Queen Mum (31 page)

*

There are lots of sites about bereavement, thousands of people wanting answers. Mums like me, sitting at the screen in the small hours, searching for they don’t know
what.

It was eighteen months since I’d been in a forum, but I’d been so obsessed with this one place that I had no trouble remembering my username and password. You clicked on a little
tree to get in.

There were threads for mums, for dads, for siblings, for grandparents. I had to go back a long way to find my last post, about dreams. Were dreams helpful, I’d asked, or were they merely
upsetting, churning your mind up at the one time of day when it could have been resting? I’d had pages of responses. People whose children had told them messages in a dream, comforting
dreams; nightmares where the loss had been repeated only with awful twists; dreams of failure and reproach and guilt and simple madness. I read them all again, and all the friendly supportive posts
with their (((hugs))) and crazy smilies.

Then I went to the member list. I was looking for Juno.

No Juno; June?

There was a JunePlus, but when I checked her posts her tone wasn’t right, and her phrasing. Her avatar was a cartoon mouse in a hat. Juno’s would have been something like a sunset
over Ulverston, or a painting by Delacroix.

I went up and down the lists again. SuperKingy; was that her? How about Diane66? Chestermum? She might not even have been on this site; there were others.

At last I stopped clicking. Say I found her, what would I do then?

Bloody Manny.

When I checked my watch it was nearly four. I shut the machine down and tiptoed up the stairs. Ben’s door was open and I put my head round it. He was sound asleep with his duvet on the
floor, and a half erection poking out of the fly of his boxers. I pulled the door quietly to and went to bed.

*

I stopped off at the garage on the way back from work the next day to buy some flowers for Juno. They were on the ropey side so I took them straight round.

The front door opened before I got there.

‘Can you step over the porch?’ asked Soph. ‘I’ve just this minute mopped it.’

‘What are you doing home?’ I made a leap for the mat. ‘You’re not sick, are you?’

‘Mum came and collected us, right out of lessons. The secretary took us down to the foyer and she was there, waiting. I thought Dad had had an accident.’

‘He’s not, has he?’

‘Nah. She had a postcard from him this morning, it was there when she got back after dropping us off. It had his hotel number on it so she phoned him up and they had a long talk, and then
she drove back to school and brought us home to tell us what the situation was.’

‘Where’s your mum now?’

Sophie gestured with the duster she was carrying. ‘Upstairs, asleep. She was awake all night. She looked awful; hey, Paxo, didn’t Mum look like death this morning?’

Pascale nodded. ‘I told her to go and lie down, and when I last checked she was out for the count. We’re tidying round as a surprise.’

‘I’ve never seen you with a duster,’ I said to Sophie. ‘Was it a novel experience?’

‘Yeah, tops. Shall I put those in a vase for you before they fall apart? I wouldn’t want you dropping petals where we’ve hoovered.’

Pascale took me though to the lounge and offered me coffee. She is so Juno’s daughter.

‘No thanks. Just tell me what the latest is on your dad coming home.’

She turned and checked to see if her sister was behind her. Then she lowered her voice. ‘Soph thinks he’s having some kind of holiday, I don’t think she gets it at all.
According to Mum, Dad’s got to get something out of his system and then he’ll be fine and we’ll all be together again. But you know the way Mum talks, sometimes she sounds more
confident than she is.’

‘There.’ Sophie walked in with a green pottery vase, my flowers leaning over the rim like passengers in a hot-air balloon.

‘For God’s sake, stick a mat under it,’ said Pascale, as Sophie plonked the vase down on the naked dining table. ‘Look, you’ve got water all over.’ Sophie
held the vase up in the air and water dripped from its base onto the carpet. On the waxy dark wood was a broken circle of liquid. Pascale stepped forward and wiped the surface with her sleeve,
leaving an arc of tiny droplets. She tutted and tried again using her other cuff. ‘Give them here, I’ll sort it.’

Sophie rolled her eyes, then beckoned me through the doorway. ‘Ally, can you come and check out the washing machine for me?’

We went into the kitchen and Sophie knelt down on the quarry tiles so she could peer through the porthole. I don’t know what she was expecting to see. ‘Don’t say anything to
Paxo but I think I might have broken it,’ she said. ‘I’ve turned it off but the door won’t open. It’s jammed.’

‘That’s because it’s in mid-cycle. It’s a safety device. If you opened the door now, all the water would flood out.’ I pressed the on switch and the machine jurred
back into life. ‘Why did you want to open it up anyway?’

‘’Cause I filled the plastic ball with detergent and then forgot to put it in with the clothes. I left it on the top, here. Don’t look at me like that, there’s a lot to
remember when you’re doing housework.’

She turned to rest the small of her back against the edge of the unit, holding the ball in her two palms like a crystal.

‘So what it is, Dad’s having one of those little crises that middle-aged people have,’ she said. ‘He’s fed up with his job and he feels he’s getting old.
Basically, he’s gone off to sulk. When he’s got it out of his system, he’ll be back. We’ve not to mention it to anyone because it’s not worth mentioning. He’s
having a crazy blip, that’s all.’

‘Is your mum going to go up and see him?’ I knew I should have waited to ask Juno this.

‘No. She says that would make him cross and confused. He’s got to work it through on his own and then he’ll be fine. Bloody washing, though. I can’t believe I forgot to
put the liquid in. What a div.’

‘You’ll have to wait for this load to finish, now. Just bung the detergent in as soon as the dial gets to zero and set it off again. There’s no harm done.’

‘Yeah. As long as the machine isn’t bust, eh?’

‘What was that? What’s bust?’ shouted Pascale from the hall. ‘What’ve you been doing?’

‘Nothing,’ I called back. ‘I was telling Sophie about the time Ben thought he’d broken our washer.’

I saw Sophie transfer the detergent ball to one hand and give me a discreet thumbs-up.

Pascale came to the doorway. ‘So everything’s OK in here?’

‘All under control,’ I told her.

‘Right, I’m going to go up and have a shower now.’

Sophie raised her palm and waggled her fingers. ‘Missing you already, Sis.’

When Pascale had gone, I went over to the sink and pulled the dishcloth off the tap. The trouble with teenagers is that they never see a job through. It was true the girls had washed up, but all
the tops needed wiping down, the sink needed swilling, and although they’d dried the plates and cups, the cutlery was still leaking in the drainer.

‘Knives and forks don’t count,’ said Sophie. ‘Or glasses. Didn’t you know?’

‘Do they not?’

She sighed and hung her head. ‘You’re so nice.’

‘I am.’

‘No, you really are. I never apologized properly about upsetting Ben—’

‘And upsetting me.’

‘And you. And betraying your trust. I felt so crap afterwards. I will never, ever do anything like that again, I promise. I know I promised before but I do mean it now. I’ve finished
with sex. That’s it.’

‘Is it, now?’

‘God, yeah. If I’d known how bloody difficult it all is—’ She flicked her hair back over her shoulder and I saw the tendons move under the smooth dark skin of her neck,
imagined someone kissing her there. ‘It seems like a lot of hard work, being an adult.’

I laughed. ‘That’s true. There are compensations, though.’

‘Are you going to tell Mum about me and Ben?’

‘No, Sophie. You are.’

Her eyes went wide. ‘You must be—’

‘I don’t mean just now, but when things calm down, you’re going to have a good old chat to your mum about everything that’s been bothering you, ask her all the questions
that you need answering, because that’s what mums are for.’

‘I couldn’t.’

‘You have to.’ She didn’t reply but I thought I detected a faint nod. Or it might just have been her shifting against the machine. The dial clicked round and, after a pause,
the drum inside began to spin. When Joe was a tiny baby he loved to sit in his bouncy chair and watch the clothes going round. Spin cycle was his favourite part.

Sophie stepped forward, away from the jolting washer. ‘Ally?’ She was still holding onto the plastic ball. ‘You know Dad being away and having his little holiday so he can sort
his head out and come back to family life feeling refreshed and all that shit.’

‘Hmm?’

‘Is that all it is, really? Is Mum telling the truth? Is she?’

I didn’t hesitate. ‘Of course she is,’ I said.

*

A strange thing is happening to my memories of Joe. It might be normal; the books say everything’s normal. Crying; not-crying. Starving; bingeing. Wanting to scream your
other children away. Not wanting to let your other children out of your sight. Keeping toys and clothes; giving them to a charity shop; bundling them into black bags and throwing them on the tip
because you can’t bear the thought of anyone else using them. Phoning the Samaritans repeatedly and then putting the phone down.

I’m remembering times I’d forgotten, it’s as if I’m discovering a whole new Joe. Going round the supermarket, for instance, and him spitting on the floor and laughing. I
told him not to but he carried on. I had raging toothache that day, and period pain on top, and all I wanted was to down some painkillers and sit in a bath. I said, ‘If you don’t stop
this minute, Joe, I’m going to have to smack you. And Ben, I will smack you too because you’re giggling and making him think it’s funny and it’s not, it’s
horrible.’ Then Joe spat into the carrots and a lady saw us and pulled a disgusted face. I didn’t smack him, but I yelled at him so hard that my voice went thick and I could see other
customers faltering in what they were doing, listening to the mental woman with the maladjusted son. Afterwards Ben said, ‘I don’t think I’ll go shopping next time, Mum,’
and I snapped at him, ‘So who do you expect to get food into the house, the bloody Tesco’s fairy?’

And once, when Ben had been poorly with an ear infection and up for two nights on the trot, Joe wouldn’t come out of the bath and I yanked him out and he was so slippery he wriggled out of
my grasp and banged his head on the airing cupboard. Then, as he lay on the lino and sobbed, I shouted that it was his own fault for not doing what he was told. Tom came in and took him into his
bedroom and dressed him in his pyjamas for me. Tom did his story too because Joe didn’t want Mummy that bedtime, but I was so fed up and tired I didn’t care.

If I’m honest – and it seems that now I’m able to be – there were days I felt so hassled that when they were squabbling I went into another room, shut the door and left
both boys to cry.

My brain’s only now giving these things back to me, drip-feeding me the whole picture. I must have been too fragile during the first couple of years; I presume it’s the subconscious
protecting you. And yet I’d rather have these memories than not.

I think it’s happening to Tom too. We were in the supermarket together, and in the stationery aisle Tom suddenly said, ‘Do you remember when Joe begged for that packet of
multicoloured erasers, and you bought them for him and then when he got in the car he said he wanted what Ben had instead, an Action Man ruler, was it?’ He shook his head, half smiling. Yes,
I thought, and what came next: me tearing the packet out of his hands, opening the car door and sending them sailing across the car park, Joe’s amazed eyes following them. Tom saying,
‘There was no need for that, Ally.’

‘He could be a little sod, couldn’t he?’

Tom picking the cellophane packet of erasers by one corner out of the muddy gutter, wiping the cardboard hanger at the top with the edge of his hand as he walked back towards the car.

‘I can’t think about it, Tom. It makes me feel too bad.’

He put his arm round my shoulders. ‘OK.’ He turned his head and kissed me swiftly on the cheek. No one else in Tesco’s was kissing that day; several people looked. ‘Hey,
shall we treat ourselves to a bottle of wine tonight? It would be nice, just the two of us, get Ben ensconced on his PlayStation with CarAttack 3 or something. Unless you want your clone
round.’

‘Bastard,’ I said mildly. ‘I’ll never confide in you again, you know that, don’t you?’

Could Manny be right? I’d asked him, waking him in the middle of the night, because mad accusations seem so real when it’s dark outside and you’re the only one in the world
who’s not asleep. Is that all I am, I’d whispered, a poor imitation?

When Tom had understood, he laughed loudly, then threatened to punch Manny in the mouth next time he saw him. ‘I can’t believe you’ve lain here worrying about that. The
man’s having some sort of brainstorm, you’re just a casualty of his guilt.’