The Mum Who Got Her Life Back

by Fiona Gibson

  ‘Why not?’ I exclaim.

  ‘Um … plans have sort of changed.’

  ‘But … why?’

  He shrugs, as if it’s nothing. ‘I’m just not going, okay?’ I stare at him, uncomprehending. He’s looked forward to it for months, grafting away in a shabby club which, as far as I’ve been able to make out, has mostly involved him being accused of pouring short measures and mopping up vomit. He has planned his itinerary: an extensive tour of Paris, Berlin, Prague, plus numerous other teen-pleasing cities … it’s been a huge deal to him.

  ‘Mum, I don’t really want to go into all the reasons, okay?’ he mumbles.

  ‘You’ve just decided it’s not what you want to do,’ Kiki observes, which only serves to rile me again: what’s wrong with me today? I breathe deeply and look at his dad.

  ‘Well, that’ll save us a packet,’ Danny observes.

  ‘He was paying for it himself,’ I remind him. ‘That’s why you’ve been working in that club, isn’t it, Alf?’

  ‘Yeah, on top of all the hand-outs you give him.’ Danny rolls his eyes. ‘So, Alf, I’m guessing you’re not going because—’

  ‘It’s just stuff, Dad,’ he says curtly.

  Danny nods. ‘Is it all over with the posh bird, then?’

  Another pause as Alfie studies his hands. ‘Sort of, yeah.’

  ‘Oh, Alfie.’ I reach across the table to squeeze his arm, but he pulls away. ‘I am sorry, love,’ I murmur.

  ‘It’s all right.’ He picks up his mug and takes a noisy slurp of coffee. ‘So, anyway, I’ve sold my Inter-Rail ticket …’

  ‘Can you do that?’

  ‘Well, yeah. I have!’

  I catch Danny glancing at Kiki, and then back to our son. ‘Seems like your mind’s made up, then,’ he remarks, as if it’s no big deal at all. ‘So, what’re you doing this summer? Not planning to lie about scratching your arse, I hope?’

  Kiki chuckles, and I sense my jaw tensing as my back teeth clamp together. Why is she parked at my table, sitting in on this family discussion? And why couldn’t Alfie have explained all of this as soon as he came home? He tells me precisely nothing – apart from the fact that I ‘overplay the importance of protein’.

  ‘I’ll get a job in Glasgow,’ he says with a shrug.

  ‘Okay, Alf,’ I mutter, figuring that perhaps Molly’s friend’s dad might have something at the garden centre for him too? It’ll all work out, I try to reassure myself. His sister is planning to be here pretty much all summer anyway, and if it turns out that Alfie is too, well that’s fine; he can get to know Jack properly, they can have jovial conversations about Pot Noodles, maybe even become Facebook friends …

  ‘The other thing is,’ Alfie starts, ‘I’ve decided I’m not going back to uni after the summer.’

  I stare at him. We all do – even Kiki – as if waiting for him to burst into laughter: Haha, only kidding. That got you all started, didn’t it?

  ‘What?’ is all I can say.

  Alfie gets up and proceeds to tidy up the mess he made whilst cooking. If he was doing it just to be helpful – and not just as a diversionary tactic – it would be nothing short of miraculous. But right now, I couldn’t give a stuff about the state of the kitchen.

  ‘I’m quitting,’ he says, gathering up all the vegetable matter into a tidy pile.

  ‘You’re not serious, are you?’ I ask weakly.

  He picks up the tofu packet from the floor and grabs a sponge wipe from the sink. ‘Yeah, I am.’

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ Danny frowns.

  ‘Yes, Dad, I’m sure.’ He starts to mop up the puddle of tomato juice.

  ‘Alfie, you don’t need to do that,’ I start to protest.

  ‘I’m just clearing up—’

  ‘I don’t mean that! I mean quitting uni. I know you’ve been stressed without exams, but don’t make any rash decisions without taking the time to think it through—’

  ‘It’s not rash,’ he interrupts. ‘I’ve been thinking about it really carefully.’ He squeezes out the sponge at the sink.

  ‘Well, Christ, if you’ve decided,’ Danny says, shaking his head. I shoot him a sharp look.

  ‘Alf, please,’ I say firmly. ‘If this is because of Camilla, because you’re upset—’

  ‘It’s not that.’ He bends to wipe a dribble of juice from the cupboard door.

  ‘But I thought you were enjoying it?’

  ‘I’m not,’ he says sharply. ‘I’m not enjoying it at all.’

  ‘I thought you loved English Lit!’ I exclaim.

  He straightens up, turning his attentions now to the splattered cooker hob. ‘I don’t love it, Mum. I mean, who does, really? I chose it ’cause it’s something I’m reasonably okay at …’

  ‘You’re very good at it, Alf. You know you are!’ I look at Danny, willing him to back me up here, but he is merely gazing at our son, as if Alfie has mooted the possibility of opting for a slightly different kind of haircut. ‘Alfie, could you please stop cleaning the cooker and just sit down and talk to us?’ I say sharply.

  He frowns. ‘You’re always telling me to clear up my mess.’

  ‘Yes, but not now, when you’re telling us something really important …’

  He stares at me, then looks at his father and Kiki as if to say, See what she’s like? See what I have to put up with, with a mother like this? Rather dramatically, he flings the sponge into the sink, rubs his hands on the front of his jeans and sits back down.

  ‘Okay, son, so what’s going on?’ Danny asks.

  ‘Yes, tell us what’s on your mind, love,’ Kiki offers, even though this is nothing whatsoever to do with her.

  Alfie fiddles with his coffee mug. ‘I suppose it’s just not what I thought it’d be. The whole academic thing, I mean.’

  ‘Could you think about changing courses?’ I ask. ‘Or maybe take a year out, do something different, then see how you feel after a—’

  ‘It’s just not what I want, Mum,’ he says.

  Silence falls. ‘Are you homesick, honey?’ Kiki asks, tipping her head to one side.

  ‘No!’ he exclaims, as if that’s a crazy suggestion. ‘No, I’m never homesick …’

  ‘And you’ve definitely made up your mind?’ Danny asks.

  Alfie nods. ‘Yeah, Dad, I have.’

  I rub at my face, not getting it at all. ‘Couldn’t you have said something to me, if this is how you’ve been feeling? We could have talked it over, Alf.’ Why won’t you ever talk to me? is what I mean.

  He shrugs. I feel utterly desolate, not because he wants to leave university – Christ, I know it’s not for everyone, and anything Alfie wanted to do would have been fine by me. Maybe he could become a tradesman. His cousin Ollie is a kitchen fitter, and Scott is an electrician. Both are such grafters, and making real lives for themselves. All I want is for Alfie to be happy.

  ‘So, what’re you going to do now?’ Danny asks.

  ‘Get a job, like I said,’ he replies, as if it’s that simple.

  ‘And what about all your stuff, if you’re planning not to go back? I thought Camilla’s dad was going to pick it up for you?’ I try to make eye contact, to get a grip on what he’s feeling, but his gaze remains focused on his lap.

  ‘Jez is going to store it for me. We can pick it up from him sometime …’ He means one of his mates from his student halls.

  ‘I thought you, Jez and Ned were all set to share a flat?’

  Danny looks rather blank at this. He never seems to remember any of Alfie’s friends’ names.

  ‘Well, that won’t happen now,’ Alfie murmurs. ‘Someone else’ll take my room. That won’t be a problem …’ He rubs at an eye, and for a moment I think he’s going to cry.

  ‘Oh, son,’ Danny says, reaching out to squeeze his arm, at which Alfie manages to muster a faint smile.

  ‘It’s all right, Dad. Really, it’s the right decision …’

  ‘Good for you,’ Kiki cuts in. ‘I think it’s very brave, follo
wing your heart instead of what’s expected—’

  ‘Kiki, if you don’t mind,’ I cut in.

  ‘I mean, I never went to university,’ she announces, ‘and I’ve managed to scrape my way through life.’

  ‘Neither did I,’ Danny concedes with a shrug.

  ‘Yeah,’ Alfie exclaims, turning to me. ‘Look at Dad, how successful he is, how he made his whole career out of, well, nothing … ’

  ‘Cheers, Alf,’ Danny says with an infuriating chuckle.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ I bluster, ‘but that’s different.’

  ‘D’you think it would’ve made any difference to Dad if he’d got, I dunno, a history degree or something?’ Alfie asks with a raised brow.

  ‘Probably not,’ I start, sensing my cheeks flaming now as I will Danny to chip in with something useful.

  ‘I’ve always believed that life experience is more valuable than qualifications,’ Kiki cuts in, smoothing back her sleek hair. Yes, but that’s because you stroke people’s faces and encourage them to buy creams!

  Incensed now, I sip my tepid coffee in silence, aware of my son studying me.

  ‘Mum, you’re the only one here who went to uni,’ Alfie observes, although I don’t quite know what he’s implying.

  ‘It was art college actually,’ I remind him.

  ‘Yeah, well, that’s pretty much the same thing,’ he says gruffly.

  I can sense my eyes prickling as a silence descends. Never mind that I’ve managed to rake in enough work to contribute significantly to our family for nineteen years. The implication is clearly: And look at all the good that did you.

  Ridiculously, as Alfie falls into a chat with his father and Kiki about possible work options, I start to feel tearful and ganged up on. I even pretended to enjoy the Lebanese thing, for crying out loud. I allowed Alfie to choose crackers that were £8.50 – and there were only five in the box!

  Danny stands up, followed by Kiki. ‘Well, I guess we’d better be going,’ he says lightly. ‘We’ve got a thing to go to—’

  ‘What kind of thing?’ I ask, not really caring.

  ‘Just a boring old industry event,’ he says with a sigh.

  ‘Yeah.’ Kiki beams at my son. ‘We’d better dash off. Great to see you, Alfie. Let’s get together really soon …’

  ‘That’d be nice,’ he says, hugging each of them in turn. ‘You’ll see me a lot over the summer, now that I’m back home for good.’

  ‘Fantastic!’ She beams, turning to me as she and Danny make for the door. ‘Great to see you too, Nadia. But you are looking stressed. Please try and take care of yourself, because if you don’t, no one will!’ And with that, she grabs Danny’s hand and off they scoot, as if Alfie’s shock announcement hadn’t happened, and I’m being ridiculous for worrying about anything at all.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jack

  After our hasty phone call on Sunday with the chilli incident, I decided it was best not to call Nadia back. So I just texted: Hope all ok with chilli/eye, and she replied, All fine, sorry I snapped at you. Bit stressed. Then she called to tell me, in murmured tones, about Danny and his girlfriend turning up, and Alfie announcing that he wasn’t going travelling or – more importantly – returning to uni after the summer.

  ‘Maybe he’ll change his mind?’ I suggested.

  ‘Um, I don’t know. He seemed pretty certain. I can’t believe he’s throwing away this chance, Jack. He won’t even consider changing courses, or taking a year out …’

  I wasn’t sure what to say to that. Anything I could think of – like: ‘I’m sure it’ll work out’ – would have sounded so trite, so I added, ‘Maybe it’s good that he’s home now and you can talk it over …’

  ‘He won’t talk to me,’ she lamented.

  I hesitated. ‘Well, look, I’d love to see you, but no pressure. I know you’ll probably want to be around for him …’

  ‘Can we play it by ear?’ she asked, and naturally I said that was fine. I’ve grown used to us spending as much time as possible together; in fact, I see Nadia most days when Lori’s not with me. But this is a temporary thing, and it’s only right that she’s there for her son. ‘I didn’t mean what I said,’ she added, ‘about you mansplaining.’

  ‘Oh, I probably was.’

  ‘You were only trying to help …’

  I couldn’t help smiling at that. ‘It’s just, the proteins in milk help to neutralise the—’

  ‘Jack,’ she cut in, and I knew she was smiling too, ‘protein’s a sensitive issue around here.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  She chuckled. ‘I overplay its importance, apparently.’

  And now it’s Monday morning, and my working day has kicked off with a call from Dinah, the area manager. ‘So, what we’re doing,’ she announces in her strident tone, ‘is asking all of the managers to source a high-value item, so we can put it on social media and email out a press release, drum up some publicity to our cause. What d’you think, Jack?’

  ‘Sounds good,’ I reply, aware of a heated discussion between one of our volunteers and a middle-aged woman who drops off donations from time to time. The woman’s wispy hair has been dyed an odd shade of burgundy with, I have to say, limited success.

  ‘But I need the trousers back,’ she says, looking quite distressed.

  ‘They must have been sold,’ Mags says plainly. Like Iain, she assumes a superior role around here.

  ‘Are you sure? Might they still be in the back room?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know, do I? Once you’ve handed stuff in, that’s that …’

  ‘Jack?’ Dinah says sharply.

  ‘Er, yes, I’m right here …’

  She exhales. Despite working in the charity sector, Dinah tends to behave as if she is CEO of a global bank. ‘The idea is, we’ll auction off these items at a special event. You know how competitive things are these days. Everyone’s being badgered to donate left right and centre, and the bigger charities have enormous support, all the high-profile backers—’

  Mags waves to attract my attention, and I mouth just-give-me-a-minute. ‘Yep, no problem,’ I say. ‘So, how will we get these high-value items?’

  ‘Well, they’ll be donated,’ Dinah states, as if it’s obvious.

  ‘Right …’ I glance down at a box of assorted bits that’s just been brought in. Amongst what looks like mainly crockery, I spot a box of ‘strong and hygienic’ paper knickers and a knitted Womble.

  ‘But we can’t just sit back and wait,’ she goes on. ‘We have to approach people who have clout and influence – be proactive. D’you hear what I’m saying?’

  Yes, loud and clear. She doesn’t seem to realise that you can speak at a perfectly normal volume whilst on the phone. ‘Okay, but who d’you have in mind …’

  ‘Celebrities!’ she announces. ‘It all started with Jessie at the Edinburgh shop. She’s a right little terrier, that one.’

  ‘Really? I haven’t met her yet …’

  ‘Oh my God, the balls on her,’ Dinah raves on. ‘Fired off something like two hundred emails to various agents and publicists …’

  My attention wavers. The customer is still haranguing Mags about the trousers. ‘Could I call you back, Dinah? I just need to—’

  ‘Jack, can I count on you to get on board with this?’ she asks. ‘This is what we need to focus on now – boosting publicity. Making a big splash. Something like this will send our profile through the roof.’ I glance up at our mottled polystyrene ceiling tiles. ‘So,’ she adds, ‘Jessie’s managed to make contact with Miranda Ford …’

  I try to summon up an appropriately enthusiastic response, when in fact I haven’t the faintest idea who she is.

  ‘Miranda Ford!’ Dinah reiterates. ‘C’mon, Jack. You must have heard of her.’

  ‘Um, the name rings a bell,’ I fib.

  ‘She won best newcomer at the soap awards last year?’

  ‘I don’t really follow the soaps, Dinah …’

  ‘What, non
e of them?’

  ‘Well, er, I remember EastEnders in the Den and Angie years …’

  ‘Oh, get you,’ Dinah says, laughing now, possibly in despair at my ignorance. ‘Too low-brow for you, are they? She’s in that Mackie’s potato waffles advert as well. You must’ve seen that …’

  ‘I think I might have.’ Another lie.

  ‘Yeah, well, she’s the face of Mackie’s Waffles and she’s hot as anything right now, and Jessie’s persuaded her to donate some gloves …’

  ‘What kind of gloves?’ I ask.

  ‘Uh, well, technically they’re mittens – just ordinary ones, dark brown sheepskin …’

  ‘Amazing,’ I say as Mags jabs me sharply on the arm.

  ‘Jack,’ she mutters, ‘this lady says she brought in some trousers, dark blue bobbly material. D’you remember seeing them?’

  ‘Sorry, no.’ I shake my head distractedly.

  ‘So you need to match that,’ Dinah announces. ‘I’ve got all the managers onto it. We’re after celebrity-owned items, okay?’

  ‘Er, right!’ Hmm, now which of my many celeb buddies should I contact first?

  ‘Great. I know I can rely on you, Jack. Make sure it’s something really special …’

  ‘George Clooney’s underpants?’ I say dryly.

  ‘If you can get hold of those, that’d be great.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll just break into his house and steal them?’

  She laughs. ‘Dedication – that’s what I like to see. Anyway, I can tell you’re busy, Jack. Good luck!’

  Call finished, I turn to the woman who’s been haranguing Mags, alarmed to see that her light grey eyes are wet with tears. ‘Can you talk to me now?’ she asks gruffly.

  ‘Yes, of course. What’s the problem?’

  Her mouth is trembling as she fills me in on the situation: ‘I’m sure my wedding ring was in the pocket of those trousers. I’ve looked everywhere else.’

  Who would put their wedding ring in a trouser pocket?

  Of course, I don’t say that. I just express concern and promise to keep a lookout for it.

  ‘Is there any way of tracing who’s bought things?’ she asks.

  ‘Not unless we know the customer personally. I’m sorry.’ I smile my thanks as Iain emerges from the back room and hands me a chipped mug of Nescafé.