by Kerrie Noor
It wasn’t the first time she’d put a child off their ice cream.
She asked me to take her to her first “gig.” Apparently, George was doing something hospital-y with his sister and Helen was busy—something about a wedding and her daughter.
I dropped her with a call me if there are any problems look at Steven and left her riffling through books waiting for a child to arrive.
I came back to find Mum surrounded by children hanging on her every word—almost wetting themselves with fear as she talked of blood and vampires, on a par with a Hammer horror film.
And she seemed to be enjoying it.
“You will have heard of Count Dracula?” said Mum.
“I have,” shouted a red-haired boy.
Beatrice pulled a spooky face. “He sucks blood.”
Silence . . .
“He’s not real,” shouted the red-haired boy.
“From little boys.”
“He does not . . .”
“With red hair.”
“Mummy?”
“How much blood?” shouted a girl.
“This much,” said Mum, doing a large arms-apart measurement. “Sucking until there is no blood left.”
The girl’s face went white. “Dad! Is that all my blood?”
“He drinks it like Coke,” said Mum.
The little girl looked at her father. “Is that true?”
“No, darling, just a story—bit of fun.” The father glared at Mum.
“Coke is bad for you,” said the red-haired boy.
“Better than having your blood sucked,” said Mum.
“Daddy . . .”
“He is the stuff of legends, living forever in the shadows looking for boys, girls, and puppies,” said Mum.
“That’s enough with the blood,” muttered the father.
“Not to mention kittens,” whispered Mum.
“I fell over once and got a cut here and here,” said another boy.
“You want to be careful, germs will get into that and spread down to your toes and a doctor will cut them off.”
“All my toes?”
“And your foot.”
“Daddy!”
“Just a story,” said the father, “from a silly lady.”
“Perhaps, Beatrice, you could stick to the book?” said Steven.
Mum looked at the cartoon book with a “pfff!”
She shut it, bent close to the children, and whispered, “Until the pumpkin with legs came along.”
“Pumpkin?”
“Yes, the pumpkin had legs so long he could step over fences.”
The children hushed, silent, as she told three stories of a pumpkin faster than a speeding bullet and more likeable than Anna and Elsa in Frozen. And when Mum, with great animation, told how the pumpkin smashed the vampire into a pile of spaghetti bolognaise full of garlic, the children’s faces lit up, some squealed with delight.
“Go pumpkin go!”
“Tell me more!”
I was shocked. My mum hated cooking; she didn’t even know how to boil spaghetti, let alone chop garlic.
She moved onto stories of dragons, goblins, and cars that ran over rats that tried to eat the pumpkin, who was now called Legs.
I had no idea that my mum could be so entertaining, let alone so imaginative. As far as I knew, the only thing she ever read was the sports page of the Herald, and there she was telling stories like Scotland’s answer to Roald Dahl. My mum was unrecognizable with children; she captivated them.
As I drove Mum home, I struggled not to praise her. Mum likes to crow about things, making you regret any compliment, but before I had a chance to say “Well done,” Mum started to talk of Helen, and any possible compliment vanished.
As she talked, I silently huffed. I wanted to scream, “Well, get her to friggin’ pick you up then.” I didn’t; instead, I stupidly listened to her, my anger festering.
“That woman is a dream,” she said. “An absolute dream.”
“Glad to hear it, Mum.”
“She’s a wizard with a hammer, not to mention a drill.”
“I have worked with her,” I muttered.
“Give her a set of plans and a mastic gun and she’ll transform anything—you name it.”
“I get the picture,” I said with a sharp wrench of a gear.
“She has patience I have never seen before—more angel than woman.” She turned to me. “We have coffee together every day.”
“Aye, very good.” I pulled into the driveway.
“She confides in me.”
“Won’t last.”
“What?” said Mum.
“I said very good.”
“You know, her daughter is getting married,” said Mum.
I stopped the car and walked around to the boot. I had no idea but didn’t want to give something else to crow about.
“I was the first to know,” she yelled to the back of the car. “Did she not tell you?”
“We used to work together, Mum, doesn’t mean we’re bosom buddies.”
I pulled Mum’s wheelchair from the boot and wheeled it to her side.
“Steven knows.”
“Steven?” I stopped, wrenching the brakes on with a yank. “He is her brother,” I snapped.
“And George,” said Mum, shuffling across her seat.
“Every man and his dog have been told then,” I muttered.
“What was that?”
“I said George has a kind face.”
“The postwoman hasn’t, she’s got a face like a smoked sausage and she knows. You sure Helen didn’t tell you?”
“No, Mum, I think I would have remembered a friggin’ wedding.”
“Well, it’s just that you’re not yourself lately. Forgetting things, bit snappy.”
“Snappy? Who says I’m snappy?”
“And tearful,” said Mum. “Folk are kind of . . .”
“What?”
“Well they don’t like to upset you. Maybe Helen thought . . .”
“Not telling me would cheer me up?”
“Sheryl,” said Mum, “stop being so . . . so . . . touchy.”
I exploded, right there in the driveway. I snapped.
“Wouldn’t you be if your bits had been wrenched open like a car boot and then packed back like a toddler shoves his stuffed toys?”
“Sheryl, I hardly think your bits have been shoved back in; they weren’t out in the first place.”
“What would you know?” I yelled.
I watched Mum wheel herself back to her home. She stopped at the door and turned to look at me.
“Sheryl, you had a baby, not a major operation.”
“Mass destruction of my fanny,” I yelled.
“Don’t exaggerate.”
“When they catheterized me, I swore like a banshee . . .”
“Steven told me.”
“Told you?”
“Yes, he said he never heard anything like it,” said Mum.
I followed her inside.
“I was told it was an uncomplicated birth,” said Mum. “As smooth as butter, so that Polish doctor said.” She sighed. “Nice man.”
“Arsehole,” I snapped, removing her shoes.
“What was that?”
“I said that’s not what I remember, I remember Steven holding my hand while the ‘nice Polish doctor’ stitched up my ripped birth canal while talking about his camping trip to a young nurse like it was chat-up central.”
Mum pulled a face.
“They told me to relax,” I said to Mum. “Bit hard when your bits are being laced up like a boot while you’re listening to the joys of a pop-up tent.”
“Well, it’s all over now, dear,” said Mum.
“That’s what Steven says.”
I followed Mum into the kitchen and watched as she wheeled about, completing her arrival routine of jacket off, phone in holder, radio on. She asked if it wasn’t time for me to go home to feed Baby Bea; despite the small leakage, I said no. The tru
th was, I didn’t want to go home. I was as down as a Leonard Cohen song, and Steven being annoyingly chipper didn’t help.
Mum flicked the kettle on. She eyed me, her face softening.
“The best thing about having a baby is the toast and tea.” She laughed. “Almost as satisfying as sex.”
“Yes, and just like sex, the second helping is usually a bit shit,” I said.
Chapter Eleven
Amy
Anger has its place, just not near a hammer.
I left Mum’s with my breast screaming for a decent milking and headed for the car. What I had become? I never smiled, let alone laughed. I hardly recognized myself; it was like I was possessed by some madwoman. No wonder Helen didn’t tell me anything. I probably would have either ripped her face off, burst into tears, or maybe even both . . .
Helen was in the garage with her daughter, Amy.
Helen, emptying the van of tools, handed a few at time to Amy, who dumped them on the garage floor in a temper.
I was just about to make an “Isn’t my mum annoying?” comment when I noticed they sounded pissed off. Then I heard the sort of conversation you really didn’t want to hear and yet couldn’t move away from in case you missed a bit, and Helen was swearing . . . as a drill crashed to the ground.
“Will you stop saying ‘fuck,’ Mum? It doesn’t sound right.”
“Well, what do you expect?” said Helen. She jumped out of the van. Amy stopped with a glare.
“Expect? I was just telling you about our wedding.”
Helen paused, then looked at the tools scattered about the floor with a shake of her head. “Fucking hell . . . why didn’t you pile them into boxes as we went?” she said, uselessly shifting boxes about. “Way fucking easier.”
“It’s my wedding,” said Amy.
“So you keep saying.”
“And he’s my dad, for Chrissake,” said Amy.
Helen stopped. “I am not asking you to understand, but at least show some tact.”
Amy huffed.
“How would you feel?” said Helen.
“Mum, I am getting married. His name is bound to crop up.”
I bent to help Helen. She didn’t seem to notice.
“If your man treated you like I was treated . . .” She wiped her eyes.
“I said I don’t want to hear this.” Amy turned to me. “She doesn’t want me talking about Dad.” She glared at her mother. “She doesn’t even want him at the wedding.”
“I never said that. Just . . . well . . . why is he walking you down the aisle?”
“He’s my father?”
“He never looked after you.”
“Mum.”
“Wouldn’t even have a coffee with us,” said Helen, stuffing tools into the wrong box like they were to blame. “Too fucking busy.”
The box, overflowing, toppled. I made a grab to stop it and missed.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” said Helen. “Now look what you made me do.”
“I’ll get it,” I shouted.
“Stop saying ‘fuck,’” said Amy.
“Smashed up my stuff . . .” She stopped, trying to compose herself.
I lifted a hammer from her hand.
She looked at me. “He drove a tractor over my plants.”
“Mum, he hasn’t driven a tractor in years.”
“I spent hours in that garden and he fucking drove a tracker over it like it was a pile of shit.”
Amy looked at me.
“That was years ago, Mum.”
“Every Saturday night he’d go somewhere.”
“Come on, Mum.”
“Like his so-called aunt’s, and did they invite me? I may as well have had fucking rabies.”
“I don’t remember that,” said Amy.
“I hid it from you. I wanted you to be happy.”
“His aunt is a bit of a cow,” I muttered.
Helen shoved a box on top of another; they tumbled to the ground.
“Fuck.”
“You’re making something out of nothing,” said Amy.
Helen stopped. “Something out of nothing?”
“Yes.”
“Well, is this nothing?” She kicked the boxes across the room.
“Now you’re being childish,” snapped Amy, and with an “unbelievable,” she headed for the car.
Helen, still steaming, looked at me.
“All these years I tried to be a good mother and for what? For anal features to give her away at her wedding?”
She blew hard on her nose.
“While I’m sitting in the back like a lampshade without a friggin’ bulb.” She looked at me. “So unfair.”
I stared at the mess in the garage. The last person I expected to see lose it, let alone swearing like a hooligan with Tourette’s, was Helen. She always seemed indestructible, cool.
I mean, this was a woman who coped with second-hand washing machines and rats that didn’t take no for answer, who had taught herself to mend things. Who was as familiar with a hammer as a hairdryer, a legend with a drill, and a demon with a chainsaw. She paraded about on roofs like she was on a catwalk.
I looked at her. “Shall I pick up some boxes?”
She didn’t argue. Instead, she burst into tears.
I was taken aback. Helen crying? I hardly knew her, and she was blubbering in front of me like I could help.
What do I say?
“It’s a wedding,” I came up with. “Everyone gets emotional.”
“I just thought we’d bond, have a mother-and-daughter moment.” She looked at me. “Not anymore. He gives up the fags and booze and suddenly he is a fucking hero, and my arse is out the window. We have as much chance of bonding as you and fucking Beatrice.”
“Shall I call Steven?” I said.
She wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and looked at me.
“When I first married Henry, he was so busy I never saw him,” she said. “He promised.” She sighed. “Nothing changed; he was never there, and that house—Jesus.”
She started to cry again.
“The doors never lock, the cupboards have no shelves, the carpets are from someone’s attic. Everything came from someone’s fucking attic, and there was always a set of tools somewhere to trip over.”
She kicked a box.
“My toenails are a mess, thanks to his fucking drills—the times I stubbed my toes on them.”
“You sure you don’t want Steven?” I muttered.
“I put up with it all. I thought it would get better, that one day he would maybe just once—fucking once—spend an hour with me, a few minutes, share a joke.”
She shook her head.
I patted her back, and when that was not enough, I wrapped an arm around her shoulder which set her off again . . . crying like someone close had died.
She blew her nose.
“I tried to fix a door once,” she cried. “He put his fist through it. He put his fist through a lot of things, anything I sorted, until I stopped . . . fixing . . . caring.”
“There, there,” I tapped her back. “You’re not with him anymore, you needn’t worry . . .”
“He was always some else’s mate, making me look like a fool, and now he’s fucking Amy’s mate. She thinks he’s great, if only she—they—anyone knew.”
“Not everyone thinks he’s great,” I muttered.
That night, as I lay in bed waiting for Steven, I stared at the ceiling.
Steven was cleaning his teeth in an annoyingly loud way, loud enough to wake Baby Bea, and I told him so.
He didn’t say anything. Instead, he made what seemed an extra-loud gurgle-and-spit noise.
I had spent the night telling Steven about Helen’s over-the-top reaction, ending with a “she left him years ago, so why now” comment, and for some reason, he seemed pissed in a nonspeaking way, and his whole teeth-cleaning routine was just rubbing it in.
Steven never used to spit; he used to quietly dribble, like he didn’t want to spoil the moment. H
is getting-to-bed routine was a pleasure to behold, ending with a flick of the light and a quirky comment about giving me something to dream about. Now he was giving big “old git” gurgles like something out of an old folks’ home . . .
Finally, after what seemed the polishing of the Sistine Chapel, he, after a robust cough, appeared, pyjamas annoyingly tight about his slim waist.
“You have no idea what that poor cow has been through,” he snapped, and then, with a dismissive flick of the duvet, he slid into his side of the bed and huffed his back to me.
I waited to hear his snore, but all I heard was another huff, followed by a punch of the pillow.
“This is your flaming pillow,” he said.
“No it’s not,” I said without really knowing.
“Yes it is; where’s mine?” he snapped.
“Here.” I tossed my pillow at him, setting off an argument about bed making until Baby Bea woke with a cry.
Chapter Twelve
Sheep
Apologies are often hidden.
Normally, Steven’s bad moods lasted as long as a TV ad, but since the move and my descent into a black hole, Steven seemed to have lost his patience.
As I appeared at the breakfast table, he greeted me with a nod and a look I cringed from.
Is it the lack of sex that’s making things so bad, or has the magic truly gone?
Steven placed his crust onto his plate and, without looking at me, flicked on the kettle.
“Coffee?” he said.
I nodded. With great precision, Steven poured himself one, lifted a week-old newspaper, and nestled back into his chair.
My mug was still empty.
Steven often talked of his sister. They were close, but I never saw much of her while she was married, and while Steven had all the sympathy in the world for her, I felt jealous, along with every other lousy feeling.
Steven, lingering over his coffee with slurps on a par with his toothbrushing, flicked open the paper and began to read like he hadn’t read it before.