M Word, page 7
‘Doing what?’ I went.
‘Just stuff.’
Told me she thought school was for twats and sad losers. She looked like she was going to start bawling.
Told me how someone sent her some WhatsApp pics of a guy she fancied snogging some girl.
Told me she was fed up with people laughing at her all the time and all those online comments.
‘They’re just jealous, Mags, cos they’re living life through a phone while I’m out there having a pure riot. So what if I like shagging – no crime, is it?’
‘No.’
‘What, girls can’t enjoy sex too?’
‘No.’
‘Makes us cheap? Makes us inferior?’
‘No.’
‘Exactly. Don’t think so.’
I tried to look surprised, as if I hadn’t heard or read anything.
‘Mean, everyone’s got miserable fucking lives, Mags,’ she went.
‘Don’t believe any of them,’ I went.
Told me she absolutely didn’t believe … I believed her.
Grilling
She sits on my bed as if she’s about to pure grill me about something. Feels weird. Tells me she’s heart-sorry for being the way she is.
‘Why?’ I go.
‘Because I am sorry.’
‘There’s no need.’
‘I’m going to try harder.’
Tells me she’s happy to see me studying and enjoying school.
Hope she’s not going to start bawling.
She pauses, her eyes droop, asks me if there’s anything I want to talk about. Anything she can help me with. God, does she know I’m hurting myself? I try to look surprised.
‘No, I’m good. Just the same stuff, you know?’ I go.
‘I know,’ Mum goes.
Tells me she totally believes me … I don’t believe her.
Singletons
Sign in the art school’s computer lab says, Desktops Are for Study Purposes Only, but I spit in the face of authority. Should be researching fabrics and textiles; no brain for it today.
I type ‘women seeking men’ into Google instead. May as well have typed ‘king-size cocks’ as, even with a robust internet firewall, I’m bombarded with a smorgasbord of porn. I put in ‘soul mates’. First few pages are of old people laughing on a beach. Too many pastel colours on show. Then it’s back to more filth. I’m tempted to look, I am, but I’d probably get booted out of art school. God, why is the internet overflowing with saps looking for a hole to fill?
‘Fruity,’ the voice goes.
Oh, sweet mother of Lord! It’s him. Davis. Pure standing behind me, staring at the screen. A woman in bondage gear has popped up.
‘Davis!’
‘She a relative?’ he goes, nodding to the screen.
‘No, no, no. I wasn’t looking at that – I was researching …’
‘That what you call it?’
‘Honestly, I was.’
‘Maybe you can wear that get-up in the band.’
‘Shut up, you dick, I was researching for our project.’
I just called him a dick. That’s me bombed out before the fuse is even lit. I’m such a tit, totally mortos. Is my face swelling up?
‘Textiles project?’
‘And fabrics,’ I go.
He sits, wheels his chair next to me.
‘Maggie, you can’t kid a kidder, but it’s completely fine with me – I’m the most non-judgemental person you could ever meet.’
‘Davis, I was only …’
He holds his hands up.
‘You should see the stuff that maniac Alfie looks at and I’m still his mate. Plum would have a fit if she knew.’
God, I want to kiss him, and not just a crap peck either. I’ve a craving to jump his bones, fully clothed though.
‘Look,’ I go. ‘If you must know, I was trying to set my mum up on a date.’
His expression changes, eyes widen; such a vibe about this guy.
‘You’re not kidding, are you?’
‘Long story.’
‘Try me.’
So I tell him. Explain the issue, without the bits about our house being a pure piggery at the moment and our cash-flow woes in case he thinks we’re a shower of tinkers. I don’t say anything about the telly melting Mum’s head. I don’t go near the M word. Although if it wasn’t for her I wouldn’t be sitting here imagining licking this guy’s face and struggling to help Mum out.
‘We should look at the Advertiser,’ he goes.
‘The paper?’
‘Yeah, their Hearts and Minds thing. Don’t think they have bullshitters or pervs there.’
Wait!
Wait!
Did he just say we? As in WE? As in him and me? Us? Like doing something together, like a couple? Think my spleen is about to rupture. My mouth is dry. I wet my lips. NO, MAGGIE, do not lick your bloody lips in front of him.
‘No, definitely no bullshitters,’ I go.
‘Right, let’s have a gander then.’
I close the bondage lady and wheel myself to the side. Davis wheels into my place and starts tapping.
Belter of an idea. Belter of a guy.
Is every man in this country a sad singleton?
Artistic man, 43, not petite, loves rainy walks on the beach, poetry, unusual seashells and interesting rice dishes, seeks mystic dreamer for companionship, back rubs and more as we bounce along these tumbling clouds on life’s beautiful, crazy journey. Strong stomach essential. Box No. 0990
Don’t even have a beach within walking distance so I don’t know what this tool’s been smoking. And all that stuff about seashells, poetry and mystic dreaming? What a tosspot. No wonder he’s single. For ‘not petite’ read ‘requires two seats on a plane’.
Verdict: Rather Mum became a nun.
Bitter, disillusioned Glasgow man, lately rejected by long-time fiancée, seeks decent, honest, reliable woman, if such a thing still exists in this cruel world of hatchet-faced bitches. Send details to Box No. 0901
Send details?
Hatchet-faced bitches? You’re lucky you’re not getting a nail bomb in the post.
Verdict: I’d rather Mum got her bits sewn up!
Ripped hunk, washboard stomach, blond, blue-eyed, not-quite 45, WLTM woman with open mind and some experience of taking hallucinogens. Drop me a line at Box No. 0908
I can just hear Moya’s voice: I might give him a shout myself. She’d be laughing, but serious though. You’d need eyes in the back of your head, honestly you would.
Verdict: Not on your goddamn nelly.
Employed in education? Me too. Stay the hell away. Man on the inside seeks woman on the outside who likes milling around hospitals guessing the illnesses of outpatients. 35–45. Glasgow. Box No. 0904
Sounds like a mad weirdo. We like him, even though we suspect he’s a teacher. Lots of boxes ticked. I have a notion that he’d be a good fit for Mum. Davis agrees. Someone with a GSOH is the happy pill she needs.
Verdict: Strong possibility.
It’s decided: we’ll contact GSOH ASAP. Just write some drivel and send it off to Box No. 0904.
‘You going to tell your mum first?’ Davis goes.
‘You mental? No chance.’
‘That not defeating the whatever?’
‘Think about it, Davis – what would you say if your child told you they’d been all over the internet looking to find you a woman?’
‘Solitary confinement and sew their eyes shut.’
‘Exactly – there’s your reason then.’
Davis delves deep; thoughts flicker on his face. Looks uber clever when he’s thinking, so cute. I stare at him, do my own thinking … of nothing in particular, just about my best mate.
What would you do, Moya, if your daughter presented this total-hot guy who wanted to date you?
How hot we talking?
Roasting.
I’d probably send him home with a limp, if you know what I mean?
Sometimes that girl needed a ladder to get her mind out of the gutter.
You wouldn’t turn your nose up at the idea?
Correct and then some.
‘Obviously, I’ll make sure he’s not on the rape register before I do anything,’ I go.
‘So, what are you going to do?’
‘Set up a meeting.’
‘Where?’
‘Some duff coffee shop, but it’ll just be me who turns up.’
‘Cloak-and-dagger stuff. Like it, Maggie.’
‘Then, if he measures up, I’ll send him a sob-story email, saying how Mum couldn’t make it and all that garbage.’
‘Then set up another meeting?’
‘Bingo!’
‘Then tell your mum about that second meeting?’
‘B-I-N-G-O.’ I finger-shoot Davis five times in the head, then instantly regret it. Definitely thinks I’m a child.
‘What if she doesn’t buy it?’
‘She will.’
‘But what if …’
‘God sake, she’ll go for it. Trust me, Davis, I know my mum.’
‘Only asking,’ he goes.
I am such a rotten bitch at times.
‘We’d better respond to this.’
I rip a bit of paper out of my notebook. Crack open a biro. Blue.
‘Right, what shall I write first?’ I go.
‘One thing, Maggie.’
‘What?’
‘You shouldn’t go alone.’
‘Where?’
‘To suss the guy out, you shouldn’t go alone. So, I’ll go with you.’
‘You?’
Has this guy any idea how hot he is at this moment?
‘Yeah,’ he goes. ‘Just to make sure …’
‘Make sure what?’
‘Well, that you’re safe, and … er stuff.’
What is it with guys thinking all they need to do is twirl their manhood and we pure pander to them?
I’d pander with him anytime!
I wouldn’t.
Maybe I would, actually. Oh, I don’t know; I’m so confused.
‘What do you think?’ he goes.
‘By safe, you mean that I don’t get bundled into the back of a van?’
‘You’re way too terrifying for that to happen.’
‘So why then?’
‘Er … cos I want to.’
‘OK,’ I go.
Foetal
Mum’s entered grunting and skulking mode. Shifts from the kitchen window to the living-room window. Nothing happens. Nothing ever happens. Can’t remember the last time I saw her crack open a book. I know reading’s dead boring, but she always had one on the go. It’s like living with this pure mumble-machine, too.
‘Cup of tea, Mum?’ I go.
‘Huh?’
‘Tea? Cup of, want?’
‘Erm … erm …’
As if it’s a major life decision.
Frustrating or what.
Sometimes I want to shoulder-shake her, yank her around by the hair. Last thing I saw her eat was a tin of rice pudding, about two days ago. I’m telling you, if you ever want to lose weight, just plunge yourself into a pit of misery. You might get a rash on your arse with all the sitting, but at least you’ll be able to wiggle into a size eight.
‘Can you pick up some milk and bread?’
‘Now?’ I go.
‘Well, sometime today if you can. If you’re not doing anything else.’
‘Yeah, I’ll pick them up for you,’ I go. ‘Just a few things to do first.’
I feel a FFS coming on. I don’t. Change is hard.
‘Thanks.’ She scuttles off to whatever drivel the telly has to offer.
I bolt to my room.
I’m on my bed when Davis pings me a message to tell me how brilliant his guitar playing is. Big head. Actually, he is practising quite hard. At our last rehearsal I grunted my appreciation halfway through our cover of Feist’s ‘Graveyard’, nodding positively when his fingers sprang into action. Quite turn-on-ish actually. I should probably tell him how great he is, but that’s too easy. Keeps him on his toes. Keeps me on mine.
My mind glides off to a fictional world: Davis has his arms around me, like any considerate boyfriend would. He’s not my boyfriend, but you get the drift. Mean, I’d hate him thinking I’m one of those high-maintenance selfie girls who struggle emotionally cos I’m not funny enough on Twitter. Not me I’m afraid.
I pull Larry to my face, dig my nails into him, picture Davis pecking my forehead, whispering into my ear:
‘Don’t worry, hun, I’ll look after you. I won’t leave you.’
Not sure if he’d actually say these words, but tough shit, Davis, cos I’ve just made you say them.
Is that a tear on my cheek?
He stares at me. Puckers up. He’s coming in. I purse my lips; I’m so ready. But it’s her bloody mug that appears instead.
You’re not thinking about your mum, are you, Mags? Moya goes.
I’m NOT thinking about you, Moya. It’s not always about you.
OK, pop a downer.
If you must know, I’m thinking about this cool guy from art school. You don’t know him. You’ll never know him.
Bet he’s some posh knob-polisher?
Go away, I’m busy.
I visualise him beside me, here on my bed; inhale his scent and thrust myself upon him. We have our kiss; intense and schmaltzy. But it’s just kissing, nothing to get wet about.
After the lip sesh it gets uncomfortably surreal; he plays a shocking acoustic version of ‘So Long, Marianne’. God, guys and their guitars! I’m on the bed, stranded on Awkward Island, having to accept this abomination with a pained grin on my face. Those high notes are not friendly to his voice.
‘Brilliant, babe,’ I lie.
‘Taught myself it last week.’
He hops off the bed, goes over to the stereo and puts something on. A ‘doing it’ playlist no doubt. Thinks I’ve no idea what he’s up to, but I’m so on to him. Obviously, we’re not doing it, as in the full IT. A light rumble and that’s all he’s getting.
Allowing Davis to enter my thoughts stops all others from butchering me. But as hard as I try pulling him to the forefront of my mind, it always comes back to Moya; an obstruction, a pure clam-jam nuisance.
Anyway, back to reality.
I change the music for real and allow ‘How Soon Is Now?’ to penetrate my world. Always gets me, that song. Maybe the Damp can cover it? I feel unique and spoilt when I listen to the Smiths, as if their tunes are written specifically for me. God, how can people stand listening to cack like Rihanna or Little Mix? I don’t get it. All they do is gyrate their bits into camera and ask us to purchase it. The Smiths only ask us to lie back and listen.
THUD!
It comes when it gets to my favourite bit of the song.
Your brain knows the difference between a normal thud and a thud for help. SCREAM!
Slices through the song; never heard Mum sound like this. Shakes me to the core. I bounce up, dive downstairs.
Can’t get the living-room door open. I push. Shove. It only shifts a bit.
‘Mum! What’s happened? Mum!’ I shout through the door.
‘Maggie.’ She’s crying.
I shoulder the door. Still not budging.
‘The door’s not opening, Mum!’
She sobs like a toddler struggling to get words out. I can’t hear the telly.
SMASH!
She’s thrown something against the wall, then a piercing screech. Her body falls; I hear it smack the deck.
‘Mum! Open the door.’
‘I can’t …’
‘Mum, have you fallen? Have you slipped?’ My voice box rattles. No joke, I start booting the door off its hinges. Three times I kick. Three times I leave only a footprint.
‘Stop, Maggie. I’m up.’
‘I can’t open it,’ I shout.
‘The chair’s in the way.’
‘What chair?’
‘I’m pulling it away now.’
I hear something being dragged; she grunts throughout.
‘Mum!’
‘Come in,’ she goes, then starts to whine again.
I pause to think: Please don’t find anything bad; please don’t let it be a blood bath; let it be OK.
She’s in the foetal, body shaking. It’s cold. No blood. I want to pick her up, pull her towards me, rock her and tell her I’ll never cause any problems again, that from this moment on I promise to be her best friend, a daughter she’ll be proud of, and I’ll stop slashing the shit out of myself.
She’s lying there; I’m weak and incapable. Clueless.
This shit wasn’t covered in the first-aid course I took at school. So many holes in my knowledge; don’t know if I should wrap her in my arms, smother myself around her body or haul her up to the couch. What do you do with a broken mother? I stand like a total spanner, staring at her humiliation, all contorted on the carpet. It’s the full shebang: pained patches on her face, wet clumps of hair streaked across her mouth and woeful weeping. I hold mine in.
Her hand reaches out to me. Now I know what to do. Comes naturally. I lie down, feed my legs into the little V-shape she’s made with hers. Perfect fit. I drape my arms around her and tighten my grip, hoping to suppress her shaking. I even peck her cheek. She’s pure putty in my arms.
‘Don’t cry. It’s OK,’ I go.
Her tears taste of salty wine.
Minging.
What’s going on? I’m wiping tears from her face; that’s not science’s plan. Who fucked up and reversed the charges on that one?
‘Please don’t cry, Mum.’ I kiss her again.
‘Sorry, Maggie. I didn’t mean to.’
‘Don’t be sorry.’
‘It just came over me.’
‘The tears?’
‘Everything,’ she goes. ‘Felt a surge of anger. I started crying and couldn’t stop. I wanted to wreck it all.’ She’s calmer.
‘Like the chair?’
‘I tipped it over, it fell on to the door.’
‘Why are you on the floor?’
‘Needed to lie down somewhere.’
