The Mum Who Got Her Life Back

by Fiona Gibson

  ‘But I didn’t mean—’

  ‘Because when you do that,’ I continue, thinking what the hell now, ‘you just push people away. D’you see what I’m saying? They feel bullied and their natural response is to reject what you’re saying outright.’

  I glance at him. He is picking at his nails, but clearly listening. His phone has remained in his shorts pocket.

  ‘Look, Alfie,’ I add, ‘you had no chance of persuading my parents to stop dairy farming and grow lettuce. It’s their way of life – a huge part of who they are. But, y’know, maybe some people can be persuaded to think about things differently.’

  ‘To stop eating animal products, you mean?’

  I hesitate. After that carrot flatbread I could actually murder a steak and chips. ‘Yes – if you’re gently persuasive, but give them the chance to make up their own minds …’ I stop, hearing myself telling him – a bona fide young adult – how to communicate with other humans. But amazingly, he appears to be listening. ‘It’s like in the shop where I work,’ I continue. ‘We try to make things seem appealing by presenting them as best we can. Say a customer walks in and starts browsing. We might suggest a certain top, or jacket, might suit their taste, but we don’t foist a pink floppy hat on them and then, when they say they’re not sure, bash them on the head and snatch their purse.’

  Alfie laughs. My God – an actual laugh, as if we haven’t been thrown together, awkwardly, in our matching shorts (there really were no other acceptable ones in the shop). ‘I get what you’re saying,’ he says with a nod.

  ‘Sorry if that sounded a bit lecture-y …’

  ‘No, it didn’t at all.’ He smiles. ‘And, look … I’m sorry if you and Mum split up ’cause of all that.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know what’s happening there,’ I say quickly, keen to switch the focus back to him. ‘Look, Alfie, you were upset just then, in the bar. What’s going on?’

  He sighs loudly, and I can sense him weighing up whether he feels he can tell me. ‘It all went wrong with Cam – with Camilla,’ he mumbles.

  ‘Right. Yeah. Your mum mentioned that. You were meant to be going travelling, weren’t you?’

  He nods dolefully.

  ‘Did she decide she wasn’t going, at the last minute?’ Like I’d done, I realise, ducking out of this trip. What an idiot.

  ‘No, it was me,’ Alfie says carefully. He turns to look at me straight on. ‘Turned out she’d been seeing someone else. I saw stuff on her phone. Texts and stuff …’

  ‘Oh, that’s not good.’

  He inhales as if mustering the courage to tell me more. ‘She’d been sending him nudes.’

  I frown at him, not getting it at first. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘C’mon, you know.’

  ‘No, I really don’t …’

  ‘Everyone does it,’ he says, rather sharply.

  ‘You mean when people send naked pictures of themselves?’

  Alfie snorts in disbelief, as if he can’t quite believe I’m so ill-informed. ‘Yes, that’s what I mean. You must know that.’

  ‘Well, I have heard it’s a thing,’ I say. ‘I read about celebrities having theirs stolen off the cloud or somewhere, but do normal people do it too?’ He nods. ‘Christ, Alfie. I’ve only just got my head around the fact that everyone photographs their food!’

  He laughs dryly. ‘We didn’t feel the urge to photograph our flatbreads, did we?’

  I smile. ‘Er, no. I must admit, I didn’t feel compelled to.’

  ‘That place was pretty bad, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I nod. ‘So, anyway – you found out about this other person …’

  ‘Uh-huh. And it turned out Camilla had only been seeing me because she’s into drama – she wants to be an actress – and she thought she could meet my dad and get to know him—’

  ‘You mean she used you?’

  Alfie nods resignedly. ‘She thought she’d get a part in his next film. One of her friends told me.’

  ‘But that’s ridiculous,’ I splutter. ‘Is she really so confident to think that? That it’d be a done deal just because you two were together?’

  ‘She’s used to getting pretty much everything she wants,’ Alfie says with a shrug.

  He stands up from the bench and rotates his shoulders, as if to get his body properly working again. I get up too and, slowly, we wander together towards the archway.

  ‘Didn’t you spend Christmas with her family?’ I ask, remembering seeing Nadia by the river on that cold December night. Alfie had just told her he wouldn’t be coming home for Christmas. She couldn’t compete with the girlfriend, Nadia had said.

  ‘Yeah. And she was probably acting then too.’

  Poor kid, I reflect as we start to make our way back to his apartment and my hotel. I suppose it’s a hazard of having a famous parent. I know from my frankly ridiculous googling sessions that Danny Raven is known for plucking kids from obscurity, giving them virtually free rein with the loosest of scripts, and changing their lives forever.

  ‘And I did a stupid thing,’ Alfie goes on, ‘when I was with her.’

  ‘What?’ I ask, alarmed now at the prospect of some kind of confession.

  He grimaces. ‘I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s on my mind all the time. I was thinking about it when we were eating just then …’

  ‘Think about what, Alfie?’ I ask.

  He blinks and looks at me. ‘Will you promise not to tell Mum if I show you?’

  ‘Show me what?’

  ‘This.’ He lifts his T-shirt sleeve slowly. At first I think: Christ, he’s been self-harming and it’s gone septic and I’m going to have to figure out how to help him … But it’s not that. It’s actually a small tattoo of a woman’s face; she has Cleopatra eyes, a mane of indigo hair and, I have to say, although I’m no expert, it’s probably not the world’s finest tattoo.

  ‘Oh,’ I murmur. ‘And your mum doesn’t know?’

  ‘Nope, not yet,’ he replies.

  I frown and peer at it more closely. ‘Is it … Amy Winehouse?’

  ‘No!’ he exclaims. ‘Why would I want a tattoo of Amy Winehouse?’

  ‘Erm, I just thought, you know – the hair, the eyes—’

  ‘It’s Camilla,’ he retorts. ‘Look …’ He points at the hair region to indicate the lettering semi-concealed within: CAMILA.

  ‘Oh, yes. I see it now.’

  ‘It’s even fucking spelt wrong.’

  ‘Um, yeah. I see that too.’ Even I know better than to suggest that perhaps they could insert another ‘L’. ‘Well, I guess it’s done now,’ I say as he tugs his sleeve back down.

  ‘Yeah.’ He slides his gaze over to me. ‘I was drunk when I had it done.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘They shouldn’t have done it when I was like that, right? It wasn’t a good place …’

  ‘Um, no, it doesn’t sound like it.’ We amble onwards in silence for a few moments. ‘Alfie,’ I say tentatively, ‘is this why you were upset just now? Because of the tattoo?’

  He shoves his hands into his pockets and nods. ‘Because of all of it, I s’pose.’

  ‘And is that why you don’t want to go back to Aberdeen?’

  ‘It’s just such a fuck-up,’ he says. ‘I’m a laughing stock, basically. Everyone knows I had it done. I’ve had texts about it since I’ve been here.’

  ‘So it’s not about your course, or not liking university …’

  ‘Can we just forget it now?’ he says firmly.

  ‘Yes, of course we can.’

  ‘Our apartment’s just along here,’ he adds when we reach a corner dominated by a brash bar, its illuminated sign pulsing.

  ‘Okay. My hotel’s just a few minutes away too.’ It seems a rather abrupt ending after the revelations tonight, but then, what can I do? It’s his parents he needs to talk to about this, not me.

  We stop, and Alfie says, ‘Please don’t say anything about the tattoo, will you? To Mum, or anyone else …’<
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  ‘Alfie, I don’t even know if or when I’m going to see your mum. But no, I won’t say a word to anyone.’

  He nods, mouth set grimly. ‘I’d better tell her myself.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I want to give him a hug and say it’ll be all right, but I’m not sure how he’d respond to that. ‘Good luck, then. And you do know she’ll be fine about it, don’t you?’

  ‘You reckon?’ He laughs dryly.

  ‘I do, actually, once the initial shock’s worn off.’ I pause. ‘Look, it’s not that bad, honestly. At least it’s pretty small.’

  Alfie smirks. ‘“At least it’s pretty small.” Things not to say when someone shows you their new tattoo.’

  ‘Christ, yes …’ I wince, remembering Nadia and I chuckling over the issue of anti-compliments: I once went to the kids’ school concert, she told me, in a short red dress that I loved. I mean, mid-thigh short. Not knicker-flashingly skimpy. And some woman bustled over and said, ‘Ooh, you’re brave to wear that!’

  The thought of how she made me laugh triggers a fresh wave of longing, and I quickly clear my throat. ‘Alfie, listen – it’s not that big a deal. Really. You can probably have it removed, or turned into something else, and even if you can’t, as time goes on it really won’t seem so terrible.’ I break off, realising I’m probably saying completely the wrong thing.

  ‘People of your generation always say that,’ he remarks.

  ‘Do we? Well, I’ve never said it before. I suppose what I mean is …’ I pause, wishing we’d gone to that quiet bar with the tinkling piano so we could sit down and talk, instead of it all coming out on a busy street corner.

  Alfie is looking me expectantly. I am almost waiting for him to say, You’re not my dad.

  ‘I mean, you’re young, Alfie,’ I continue, thinking: sod it, he’ll probably hate this, but I’m going to say it anyway, ‘and this is a precious time in your life. What I’m trying to say is, there’s no point in ruining it by worrying about things you can’t change, and then making rash decisions about dropping out of university.’

  ‘Is it, though?’ he asks sharply. ‘I mean, is it a precious time? ’Cause it doesn’t feel like it right now.’

  ‘Yes, of course it is!’

  He thrusts his hands into his shorts pockets. ‘I know people think that. But why is it? I mean, people like you – people of your age – think, “Oh, being young is all about being free and having fun, being able to do whatever you like with no responsibilities …”’

  ‘Well, I didn’t quite mean—’

  ‘But it’s not like that,’ he charges on. ‘It’s tough. Really tough! We have so much pressure heaped on us. There’s our parents, our friends, all of that. All those expectations. We’re supposed to be happy and realise how lucky we are – but people let us down, and uni’s not all about having fun, you know. Did you go?’

  ‘To university? Er, no, I didn’t. I did a college course. But what I’m saying is—’

  ‘And actually,’ he says firmly, ‘it’s quite patronising to be told, “These are precious years.”’

  We stare at each other as a boisterous group of lads – a stag group, probably – pass by, singing and cheering. ‘They are,’ I murmur. ‘Honestly, they are.’

  ‘But no more so than any other years!’ Alfie exclaims. ‘I mean, if you look back over your life’ – Christ, he’s making it sound as if I’m about to topple into a grave – ‘would you honestly say that your teenage years were the best?’

  ‘Um, not necessarily, but—’

  ‘So, what are you basing this on, then? I mean, what?’

  He sighs irritably. His eyes are hostile now, and pink patches have sprung up on his cheeks. ‘Alfie,’ I start, ‘I’m sorry if that sounded patronising. I didn’t mean it to be. But there’s this thing I want to tell you about …’ I look down the street where there are more cafés and bars, perhaps less boisterous than the one we’re standing outside. ‘D’you mind if we go get a coffee or something? It’s still not too late.’

  He shrugs. ‘If you want to, yeah.’

  And that’s what we do, this boy who doesn’t belong to me and I. We find a quiet café, virtually deserted apart from a small group of elderly, smartly dressed men who are chatting companionably with the barman, and we take a corner table. I look at Alfie as he settles in his seat; just nineteen years old, an age my brother Sandy never got to see. ‘I want to tell you about my little brother, who died when he was sixteen,’ I say simply.

  Alfie’s face falls, and he looks at me properly, all traces of belligerence sliding away now. ‘Oh, right. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’

  ‘No, well, you wouldn’t. I don’t talk about it very much. I haven’t even told your mum the details. But these are precious years, Alfie, and I only mean that because life is so fragile, and a wrong thing can happen and …’ I pause and swallow, aware of Alfie looking at me now with a mixture of concern and alarm. ‘I know things seem bad at the moment,’ I continue. ‘Maybe you feel like you’ve been made a fool of, with Camilla sending those, those pictures, and you’re angry at yourself for getting the tattoo—’

  ‘What happened?’ he asks, frowning.

  ‘All I wanted to say is, none of that matters because you’ll be okay, you know? You’ll get through this, and maybe Amy – I mean Camilla – can be made into, I don’t know, a symbol or something, some kind of design …’ Shit, how drunk am I on those three little beers? I stop and look at him, aware that my own eyes are wet.

  ‘Jack,’ Alfie says, leaning towards me now, ‘what happened to your brother? Tell me.’

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  So Mum had called me in a real state. Sandy had set off to visit me and never turned up. No one knew where he was. He was terribly wilful and independent; I tried to convince her he’d just be hanging out somewhere with friends, but she wouldn’t listen.

  ‘Go see if he’s left you a message,’ she said. I told her I would, and promised to ring her straight back. But even before I’d pressed the answerphone button, I knew there wouldn’t be a message from him. Sandy wasn’t a leaving-messages kind of boy. He just roamed around, skipping school whenever he wanted to, nicking our parents’ booze and heading off for camp-outs in the woods with his mates.

  Although I was long gone from home by this point, I had a pretty clear idea that these ‘camp-outs’ didn’t exactly involve knot-tying or stick-whittling or any other Scouting-type activities. And now, as I played the answerphone messages – the ones from Mum, plus a couple of older ones from mates inviting me and my flatmate Nick to things that were long past – I convinced myself that that’s what he’d done. He’d been pissed off with me, and instead of badmouthing me to Mum and Dad, who hated any of us to bicker, he’d got together with a bunch of pals, and they’d set up camp somewhere and had a bit of a party.

  ‘That’s what he’ll be doing,’ I told Dad, as he answered the call when I rang back. ‘He’ll be out somewhere, and they’ll have drunk too much, and they’ll all be lying in some ratty old tent, sleeping it off …’

  ‘But it was a cold night.’

  ‘They’ll have built a fire, Dad. You know how he always comes home reeking of woodsmoke.’

  ‘But it’s gone ten o’clock!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Dad, not everyone gets up at five in the morning like you,’ I said, trying to lighten the mood. ‘He’ll be fast asleep, I guarantee you. You’d better give him hell – from me, as well – when he gets home.’

  But he never came home. My little brother had decided to hitchhike to Glasgow; perhaps he thought he’d get a cheap hostel, as I’d said he couldn’t stay with me, and he’d wanted to save money for that.

  He must have been standing at the roadside when he was hit by a car. It was a hit and run, and his body was discovered two days later, knocked into the gorse just a few metres from a bend in the A9. No one was ever caught. Somehow, the driver was able to go on with their life without handing themselves in to the police.

 
; And life went on for my family, too – what other choice was there? But despite the two decades that have passed since we lost him, I still hear Sandy’s voice:

  I won’t be any bother. You won’t need to look after me.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  It seems natural that we meet up in a café next morning. Desayuno: it sounds so much better than breakfast. Alfie has some kind of spicy beans on toast, and I go for eggs and hash browns. He has the good sense not to lecture me about hens being used as a commodity.

  ‘Has your mum been in touch?’ I ask as we finish our coffees.

  ‘Yeah, she texted this morning from … that phone.’ I catch him checking my reaction. ‘God knows what’s going on with her,’ he mutters. ‘She was only supposed to go and look at some Surrealist art for a few hours, and she’s been gone a whole day and night now.’

  ‘Oh, she’s probably just having a really good time,’ I say brightly. ‘Any idea when she might be thinking of heading back?’

  ‘About lunchtime, she said.’ He pauses. ‘I didn’t tell her you’re here.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, fiddling with my cup. ‘So, um, d’you fancy hanging out for a bit? Seeing some sights? Or maybe you’ve had enough of me tagging along …’

  ‘No,’ he says with a shrug, ‘we can do stuff if you like. So, where d’you wanna go?’

  I ponder this, knowing I should be able to think of something, having a teenager of my own. But then, I know Lori, and she’d enjoy the whole experience: going for coffee and ice cream, buying a few daft bits of tat. She’d even tolerate the odd museum, as long as we didn’t linger too much. But all I really know about Alfie is that he’s vegan, he is/was studying English at Aberdeen university, had a posh girlfriend who screwed him over, and is currently sporting a terrible tattoo.

  While he sips a second coffee, I consult various city guide websites on my phone, and realise that whole categories of attractions might be met with disdain: for example, parks or gardens. Parc Güell looks incredible with its madly eccentric buildings, like fairytale castles or hobbits’ houses, but Alfie says he’s seen it already.