The Other Mother

  ‘And what if I don’t?’ she whines, her voice nasally and child-like. ‘What if I continue sitting there on my own, day after day? What then?’

  I stride back into the room and perch on the edge of the bed. Rosie shrinks away from me and I feel myself begin to shut down. I can’t allow any gaps to open between us. She is my life. She is all I have.

  ‘That simply won’t happen.’ The mattress creaks under my weight as I shift about to get comfortable.

  ‘You don’t know that,’ she replies curtly.

  I suppress a sigh and run a hand through my knotted hair. ‘These things take time, sweetheart. You just need to be patient.’

  Reaching over I attempt to stroke her face, to soothe the lines of worry that are etched across her forehead, but am thwarted as she flings the covers back and sits bolt upright. She is ramrod straight as she turns to frown at me, her eyes full of scorn and disdain.

  ‘This is all your fault, anyway,’ she barks. ‘I wouldn’t have to go through any of this if it wasn’t for you.’

  A spike of ice traces its way down my spine. This, again.

  ‘Come on, Rosie,’ I say, trying to keep the edge out of my voice, ‘we can have this conversation another time. Right now, you need to get moving or you’ll be late.’

  She is resolute, her voice laced with rancour and bitterness as she turns to face me. ‘You haven’t tried to deny it, have you?’

  Ignoring her accusatory tone, I move away and head out of her room. I don’t have time for this. Not this morning. Not any morning. I have too much on my mind, too much to do; lots of tasks to be getting on with. A life to live.

  ‘Your twenty-five minutes just dwindled away to twenty,’ I shout over my shoulder as I make my way downstairs, hoping she doesn’t spot the tremor in my voice. No cracks in my facade. I won’t allow it. I’m the strong one here, the backbone of our tiny family. Damage or remove me and the whole thing collapses around us like a pack of cards.

  I busy myself with minor chores while she is getting ready, emptying the dishwasher and sorting the laundry out into small piles. I step outside to water a few plants in the front garden and listen to the occasional hum of a passing engine, a reminder of how fortunate I am to not have to be part of the rat race; to not be stuck on the treadmill of life.

  I am preparing my paints in the studio when I finally hear Rosie thump her way down the stairs. She is full of hell. Her footsteps are a great indicator of her mood. Rarely does she float through the house like a whisper on the wind; deep thuds accompany my daughter on most of her journeys these days to let me know that her current predicament is all my doing. Her misery and angst are all down to me.

  ‘Your eggs are cold,’ I shout after her, but am met with a wall of silence as she unlocks the door, steps outside, and slams it loudly behind her, the walls vibrating with the force of her fury.

  A headache begins to creep its way up over my skull, a thick ribbon of pain that wraps itself tighter and tighter around my head until I am left with no option other than to down tools and grab a couple of painkillers which I wash down with a glass of cold water. I had hoped she would adapt, take it all in her stride, but it would appear that just lately, anything can upset the delicate balance in Rosie’s world. And it is difficult for her. I can see that , I really can. But she has to put her best foot forward and forge ahead with her new life. We have no other option. We are here now. What’s done is done.

  I stare out of the window, my hands resting on the work surface, and admire the view. We were very lucky with this cottage, with it coming up for sale at the exact same time I chose to move. Otherwise, we would be renting somewhere right now, living in a hiatus with no secure place to call our own, and no roots to bind us. Not that ours go down very deep anyway. But Peartree Lodge already feels like home to me. Perhaps not to Rosie but that will come in time. This will be our last move, our final one. I have made that promise to myself and I will damn well keep it. No amount of worrying or sleepless nights will alter my thinking. This time, our home, this tiny hamlet we now live in, set in the wilds of North Yorkshire, is for keeps. Nothing, not even Rosie’s deteriorating temperament, will force me out of this house. This is our forever home. Come hell or high water, Rosie and I are here to stay.

  BEVERLEY

  Today, life feels good. I am happy. I say the words, softly at first, murmuring them slowly and deliciously; whispering them to myself before chanting them over and over like a mantra in my head, a stream of sounds churning, spinning, making me dizzy. So exciting and full of promise. Good days are few and far between in my life. That’s just how it is, so when I do have them, I feel the need to cling on to the thought, clutch it to my chest; shout out to the world that for once, I am content. Even my weekly visit to my mother’s house will not dent this feeling. The sound of her voice, the sarcastic, cutting words that tumble out of her mouth every time she speaks won’t bother me. I won’t let it. I will rise above her caustic comments and phrases that are designed to cut me down and hurt me. I will ignore it all because my life is now on the up and up. So much to look forward to. A shiver of satisfaction runs through me.

  I pick up my phone and read Warren’s message. He is concerned about me. Warren is always concerned. He has spent his entire adult life worrying about me. I reply to his message, assuring him that I am fine. I tell him that my week went well and that the new position that I have recently landed has worked out brilliantly. It is my dream job. He won’t believe me and I will have to spend an inordinate amount of time convincing him that it’s true. Because it is. Admittedly there have been times in the past when I have lied, told him I am fine when I am anything but; however, this time it is different. This time I have a reason for smiling.

  Slipping my phone into my bag, I snatch up my car keys and head out into the sweet summer air. The chirrup of birdsong further elevates my mood. I stop and watch, mesmerised, as a blackbird tugs a worm out of the lawn and flies away with its prey tucked firmly between its beak. The worm wriggles and battles against its attacker, its vain attempts to free itself pointless, as the bird tips its head back and swallows it whole. I shudder and remind myself that everything dies at some point. Everyone. All living things have an expiry date.

  I inhale deeply. The musky aroma of the lilac trees takes my breath away, deep and heady. Everything is in full bloom. Winter has passed; now only a lingering memory of a time when the shortest days seemed to drag on; and on an endless stream of hours filled with swathes of grey. But now summer is here and the darkness is behind us. I hum softly as I unlock the car and slide in. The world is suddenly a brighter place.

  The usual feelings of apprehension and gloom that accompany me on my journey whenever I visit my mother are conspicuously absent today. I will not let her get to me or tear me down. Her words will wash over me like liquid mercury, slipping off my skin, leaving no trace.

  As expected, she starts the minute I arrive.

  ‘You’re late,’ she says as I stroll into the living room and drop my keys into the old wicker basket on the window ledge that she uses to keep all her bills and receipts in.

  She’s been smoking again. The stale scent of tobacco is everywhere, lingering in the air; an invisible haze of addiction. She has tried to mask it with room sprays but it’s there. An obvious sign that she has lapsed. If she is smoking then she is drinking again as well. The two are inextricably linked and an inescapable part of who she is; interwoven into her psyche and DNA, like the colour of her eyes or the texture of her skin. There are times when I despair at her behaviour and want to shake her and scream at her that she needs to stop it, but then I often wonder how she has made it thus far without collapsing in a heap. How she has managed to stagger through her life and remain relatively sane after what happened to her, what I put her through. So, as much as I dread these visits, I will continue to make them for as long as she is alive. I owe her that much.

  ‘And you’ve had a fag or two,’ I reply, sticking my nose forward and s
niffing the air dramatically.

  She shrugs nonchalantly and turns to stare out of the window.

  ‘I brought you some oranges and apples and the other things you asked for.’

  We don’t need to voice it out loud, what those other things are. I place her incontinence pads in the bathroom, wondering how much longer we can keep up with this pretence, how much longer she can remain here, on her own, with her ailing body and half-ravaged mind, her bouts of depression, her inability to move on. I blank it out. No time for such worries. We will keep on like this for as long as we possibly can and will cross that bridge when we come to it. Right now, I have other things to be thinking about, other important things I need to do.

  She nods and fiddles with a strand of hair. ‘She came to see me the other day.’

  I freeze at her words and continue to busy myself rearranging dying flowers and sorting out the rotten fruit which is beginning to wrinkle and bruise. I know what is coming next and I am never fond of where these conversations lead us. I remain mute, more than a little reticent to answer. Any show of interest from me will only encourage her, set her off down a route I don’t want to revisit, a route that will drag a heavy mantle of misery over my day. And I will not allow that to happen. I refuse to let her blacken my mood.

  ‘I’m going to throw some of this out, Mum,’ I say just a little too cheerily as I manhandle the collection of mouldy, powdery tangerines and apples that are so soft they practically fall apart in my hands.

  ‘Do whatever you must,’ she says in a tone I recognise all too well, a tone that is indicative of her simmering anger towards me.

  I sing softly and quietly as I sort it all out, careful not to poke my fingers through the skin of the decaying fruit, a sight and sensation that reminds me of touching rotting human flesh.

  ‘I love my new job,’ I say over my shoulder, knowing she doesn’t really give a flying fig how I spend my days.

  I do this a lot when I am here; make small talk about things neither of us cares about. It’s all rather cathartic this dodging and weaving, overlooking the obvious, talking only about the mundane, ignoring the elephant in the room, the one we haven’t spoken about for as long as I can remember.

  ‘The secretarial job?’ she mutters quietly.

  ‘That’s right!’ I exclaim, hugely surprised and rather flattered that she has remembered.

  It’s been a week since I told her I was starting an administration job and a week is a long time in my mother’s tiny, insular world. I feel privileged that she has given it any thought at all. Privileged and secretly delighted. Her hatred and resentment towards me isn’t as deep rooted as I imagined it to be. At least at some point I have figured in her thoughts. That is enough to give me a warm glow as I finish the menial task of fruit sorting in my mother’s dated kitchen ; the one she refuses to have modernised despite our offers of money to assist her.

  ‘With your qualifications, I would have thought you could have achieved better,’ she barks as I drop the rotten fruit into the bin. They land with a thump and for a brief moment I picture their exploding skin as my mother’s face. I quickly brush the image aside. Cruel and unnecessary. This isn’t why I’m here. I came to help her, to do my duty as her daughter; the only child mother has who functions as she should.

  ‘I’m enjoying it there,’ I reply gently as I walk back into the living room, ‘and I don’t do it for the money. We don’t need more money. I do it because I want to get out and meet people.’

  She shrugs her shoulders and I take this as an indicator that she is no longer interested in discussing this subject. It is dead in the water.

  ‘Mrs Lovett came to see me the other day,’ she says, her voice shaky as she speaks.

  I watch and wait for any kind of breakdown in her composure as her words flow towards me. Any sudden movements or facial tics, but there is nothing. She sits upright, her ageing hands placed gracefully in her lap.

  ‘I haven’t seen her for some time,’ I say through gritted teeth, determined to stay calm and not get dragged into any of this. This is what she does, my mother, to get back at me. She uses subtle ways to rake it all up again, to dredge to the surface what should be left well alone. The sediment of our lives brought out in the open; all our dirt and filth on display for the entire world to see.

  ‘Yes, she was asking after you. Her daughter is still living in London. And still married to a banker chappie. Quite high up in the city, apparently. She was telling me that they have a house worth nearly a million pounds. I mean, a million pounds! Can you imagine that?’

  I wince. I have no doubts that Celia Lovett’s daughter has a nice life. My life is far from perfect but no amount of my mother’s scathing comments will rile me or give me cause to respond, to become embroiled in this this game of hers that she plays every time I visit. Using other people’s purported high-flying lives and flourishing careers to blame me for her miserable existence. Does she not think I’ve suffered enough over the years? Is it not obvious to her that I have been punished a million times over?

  I take a deep breath and head back into the kitchen where I stand and stare out of the grimy looking window into the garden beyond. I stop for a while to control my rising anger before I fill the kettle and get the cups ready, giving myself time to regain my poise.

  ‘Sugar?’ My voice feels thick in my throat, as if it is coated in molasses. A bitter taste floods my mouth. I swallow and grip the spoon tightly.

  ‘Two,’ she replies in her birdlike tone; a soft, sibilant chirp that echoes throughout the unnatural quiet of the room. This is another of the games we play every week. I know exactly how she likes her tea and she knows that I know. Neither of us ever falters though. We rehearse our lines and play them out faultlessly. It’s all we have left, this painful and awkward routine; it’s the tie that binds us. Without this we are nothing.

  I scoop up a handful of biscuits and plop them on to a plate ,her favourite lemon-coloured china one, the one with the tiny flowers round the rim and place it all on a tray. Clinking as I make my way back in, I carefully lay it down in front of her and watch her face as she scrutinises it, making sure the biscuits are arranged properly and the tea is the right shade of amber. When she has finally decided it is acceptable and worthy of consumption she picks up the cup and sips at it, her lips pursed against the heat.

  ‘Theresa was asking after you, as well.’

  There. She has said it. I feel a small shudder take hold in my jaw as I try to speak and feel my voice quiver as it threatens to fail me. I cough and allow myself a few seconds to gather my thoughts, and to make sure the words that come out of my mouth are the intended ones, and not a stream of garbled obscenities; a rapid release of years of pent up anger and hurt and bitterness.

  ‘I hope she is well,’ I mumble as I lower my eyes and focus on drinking my tea. I am all too aware that my stilted phraseology sounds like something you would write in a card to someone you barely know, not the sort of warm, convivial greeting a sibling should use when enquiring about her sister’s well-being.

  ‘She’s put on weight. Not skin and bone any more.’

  I nod to convey my satisfaction at this comment. I have no idea what else to say or do.

  ‘And she’s moved again.’

  I stay completely still, my thumping heart the only movement in my rigid body. This doesn’t surprise me; her move. She has lived her adult life shifting from one hostel to another. Slip sliding her way through life, a desolate being who staggers from one crisis to another, completely removed from the rest of society. I remain silent, unable to choose the right words; words that will say nothing but mean everything.

  ‘I’m sure she will …’ I stop speaking, not entirely certain what it was I was going to say anyhow. She will what, stop drinking? Stop injecting herself with heroin and live a normal life? None of those things are likely to happen, which is why I am stuck for the right thing to say. There are no words to explain my sister’s life path and her choices. Nothi
ng seems to fit. Except, of course, that I drove her to it. My actions caused her life to shrink to the sort of dreadful existence that she now has. That’s what everyone thinks. Nobody has said it. They don’t need to. Sometimes silence is worse than anger and rage. Sometimes the unspoken says more than words ever will.

  I look over at my mother. She is staring out of the window, already losing interest in what it was I was going to say. My thoughts won’t be missed.

  ‘Is there anything else you need?’ I ask, keen to fill the silence and inject a noise into the painful emptiness that sits between us.

  Her eyes flicker and narrow, a contemplative glaze behind the rheumy film covering her dulled irises as she considers my request. ‘Which way are you going home?’

  I feel my stomach sink and fight against the sense of panic and dread that is clawing its way up my chest and burrowing into my head. I’m almost certain she is doing this deliberately, trying to knock me off-kilter. I know exactly what she is going to ask and will do anything to avoid it.

  ‘I’m calling into the library then going to see a friend in Osmotherley,’ I say, a little too quickly. This isn’t strictly true. She probably knows this by the way I babble it out. I am planning on visiting a friend but not until this evening, and as for the library ; I have no idea where that one came from. Just goes to show the sort of things that are stored in my head, ready to make an appearance unbidden. Quite scary really, isn’t it?

  ‘Oh.’ Is all she says in return and then I am wracked with guilt as I watch her chin tremble and her skin pucker slightly as a small frown sits between her eyes. I should go. I know I should pay a visit, do what she wants, but I simply cannot face it. Perhaps another time, but definitely not today.

  There is a long drawn out silence. I feel like a small child once more, wrong footed, unsure how to put right the terrible atrocity I have committed, to be absolved of my sins.

  ‘Next week,’ I murmur and turn to stare out of the window. ‘I’ll go next week.’ I say this knowing it’s not true. I won’t go next week. Or even the week after. I dread going there and always put it off for as long as I can, coming out with one lame excuse after another.