit defeat. More accurately, he’d ensure other people died. No one must know Reg Hardy to be anything else but a winner.

  Gulliver may be fourteen, but he’s a wise fourteen, Benedict told himself. He’s had an unconventional upbringing, with a mother who scares the daylights out of most people. I’m not sure my stories would shock him, or even mildly startle him.

  So Benedict began to talk. He told Gulliver about the dog and the gun. He told him about catching the train to Oxford and his flight, literally, to Europe. He told him about the first time he knew his father was chasing him — the note in the backpackers’ in Frankfurt, less than a week after he’d arrived. There were no words on it, just a cartoon drawing of a gun, with a flag coming out of the barrel, on which was written the word BANG! It was a note he was to receive many times. They’d usually arrive in the places where he was staying — he’d find them on his pillow or tucked into the book he was reading. One time, he found one stuffed in the pocket of his jacket. He’d taken it off and hung it in a locker before changing into the uniform he wore as a valet-parking attendant. When he put on his hat, he realised it was the wrong size and he went to exchange it. The note was in his pocket when he got back, less than two minutes later.

  ‘What did he mean by it?’ said Gulliver. ‘What was the point?’

  ‘I think it was the thrill of the chase,’ said Benedict. ‘I think he enjoyed seeing me run like a startled hare. And it must have been so easy to track me. All he had to do was see what plane I got on. Or ship. Or bus.’

  ‘And he always found you?’

  ‘Once, I got lucky,’ said Benedict. ‘There was an airline strike in Spain, and I got out on the last plane from Barcelona airport. After mine, there were no more flights for five days. I ended up in Sweden, and when I hadn’t received a note in a month, I truly thought he might have given up. I even started a horticultural course. But I never finished it.’

  ‘How did he do it?’ Gulliver frowned. ‘Did he, like, pay people to follow you?’

  ‘Yes. Paid them lots of money, I imagine. But then he had lots of money. And time.’

  Gulliver chewed on his bottom lip.

  ‘What would have happened if you’d stopped running? Confronted him? I mean if he — or his hired bad dude — had got close enough to leave notes, then why didn’t they just pop a cap in your ass while they were at it?’

  ‘Pop a cap in my ass?’ Benedict shook his head. ‘Thank you, Biggie Smalls.’ Then he said, ‘I have asked myself that question.’ He decided not to mention that he’d done so only recently and that it was Aishe who had prompted it. ‘I had made such a fine job of convincing myself that he was chasing me for just one reason — to eventually do me harm — that I could not believe there was any other reality.’

  ‘So he could have just been trying to do your head in rather than kill you?’

  ‘Is that better?’

  ‘Well, you end up less dead.’

  ‘True. But what kind of life would it be?’

  ‘And you never saw him? Not even once?’

  ‘Twice, actually,’ said Benedict. ‘Once was by sheer coincidence — I could tell by his shocked expression that he hadn’t planned it. It was in Tokyo, on the underground. He was at one end of a packed carriage and I was at the other. The only reason we saw each other is that we’re both a head taller than most Japanese.

  ‘Fortunately, we were coming up to a stop. I’d been in Tokyo for a couple of weeks and I’d mastered the art of polite shoving. He hadn’t. He was trapped by an impenetrable wall of smiling courtesy. I saw his face as the train went by. If ever a man were close to an aneurysm, it was him.’

  Gulliver waited a moment. ‘And th
e second time?’

  ‘Morocco.’

  ‘Whoa. You seriously got about.’

  Benedict didn’t smile. ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘So,’ Gulliver prompted. ‘Morocco?’

  Benedict looked uneasy. ‘Um — not all of this may be suitable.’

  ‘Parental guidance recommended?’ Gulliver was amused.

  ‘Well, perhaps not in your case,’ said Benedict.

  ‘It’s OK. I know about the birds and the bees.’

  ‘Oh yes, I know you do! Very well. Cover your ears if anything makes you squeamish.’

  He told about how he’d arrived in Tangier and been immediately adopted by a group of young Australian men, who were there because they wanted to see where Matt Damon had kicked that “wog assassin’s arse” in The Bourne Ultimatum.

  ‘They liked me because I could speak French,’ he said, ‘even though they had all quickly mastered the ordering of beer and really had no need to communicate anything else, except perhaps “Fuck you, you Arab c***” to the bar owners who tried to kick them out.’

  Despite realising that the men weren’t the most dependable of travelling companions, Benedict nevertheless had been so starved of company that he’d stayed with them.

  ‘I couldn’t even try to keep pace with their drinking,’ he said. ‘And then one night they decided they had to visit a brothel.’ He glanced at Gulliver. ‘That’s a—’

  ‘A house of ill repute? A bordello? A whorehouse? Yeah, thanks, I think I got it.’

  ‘I hope you don’t pick up this stuff on the internet,’ said Benedict. ‘Your mother will have my testicles in a string bag.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Gulliver. ‘Speaking of which — what happened next?’

  Benedict grimaced. ‘I’m still not sure. I really didn’t want to go to a brothel, which is almost certainly why I ended up in one completely legless. All I remember was being lowered onto a mound of very bright, very squashy cushions, like something out of Dr Seuss. And then I must have passed out.’

  ‘Do you ever get any?’ Gulliver said. ‘Sheesh.’