Three Angry Women and a Baby

by Kerrie Noor

  I’d never seen her like this: sulking in the dark, glued to the TV. But then she’d never been rejected before, let alone videoed dressed as a ghost pumpkin.

  I slid a get-well card near her arm. She didn’t look at it—not a reaction, not even a “get stuffed.”

  “It’s from your storytelling fans, do you not want to read it?” I said.

  She stared ahead.

  I put it beside the other cards from the old folks’ home and the Aces High Club.

  Nothing . . . not even a glance. It was like she didn’t see me.

  “Mum?” I whispered.

  “And you can take that shopping with you,” she snapped. “I don’t need it.”

  She flicked the channel.

  “Shopping?” I said.

  “Yes, Helen seems to think I am fading away . . . God knows what you think.”

  “What do you mean by that?” I said.

  She paused the TV and looked at me. “Sheryl, you’re an idiot. Why did you let them video me?”

  “What?”

  She turned back to the TV. “Just go away.”

  I stared at her as she flicked the channel.

  “What was I to do?”

  “You should have stopped them,” snapped Mum.

  Silence.

  Mum sniffed.

  “Do you want me to bring Baby Bea?” I muttered.

  “No.”

  “You want to be alone?”

  “That’s right,” snapped Mum, “I do,” and she turned up the TV.

  “But you love Baby Bea,” I shouted.

  Nothing . . .

  “Don’t you?” I shouted.

  “Who gives a shit,” muttered Mum.

  “What?” I said.

  She didn’t answer.

  I watched as she shifted her body so her back was facing me and, with a sigh, left.

  I stopped in the dark hallway.

  My fault? Always my friggin fault?

  I wanted to go back and yell, “Fuck you!” I wanted to make her look at me so I could say it again, even louder and uglier . . . but I didn’t. Something, like it always did, stopped me.

  Confused and annoyed with myself, I walked into the kitchen with, for the first time, no tears.

  Helen handed me the shopping. “Take it. Don’t worry, I’ll check on her,” she said.

  “She is so callous—horrible. Why? I mean, pushing me away, bawling me out for caring—”

  “You don’t deserve it,” said Helen.

  “—I mean, what have I done?”

  “Nothing, it’s just the way she is. She knows you’ll come back.”

  “She called me an idiot,” I said.

  Helen looked at me with soft eyes. “Go and enjoy your baby. It’s Friday night, have some fun for a change.”

  I lingered, saying nothing.

  “It’s not easy—not to give a shit,” she said. “It takes all your energy. Every time Amy talks about Henry, I want to not give a shit—but I don’t. I have to go away and . . . recuperate . . . kill a pillow.”

  I poked at the shopping.

  “Your Mum just needs time,” said Helen.

  I fumbled with the bags.

  “And maybe a stranger, someone she’s not close to . . . someone she has to be . . . well . . . civil to.”

  I arrived home and looked out into the garden to see Baby Bea sitting in the winter sun watching Steven poke an impressive fire. He had been home all day, clearing the garden, decorating the tree stumps with pots of plants, shells, and rocks while Baby Bea watched on a blanket, her golden curls ruffling in the wind.

  She giggled.

  “You weren’t long,” Steven shouted.

  I smiled; it was a delicious sight. They both looked so happy, the complete opposite of Mum and that damn house. I dumped Mum’s shopping in the kitchen and went out to join them.

  “How’s Beatrice?” he said.

  “The same.” I sighed. “And she won’t even consider a doctor.”

  “Give her time,” he said. “You never know, George might turn up.”

  “If only,” I said.

  I looked at Baby Bea’s sparkling eyes and picked her up. I was beginning to feel quite at home with Baby Bea. She loved to laugh, and making her was so easy. She had a special look just for me, and as she threw me one of her best, I began to talk of Helen and her hidden depths. Steven, with a tell someone who doesn’t know look, talked of food and cooking.

  My stomach began to rumble; the thought of Steven’s cooking made me hungry.

  “Stay here with her,” he said. “I’ll make something that we can eat out here.”

  I didn’t argue. Steven’s cooking is beyond description; he can make baked beans taste fantastic. He can open a can of chickpeas, pull out a limp leek, add a few herbs, and before you know it, something on par with a Jamie Oliver creation has appeared on your plate.

  In fact, watching him cook was better than anything on TV, and I, over the last few months, had forgotten all about it.

  I jiggled my wee daughter till she laughed, wondering what he was going to rustle up.

  “Who’s a delicious girl?” I said as Steven appeared with a tray of dips and a look Nigella Lawson would be proud of.

  “Tuck in,” he said, sliding a cucumber finger into Baby Bea’s mouth.

  I watched his small bum as he headed back into the house to investigate Mum’s shopping “for inspiration.”

  As if he needed any.

  “What this?” shouted Steven from the kitchen.

  “What?” I shouted back.

  “Amongst the courgettes.”

  “Courgettes?” I said.

  “The shopping?” he shouted.

  Steven was silent; I could hear rustling, then a Steven chuckle . . .

  “Forget it,” he shouted. “Just read the note.”

  And the next thing I knew, Steven was playing the Proclaimers . . .

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The Proclaimers

  Great sex comes when you least expect.

  I had no idea the codpiece was among the fruit and veg, wrapped up like a Christmas present. And I had no idea how it got there. And I still had no idea when Steven put Baby Bea to bed and told me to stay and enjoy the last of the bonfire.

  I was on my second glass of wine with a stomach full of delicious food, and we were on the second Proclaimers album. I was thinking of moving on to other music—or, even worse, the TV—when Steven appeared from the kitchen silhouetted by the porch light with the Proclaimers playing my favorite song . . .

  beat—beat—beat—beat . . .

  He had nothing on but his boxers, the codpiece, and a look in his eye that took me back ten years—to the hotel where we caused mass destruction in the bathroom.

  “When I wake up, well I know I’m gonna be

  I’m gonna be the man who wakes up next you . . .”

  Something stirred in me, or rather down there.

  “When I go out, yeah I know I’m gonna be

  I’m gonna be the man who goes along with you . . .”

  Lust and laughing are so deliciously sexy together, especially when you haven’t had any for a long time and have great memories.

  Steven’s skinny legs protruding from the giant jeweled codpiece had me in stitches, and yet all I could think about were the times those skinny legs wrapped themselves around me and rocked me senseless.

  Steven wiggled his pelvis and the codpiece followed, up and down, side to side; the more he moved, the more it followed. Then he bounced on his heels . . .

  “If I get drunk, well I know I’m gonna be

  I’m gonna be the man who gets drunk next to you . . .”

  He shimmied his shoulders and twirled a camp twirl, the codpiece following like a brightly colored streamer.

  I had never seen the codpiece in all its glory before.

  Apart from Helen’s gyrating, I had only seen it when Rodger abseiled. And Rodger’s abseiling had been a disaster, ending with him cr
ashing to the ground and landing on a wrestler and me being humiliated. It was a night I’d rather forget, a night when my dress caught on Mum’s wheelchair and ripped to reveal the worst pair of underpants anyone would want to be seen in—not exactly fun.

  Steven looked like he was having fun.

  He kicked his leg into the air, followed by some lunges, then jumped up on a stump and swung the codpiece around like a cane.

  “But I would walk five hundred miles

  And I would walk five hundred more . . .”

  Lit up by the moonlight, he swung around the smouldering coals of the fire, twirling his hips. He picked up a stick, tossed it on the fire, grabbed another, twirled it, then, with a come get me look, tossed it onto the fire.

  “Al fresco dancing,” he shouted. “With Rodger’s bugle.”

  There was no one, just us, tree trunks, and the fire goading us to continue . . .

  I slipped off my shoes, pressed my feet into the cool damp earth, and stood up; mud squelched between my toes. I swung my hips and let go of every dark feeling in my heart.

  “When I come home (when I come home), well I know I’m gonna be

  I’m gonna be the man who comes back home to you . . .”

  I danced about the fire, Steven laughed, and when I saw my chance, I jumped . . .

  Steven didn’t stand a chance.

  The next day, the codpiece lay crumpled by the remains of the bonfire feebly flashing; the batteries were almost done.

  Under the flashing light of the codpiece, we made out like teenagers and Baby Bea slept through it all.

  The Proclaimers had not even finished their song and I had ripped off the codpiece and anything underneath quicker than a waxing strip.

  Then, as the Proclaimers worked their way through every song I could remember, Steven and I worked our way through every position we could remember . . .

  “Must have been all that fresh air,” laughed Steven.

  Baby Bea slept late the next morning, and Steven and I had made the most of it.

  By the time Helen had phoned, it was lunchtime. Baby Bea was stirring, and Steven and I, after a couple of rounds of “let’s try it this way,” were ready for something to eat and a rest.

  “How was your night?” said Helen.

  “We had a fire.” I sighed.

  “Good night for it,” she said. “Al fresco eating and all that?”

  I laughed, and before I had a chance to ask about the codpiece, she began talking about Mum’s chair.

  “I think if the electrics are dried out, it could work again,” she said.

  Normally I would have been jealous, pissed off, but this morning my mind was on other things, and I felt . . . well . . . knackered.

  “Never thought of that.” I smiled to Steven.

  “Yes, I think I might try a blow-dryer?” she said.

  I nodded like she could see me on the phone.

  After Helen hung up, I realized I never asked her about the codpiece, despite her telling me the batteries were rechargeable.

  I filled the kettle, fingering the note she had left by the codpiece . . .

  Knock yourself out, and don’t forget to play the Proclaimers. —Helen

  “Hidden depths,” muttered Steven with a hug.

  I twirled the note between my fingers.

  “I think I’ll wear that blue suit after all.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The Reporter

  The world’s gone mad: part two.

  The day before the wedding, I headed to Mum’s for a couple of tools. The last few days without visiting had been fantastic, and I wanted to hang on to that feeling for as long as possible, or at least until I had worn and enjoyed the blue suit.

  Helen met me by the garage; she was a ball of excitement and apprehension. According to her, Henry was being “an arsehole,” sending Amy and Gary into panic mode.

  “Why must he be so fucking competitive?” said Helen.

  She said “fuck” without any conviction—Amy had turned to her for help, and Helen could not contain her pleasure.

  “Competitive?” I said.

  She asked if I had seen the local paper.

  “Who hasn’t . . .” I muttered.

  “Well, Henry’s pissed.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s all about your mum and not him.”

  I looked at her. “Seriously?”

  “Well, he didn’t actually say that . . . but he has been going on about weddings and YouTube to Amy . . . and how he had a pal who was good at videoing things, for God’s sake.”

  “I thought Amy wanted it to be a low-key affair.”

  “After the paper this morning, low key is the last thing Henry is thinking of.”

  Mum opened the window and began to shout, “Sheryl? Is that you?”

  “Oh, and I plonked the paper on your mum’s bed as well,” said Helen.

  “You did what?”

  “I gave her the paper,” said Helen.

  “Jesus! And you’re still alive?”

  I looked up at the kitchen window. I could see mum. How many times would she read “feeble,” “geriatric,” or “elderly” before . . . she’d swear?

  Helen laughed. “It had to be done.”

  “What did she say?” I said, watching mum’s silhouette open the window.

  Here we go!

  “Sheryl! I can hear you!” she shouted.

  “It got her up,” said Helen.

  I was beginning to see how good Helen was for Mum. Not only had she sorted Mum’s wheelchair with a hair dryer, but she stood up to her. Helen’s quiet dignity was a perfect match for Mum’s dominance. Giving Mum that article—I would have hidden it.

  The security camera outside Kilmory Headquarters had caught Mum protesting in her wheelchair. The local paper, getting wind of the video, had written an article about the closure of the library and how “the antics of an elderly woman in a wheelchair had plunged the council into a state of panic.”

  It was written by a has-been reporter who seemed to think that egg boxes were more than “a nod to caged hens and veganism” and that anyone with grey hair was geriatric and anyone who dressed up as a ghost pumpkin had dementia.

  “Old woman,” Mum shouted from the window. “They are calling me an old woman.”

  Helen nudged me with an I knew it would get her going wink.

  We headed up the stairs.

  Mum, dressed and angry, was sipping coffee like she hardly noticed it.

  “I’m not old. Who are they talking about?” said Mum with a disgusted toss of the paper; it fluttered to the floor.

  Helen lifted it. “It’s not that bad.”

  Mum pulled it from her. “She called me a ‘pensioner.’”

  Helen pulled the paper from her. “Well, you are a pensioner . . .”

  Mum sniffed as Helen flicked the paper open and began to read.

  “A pensioner has managed to set the council alight with a protest on a scale never seen since the bra-burning days of Germaine Greer.”

  “Germaine Greer never burnt her bra,” said Mum. She caught my eye. “Do you think George has seen this?”

  “Everyone has,” said Helen.

  Mum bit into her toast, her first for days, and talked about suing, humiliation, and how she “couldn’t possibly take any more,” while Helen continued to read the article over her with the odd look at me.

  “‘It’s a sad state of affairs when the council closes the library due to budget cuts and even sadder that an activist the age of my grandmother is the only one bothered enough to sort things.’”

  “You’re an activist, Mum,” I said.

  Mum, now slathering lumps of jam on her toast, stopped. “Activist? This is a good thing?”

  She looked from Helen to me.

  “So, you think George has read it then?”

  Later that day, the article reached the news on Scottish TV.

  Steven, Helen, and I gathered around the TV in Mum’s house, wai
ting, mugs poised . . .

  The reporter positioned outside the Kilmory offices talked of how a “vegan activist” managed to obstruct the laying of new carpet in the council office’s reception before tackling (along with her egg boxes) the local Indian.”

  “That’s me,” said Mum.

  The councilor, a well-fed, well-dressed man, tried to explain the “different budgets for different departments” theory, along with the “use it or lose it” theory.

  A theory not lost on a young reporter determined to make a name for herself.

  “Are you saying even though you don’t need carpets, you, the council, still have to buy them to use up the budget?”

  She thrust the microphone into the councilor’s face.

  “Essentially yes . . . err, no. I mean, that’s not quite what I meant,” said the councilor.

  The reporter’s tight blonde hair rustled in the wind. “You’re using public money for renovation not required . . . and cutting out audio for the blind?”

  “Yes,” said Mum with an air punch.

  Steven grabbed her not-quite-drunk coffee.

  “Audio,” said the councilor, “is not just for the blind—”

  “But you’re still cutting it,” snapped the reporter.

  “—and the carpet is for public use,” flustered the councilor.

  “Shag pile?” said the reporter with another thrust of her microphone.

  “For the last time,” snapped the councilor, “the council does not support shag pile.”

  Two hooded youths sauntered behind and pulled an “up yours” gesture.

  “So what are you saying?” said the reporter. “That no floors were covered?”

  “No, I didn’t say that.”

  “That floor covering is more important than . . . than . . . storytelling to children?”

  Mum beamed. “That’s me!”

  “N-no,” stuttered the councilor. “The storytelling is completely irrelevant.”

  “Are you saying storytelling should be banned?”

  “The council has no stance on storytelling,” snapped the now red-faced councilor.

  “Knobhead! Tosser!” shouted the two hooded youths.