M Word, page 13
‘What about my dad?’
‘He wasn’t much help, was he?’
‘So, you didn’t go to study fashion because of me?’
Another notch on my I’ve-ballsed-everything-up-for-everyone belt.
‘No, not because of you, because of circumstances. I wanted to look after my baby girl more than study fashion, that’s all.’
There’s no way I’d have done that, no danger. Far too selfish for that palaver.
‘You were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.’
‘Mum!’
‘You were, and you still are.’ Then her voice brakes and stutters. ‘Look at you. You’re so beautiful.’
Seriously, can’t beat a girls’ night out. In.
‘Yeah, well, you did a top job, didn’t you?’ I go, circling my ‘so beautiful’ face.
‘We did OK, Maggie,’ she manages to get out. ‘I just wish I could’ve done better.’
‘We’re more than fine.’ I’m stacking up the lies now.
‘I just hope you get what you want in life.’
‘I’m going to be a top fashion designer, aren’t I?’
‘I’m scared you’re bottling everything up, that you won’t be able to look after yourself.’
‘What are you talking about, Mum?
‘Just doing my actual job, worrying about you.’
‘Crap that it’s unpaid though.’
‘That’s what parents do, they worry about their children. You’ll know when you’re a mother yourself.’
‘Er … no thanks.’
We both play with the food. Our taste buds aren’t interested.
‘Any nice guys at art school you’ve got your eye on?’
Zero chance I’m going down that road with her.
‘Erm, no,’ I go. ‘Haven’t been looking, just getting my head down and working.’
Davis pops up on my mind projector. I feel my face burning. Shit, he’s naked in the images. I’m not.
‘Well, if and when you do find someone, make sure you’ll both be careful?’
‘Can we change the subject please?’ I stuff a forkful into my gob, hoping it’ll silence her. Still, I guess her taking an interest in my non-existent sex life is a kind of progress, even if slightly humiliating.
She hasn’t made a dent in my culinary masterpiece. Two mouthfuls at most.
Time to draw my gun; she’s the one talking about guys and boyfriends, not me. It’s the perfect time to tell her about the actor lookalike. FFS, what’s his name? It would give her a better idea of what’s ahead of her. A bit of context. Something to get excited about. I can even help get her ready for the big date. Style her. Pick out cool gear.
I’ve tortured myself on how to approach it. How to spin around before getting to the core of the topic. Best just to blurt it, isn’t it?
‘Mum?’
‘What?’
‘I’ve got something to tell you.’
She releases the fork and leans back in her chair.
‘What?’
‘Promise you won’t get mad or batter me with your slipper?’
‘I said I was sorry about …’
‘I’m joking. I’m joking.’
‘Not funny.’
‘Just promise you’ll listen,’ I go.
‘Oh, I’ve a feeling I’m not going to like this, Maggie …’
Her face reads, ‘Oh, for the love of hell, I’m going to be a grandmother.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m not up the duff or anything like that.’
‘Well, that’s a relief. For a moment I thought …’
‘Promise you won’t go mental.’
‘I promise I won’t get mad.’
‘No, not mad. Mental. Promise.’
‘OK, I promise I won’t go mental.’
‘Shake on it.’
I extend my hand. We shake.
‘Tell me.’
I stare at her, try to hit her with my needy face. Little puppy-peepers. She doesn’t buy it. Here goes:
‘I’ve set you up on a date.’
Long pause.
Her eyes sink into mine and narrow.
‘You’ve done what?’
‘Read this.’
I slide my phone across the table with the email exchange on display; watch her read. Is that steam billowing out her ears?
Tear gas actually.
Nostrils flare.
‘Maggie, what is this? I can’t …’
She puts her palms up to me as she slips out of the chair; plants a cigarette between her lips. I say nothing. Best to let her digest my Cupid routine in peace. Hoping she won’t completely fruit her loop when the fag is finished. I’m thinking that I should go for an unneeded piss or something, but I don’t. I sit there. Frozen and terrified.
She’s at the back door, puffing furiously; short, rapid drags. The smoke swirls around her head as if she’s some rock goddess. I wish.
‘I can’t believe you would dare try to control my life like that,’ she goes without even looking at me.
‘I was just trying to help, to do something nice for you.’
‘Nice?’
‘Yeah, nice.’
‘What you’ve done is vindictive and cruel – anything but nice.’
God, you try to do something good for someone and that’s all the thanks you get?
‘I’m just worried about you, Mum, and I …’
‘You think I’m incapable of organising my own life?’
I brave the smoke cloud and move towards her. She lights up another. Turns her eyes to meet mine.
‘Get away from me. I can’t even look at you.’
‘I’m just trying to joy you up a bit.’
‘By humiliating me?’
‘I want you to be happy, Mum.’
‘You’ve a funny way of showing it.’
‘I just thought …’
‘Thought what, Maggie? That some man can help me? That some man can just wander in here and fix me like that?’ She snaps her fingers together, then chucks the half-smoked fag away. Her voice breaks. So does mine.
‘But it’s true,’ I go.
‘What is?’
‘That I only want you to be happy. Can’t you see that?’
She wipes her eyes and rubs snot away from her mouth, then brushes past me, sits at the table again, pushes the dinner away. She claws her hand through her hair.
‘Mum …’
‘Is this how you treat me, Maggie?’
My stomach’s on a spin cycle loaded with regret. I sit across from her. She pure boots me under the table, catches me right on the side of the foot. Quite like it. Pain travels fast. I don’t flinch. Not even sure she meant it. Oh, she meant it all right.
‘Hey, that was sore.’
‘Good!’
‘I thought you’d be happy.’
‘Happy?’ she sniggers.
‘Intrigued at least. God, I won’t bother next time.’
‘Next time? There won’t be a next time.’
‘Well, whatever.’
‘You’re so naive at times, Maggie, know that?’
Now I want to hook her on the face. Floor the ungrateful bitch.
‘And you’re miserable at times, know that?’ I go. ‘In fact, you’re miserable all the time.’
She exhales loudly. Covers her eyes. Is she crying? Have I made her cry? She better not be; she better not be laying this on me.
‘You don’t see it, do you?’ she goes.
Her voice is shuddery, throat husky.
‘See what?’
‘What’s glaring at you.’
Sounds like she’s been gargling glass. I’m confused.
‘So, tell me,’ I go.
‘Have you heard me crying in my room?’
‘Course I have.’
‘Seen that I can’t be bothered doing anything?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I mean anything: getting up, going out, washing, speaking to people?’
She reaches for my hand; mine is muggy, hers is cold. Her jaw is quivering.
‘I know it’s been hard with the job and all that, but I was—’
‘It’s more than that, Maggie.’
‘Mum, you’re scaring the shit out of me. What’s this about?’
Suddenly my mind drifts to Moya. And now my jaw quivers. I see tears forming in her eyes. Puddles. I see them through my own.
‘Mum, I don’t want to be left on my own.’
‘That’s never going to happen, Maggie.’
‘I can’t have anyone else leave me again. I can’t.’
‘Maggie, I’m not—’
‘You can’t leave too.’
I’m panting so much, struggling to get air into my lungs.
‘I’m just trying to tell you that I’m in a very dark place at the moment. A place I can’t seem to get out of. I know I need help, I know I do, but this Ian person isn’t the way out for me. He’s not the help I need.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘How can I bring some man into this world?’ She gestures to herself.
‘We all need someone, don’t we?’
‘I can barely function being with myself. I can’t even think about the next five minutes, never mind another person.’
‘What can I do then?’
‘Just do what you’ve been doing. Work hard. Find your own way. You’re doing an amazing job.’
I’m doing a WHAT job?
Who’s failing to see what’s in front of them now?
‘Life’s better if we’re both happy,’ I go.
‘I know it is, Maggie. And I’m working at it, I really am.’
‘So am I.’
We wipe our eyes. She gets up, and I think she’s coming to hug me, but she stretches and yawns.
‘Let me wash up,’ she goes.
‘You go lie down or watch telly or something. I’ll do it.’
‘Thanks, love.’
I have my excuse.
Another reason to inflict something upon myself.
Cos this knot in my chest needs untangling.
PART TWO
Likes
We can’t tune our brain to everything, can we? Sometimes it’s only when we stop and reflect that we recognise what’s facing us; when you’re directly in its core you can be totally blind.
Now, I want to whip myself, but then I just couldn’t be doing with Moya’s personal woes. I hate myself for swatting away her problems. For not swallowing the bile she spouted.
‘So, I posted this photo on Insta and I only got ten likes. Can you believe that, Mags?’ she went.
‘Erm …’
‘Mean, even Ginger Gilmour gets more than ten likes, and he’d shag the hole in a dolphin’s head. Know what I mean?’
‘What are you on about, Moya?’ I went, cos really I didn’t have a clue. She just pure stormed into my room, hurled my French verbs textbook off the bed and hijacked my space. Again.
‘I posted a photo …’
‘What photo?’
‘Of me and him.’
‘Doing what?’
‘What do you mean, “doing what?” We were taking a selfie. What do you think we were doing?’
‘I don’t know, do I?’
‘Sake, Mags,’ she went, as if I was grilling her.
‘OK, I get it, you were taking a selfie. And what?’
‘What do you mean, “and what?”’
‘Sake, Moya.’
‘Sake, you.’
‘Just tell me about the fucking selfie.’ I was going to finish the sentence with ‘and then piss off home’.
‘So, I posted it,’ she went.
‘And?’
‘And no one has commented or anything. He hasn’t even liked it.’
‘He hasn’t?’
As if I cared about what that dickbrain liked.
‘No, but he’s commented and liked other people’s photos, hasn’t he?’
‘Why’s that bad?’
‘Mags,’ she went, almost growling at me. ‘It’s bad. It just is. Forget it – you don’t understand.’
‘I thought you were getting on OK.’
‘We are. I mean, we do. We kind of … oh, I don’t know. It’s just complicated sometimes.’
‘Maybe he’s not who you thought he was.’
And without as much as a beat she went:
‘But he could be in love with me, Mags.’
I swithered.
Should I have laughed or told her to cop herself on?
‘You’re allowed to think that,’ I went.
‘I do.’
Then I chuckled.
‘He’s a decent guy when you get to know him,’ she went.
‘I’m fine for getting to know him, but thanks.’
She continued to look through her phone, pure torturing herself, her face contorting whenever someone or something popped up she didn’t like.
‘And, anyway, what do you care?’ she went.
‘What?’
‘You’ll be fannying about with all your new art-school buddies.’
‘I haven’t even been accepted yet, Moya.’
‘So, you will be. Then you’ll bugger off.’
‘What’s that got to do with your boyfriend or anything?’
‘Well, at least I’ll have someone here, with me, when you do piss off.’
‘God, I’m not going to Australia, and nobody’s pissing off.’
‘Yeah, we’ll see,’ she went.
‘Yeah, we will see,’ I went.
‘Yeah, we will.’
I let her get the last word in. We’d have been at it all night otherwise.
For the next twenty minutes we didn’t speak, she grunted and puffed her way through that phone; think she was trying to hold in the tears. Looking back, it’s easy to believe that was the case. But, who knows? Her guts could’ve been grinding away at her or she could’ve been totally fine. Who knows?
Visitor
I don’t hear the knock on my bedroom door cos Stella Donnelly is blaring out the speakers.
‘What is it?’ I go.
My organs hit the ceiling when Mum pops her head into my room. She’s supposed to be out. First time in weeks she’s hit the streets after dark. I’m not raging with her though. Actually I am. Mean, I could’ve been doing some serious bare-arse boxing with Davis. God, can you imagine? You’d need a hospital visit to have all that red removed from my neck.
‘I did knock, Maggie.’
‘I’d music on.’
‘I just wanted you to turn it down a bit, that’s all,’ Mum goes, easing herself into the room. She’s dolled up, nothing tarty. Skinny chic. Bet Mum could still turn heads. Have men pure seeping out of their jeans.
‘Done,’ I go, turning the music down.
‘Now we can hear ourselves.’
‘You’re back early,’ I go.
‘Yeah, film wasn’t up to much.’
‘Told you Gerard Butler films are worse than torture, didn’t I?’
‘In fairness, you did.’
‘Life’s too precious to waste it on him.’
We both nod in agreement.
‘Did I hear you speaking to someone?’ she goes.
‘Oh, that’s Davis – he’s in the toilet.’
You’d think I’d just handed her the winning lottery ticket. The ultimate happy pill.
‘Davis!’
‘He’s from art school.’
‘Art school!’
‘He’s also in the band.’
‘Oh, he’s in the band too!’
‘OK, OK, don’t wet yourself, he just came around so we could try out a few new songs,’ I go. ‘It’s nothing like that. Totally not my type.’
He actually came around to salvage my singing voice, hoping his skills could tune me up. I’d say he could tune me up all right … Stop it, Maggie! If he even attempts to remove his fingers from that guitar then … then I’ll … I’ll … tell him he’s … he’s … Oh, I don’t know, do I?
I flop back on to the bed and resume my daydreaming position. Mum shuffles beside me. She reeks of perfume. Those pills must be working wonders. Her essence seems relaxed.
‘You thinking of her, Maggie?’ Mum goes, out of the blue.
Can she read my mind or something? Some sort of witch, is she?
‘I’m always thinking of her.’
‘Terrible for anyone to go through that.’
‘People just don’t see the destruction they leave behind or the stress they cause.’
‘No, they don’t,’ she goes. ‘But at least you were there for her, Maggie.’
‘Maybe in here, in this room, but not in general.’
‘If you ever had feelings like that, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you? If you were being trailed, for example?’
‘It’s trolled, Mum. It’s called trolling. God, do you live in a cave?’
There’s a glow to her. Not like a few weeks ago when she was moping around in her pyjamas looking like a shadow for hire. But this thing she has is complicated. One day she’s shafts of sunshine. Next day sheets of rain. It’s starting to confuse the life out of me. And, where is she suddenly getting all this money from to go out gallivanting? Welfare back pay?
‘But, really, how are you?’ she goes, all timid voice. She never asks me this. Her level of concern has rocketed; she’s up to something, I know it.
‘I’m good. Just dealing,’ I go, cos it’s the truth.
I can tell she’s hankering for a mad heart to heart. A full-on mother–daughter chinwag. I’m happy when Davis returns from the bog.
‘Oh, hi, Mrs Yates,’ he goes. ‘How are you?’
His voice wobbles – aw, he’s nervous. Bless!
Better than sounding like a pure lick-arse though.
Is his ‘How are you?’ another way for him to say, ‘Are you getting over your mental spell, Mrs Yates?’ I might have mentioned that she was struggling. I might have mentioned it so he’d feel sorry for me. I might have mentioned it so all his attention would be drawn towards me. Well, he’s here, in my room, isn’t he? Job done.
‘Mum, Davis. Davis, Mum,’ I go.
Mum climbs off the bed. Classy.
‘Hi, Davis, very nice to meet you,’ she goes.
They shake hands.
FFS, do we all have to curtsy next?
The two of them stare at each other. Talk about awkward. ‘Right, I’ll leave you two to the music then. We’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything. Keep it down a bit though, OK?’
‘OK, night,’ I go.
