Just a Girl, Standing in Front of a Boy (28 page)

He looked me in the eyes and proposed to me when he was having an affair with someone else. Did they lie in bed talking about me? Blimey, they must have thought I was really stupid. She must have been with him when I told him I’d slept with someone else. He wouldn’t let me up to his flat and his hair wasn’t even wet even though he said he’d had a shower. Bonking Moira, that’s what he’d been doing. He even invited her to our wedding. Thank goodness I found out when I did.

I’ve just been on a very long run. I added miles onto my normal route but nothing seemed to exhaust me. It was as though my whirring mind was propelling me.

‘Hey, Al,’ I call, as I stand by the kitchen sink draining a pint of water. ‘Why aren’t you at work?’

‘I’m very ill.’

‘Oh, right. Sorry about that.’

‘No, I overslept so thought I’d feign sickness, how you doing this morning?’ he says, stopping and leaning against the door arch on his way to the bathroom.

‘I seem to have a lot of… a lot of…’ How can I describe it? ‘A lot of “arrrrrrgghhhh” to get rid of.’

‘I can’t think why,’ Al says. I sat up with him last night, after Mum went to bed, and I ranted and I ranted and then I ranted some more.

‘Ah, it’s my fault you overslept. Sorry.’

‘No, you’re all right, it’s my fault for setting my alarm for seven tonight. Fan, I meant what I said last night, if you want me to hit him.’

I smile. ‘You’re very kind but no, Al. Where’s Mum? Has she gone out?’

‘No, don’t think so. I didn’t hear her go out.’

I look at the cooker clock. It’s nearly half past eleven.

‘She can’t still be in bed. Can she?’

‘She was exhausted last night,’ he says.

‘Yeah.’

‘I put her post under her door first thing, I’m sure she called “thank you”. And I think I heard her making tea earlier.’

‘Oh, maybe she did go out, then.’

I check the kitchen table and the fridge in case I missed one of her ‘morning all, just popped to the shops’ notes. But there isn’t one. I head to her bedroom door.

‘Mum! Mum!’ I call. ‘Mum! Mum!’

‘Mum!’ I call again, knocking on her door. ‘Mum,’ I shriek, knocking again.

There’s no response.

‘Mum?’ I try again.

I turn the door handle, and open the door a few inches.

‘Mum.’ I smile, she’s propped up in bed. ‘Hey, I thought we could…’ I start. But then I stop. ‘
Mum!
’ I exclaim when I see that a cup of tea has fallen from her hands and spilt all over the duvet. I rush to the bed. She’s not moving. At all. She doesn’t even respond when I start shaking her arm.

‘Fan, calm down!’ Al is shaking me. ‘Try to keep calm,’ he is shouting at me. He’s shouting at me because I’m screaming. I’m screaming and I hadn’t even realised.

Al called an ambulance. They came in minutes that felt like hours.

‘Is she allergic to anything?’ an ambulance man asked.

‘I… I… I don’t know,’ I responded.

‘Is she on any medication?’

‘Oh, um,’ I remembered the paper pharmacy bag that I’d seen that day in her case. I dashed towards the case and opened it, wide this time. ‘Oh my…’ I said. There wasn’t just one paper pharmacy bag, there were plenty. I clutched at two and upturned them on the carpet, packets of pills spilling to the floor. I turned towards the ambulance man. ‘Um,’ I said again, as I hurriedly reached for two more bags.

‘How long has she been ill? he asked me urgently.

‘I didn’t know she was ill!’ I cried.

The ambulance man looked at me in surprise. Then he left the room to radio someone. The other ambulance men had Mum on a stretcher by then and were wheeling her out of the room. Al appeared beside me. He put his arms around me. I gasped into his chest.

There aren’t many things that I don’t like, however, if pushed to come up with something, I would probably say secrets and lies. But it took years to realise this. Life at home with Mum and Dad was clearly full of secrets and lies, Dad was bonking Sue and I was being bullied, but no one said a thing. I thought we were past all that, but my mother has been staying with me for six weeks and she’s been keeping a monster to herself.

I sit here, now, in the hospital, holding her limp hand, looking at her drugged, sleeping body, and I wonder how and why she did it. And how I didn’t realise. The doctor said, ‘Did you not notice any changes in her behaviour?’ Well, yes, but I thought she was having a midlife. Except I didn’t say that, I just nodded. Did she have headaches? Oh, yes, terrible headaches but I thought they were stonking great hangovers, although I didn’t say that either, I just nodded again. Loss of memory? Yes, a bit, but I put it down to the dope smoking. Again, just a nod. Has she been sleeping a lot? Well, yes, but my dad was having an affair with her friend, I thought she was sleeping to block it out. Again, just a nod. But, no. It wasn’t a midlife or a menopause, malignant cells were growing on her brain. And she knew. She knew. Knew it was untreatable, knew at some point they’d swell to such a size that she’d lose consciousness. But she never mentioned it. The doctor said that from her records she was told four months ago that she’d have approximately six months to live. It would have been about the same time she found out about Dad’s affair.

The doctor also said she might not regain consciousness. He said I should prepare for the worst.

She didn’t regain consciousness. I sat by her for thirty hours and just before 7 o’clock this evening she slipped away. Slipped away. I think that’s the best way to put it. Like when you’re at a party that you’ve had enough of and you say, ‘I’m just going to slip away.’ Unobtrusive, without wanting to cause any fuss, I’ll just slip away. That’s what my mum did.

In many ways, everything makes perfect sense now but then at the same time nothing does.

Little tears have been trickling from my eyes but I couldn’t say how I feel. I have so many questions and I know they’ll never be answered. Why didn’t she tell me? Why did she come to stay with me? Didn’t she want to go to Rome or see the Northern Lights? Was she afraid? Was she in pain? But most of all I just want to hug her. She lay on the hospital bed and I put my arms around her and I pretended that she was hugging me back. I want to tell her that I love her. I told her as she lay lifeless, but I wanted her to hear it. I thought our new relationship was just the beginning. It was actually an ending. But most of all I want to say thank you to her for giving me this time. And to say I hope she enjoyed it as much as me. And to say, Mum, I’m so proud of you. And I want you to be proud of me too.

I didn’t get back to the flat until gone 11 p.m. Al was already in bed. It must now be the early hours of the morning. I’m in the bathroom. Sitting on the floor in my bathrobe. I got out of the bath ages ago but I don’t want to leave the bathroom because Mum’s bits are everywhere. It’s as though she’s still here. And maybe she is.

‘Mum, ’ I whisper. ‘If you’re here, I love you.’

I curl myself up in my bathrobe and lie upon the bathroom floor until morning.

The funeral will be just a small affair at the local crematorium, with a picnic afterwards on the common across the road. I was getting into a tizz about where to hold the wake, but then I remembered Mum saying how we often over-complicate things, and really it’s sometimes enough to feel the wind on our skin or the ground underfoot. It felt right to do something outside, and every weather forecast (I checked sixteen) assures me it will be fine on the day. At some point afterwards, I’ll take her ashes and scatter them. At sea, I thought. I keep remembering the delight on Mum’s face as she paddled in the sea at Skegness. Most people have to organise a funeral for a parent at some point in their lives, I’m trying not to feel sorry for myself, and at least having something to do takes my mind off this overwhelming ache I have inside. It doesn’t feel like an ache that will ever go away either, just something that I’ll have to get used to.

Philippa and Al have stayed with me. They’ve been wonderful. They even went through Mum’s address book and papers and sent funeral invitations to all the people they could find, so that I didn’t have to. They’ve both gone back to work today. This is my first day alone and that in itself feels like a hurdle to overcome. They’ve both been calling and texting me repeatedly though. Al, largely to discuss his menu plans for dinner, Philippa to read me the responses the
Tiddlesbury Times
has received from people who were given anonymous notes, twenty-six so far. So, in spite of everything, I’ve been hearing a lot of good news.

So when I’m not on the phone to them, I’m bearing up, as they say, getting by, moment to moment. Philippa wrote a lovely obituary about Mum in the
Tiddlesbury Times
. It went in today, along with the photo of Mum dancing to the Arctic Monkeys, she’s smiling and squinting in the sun. We put that one on the order of service too. I hope that’s the way Mum would like to be remembered.

The funeral is only two days away, but I haven’t been able to get hold of my father. There was no answer at home and then when I called his work I was told he was on a three-week holiday. No one seemed to know where he’d gone. One chap thought Florida, another said he’d mentioned a cruise. They both said he would be on email for anything urgent. But I emailed and I haven’t heard from him. In the first email I just said, please contact Jenny. But then when he hadn’t responded after twenty-four hours I had to tell him about Mum. There was no answer at Sue’s house either. So I can only assume that she’s with him. I think that Mum went to Sue’s house on the day she was diagnosed. I just have a feeling. She hinted that she’d known about the affair for years. So that must have been the catalyst to confront it. I don’t think she even told my father that she was ill.

‘Hey, Mum,’ I whisper.

I’ve been talking to her a fair bit. I’m hoping Mum’s found Doris and they’re having a glass of cheap fizz.

The hall buzzer goes. I look at it but don’t move. I may be feeling strong but I’m not sure I want to see anyone. The buzzer goes again.

‘Mum, should I get the door?’

I really will stop doing this at some point, I promise. For some reason, though, I’m already up and I’m lifting up the receiver of the intercom.

‘Hello?’ I say. My voice surprises me for some reason.

There’s no answer. But I feel as though someone’s there. It seems surreal. But then nothing feels as it should at the moment.

‘Jenny Taylor.’

I close my eyes. I have to swallow. Isn’t it strange how some voices can make you instantly feel like crying?

‘Hello,’ I say, my voice quivering. ‘I don’t think I want to see you.’

Perhaps I’m not as strong as I thought. It’s Joe King.

‘Oh, Jen. I know. But I’m afraid you need to see me.’

I shake my head and have to swallow again.

‘No.’

‘Please.’

I lean against the wall.

‘Joe, what do you want? I’m… I’m not great at the moment…’

‘I know… I know about your mum,’ he says gently.

Now I’m crying. It’s his voice. His bloody kind voice, the voice that whispered to me, ‘Can I help? Can I do anything?’ when he held me on the pavement the day that Doris went to hospital. The voice that said, ‘I’ll be by your side,’ when I spoke about seeing my old school bullies. It was the voice that I thought would stay by me.

‘Oh, Jenny.’ He’s crying too. I don’t like hearing him cry.

‘People will think you’re mad crying into an intercom system.’

‘Let them.’

I buzz him in.

I open the door. I can hear him walking up the stairs, not quickly, not slowly, but steadily. It suits me. I try to regulate my breathing before I see his face. He’s on the landing now, walking towards the flat. Now he’s here. He’s in front of me. Joe King, in his biker boots, and his black jeans and his grey hoodie. It’s the Joe King as I remember except there are tears down his cheeks and his mouth is twisting as he tries not to weep. I want to comfort him. But I don’t move. My chest heaves and my eyes fill again with tears but I don’t step towards him.

We stand still, our irregular breathing oddly similar. I don’t know why we’re doing this. It doesn’t look like it’s good for either of us. I don’t know what to say.

‘Do you want a cup of tea?’

I’m so British.

He nods and half smiles and shrugs and then follows me through to the kitchen. Mum’s obituary is lying open on the kitchen table.

‘Such a great picture of her,’ he says and it strikes me as being a bit of an overfamiliar thing to say about someone you only met once and didn’t seem to particularly get on with.

I keep my back to him while the kettle boils and I get the tea ready. When I eventually turn around with the cups, I’m newly shocked by how upset he looks.

‘Listen, you,’ I say, trying to jest. ‘My Mum died, I’m supposed to be the more miserable of the two of us.’

He looks down at his lap and nods. I place the teas on the table and sit down on the furthest chair from him. I can’t be too close. I still want to reach out and touch him. He’s sucking his bottom lip. He seems far, far away. Eventually he looks up at me, sighs a tiny sigh and looks back down at his lap.

‘I knew your mum was ill, Jenny.’

‘Say that again…’

He nods. ‘I knew… I knew she was ill. Really ill. She came to the pharmacy right after I started there. She had loads of stuff on prescription. I said, “We’ll be able to hear you rattle with all this.” Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything, I’d never worked in a chemist. Anyway, she laughed, and when she came back to pick them up she’d had her hair done. So we had a bit of banter. Then she came in again not long after and she was glowing, and I said, “You look great, you don’t look at all poorly.” And she seemed thrilled, but she said, “I am though, it’s my brain, I always suspected I was ill in the brain. But it’s my secret.” That was it. And I’m just working in a shop, Jenny, I didn’t know what to do or say! Then when she came in again, I said, “how are you doing?” and she said, “OK. I think I’ve got a little while left and I’m living it.” And I said, “Do you want to talk about it?” and she smiled and said, “Thank you, but I haven’t told my own daughter so I shouldn’t really talk to you.” I said, “fair enough.” And she said, “Do you think that’s wrong of me. To not tell my daughter that I’m dying?” And I thought about it. I didn’t say anything. She said, “I just don’t want everything to be about my dying, I want it to be about my living.’ And I thought about it. And I nodded, and I said, “I’d probably do the same.” I was already in love with you. And then we had your mum over for tea.’

He stops speaking suddenly and starts to cry, as though it’s a relief for him to have finally poured it all out.

I get up and give him some kitchen roll. I leave it in front of him on the table.

‘I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to hurt you, Jenny. I’d never hurt you. Oh, God, I feel sick.’ He half laughs and wipes his face with the kitchen roll. ‘ I still don’t know what I’d do differently. How I’d do it better. She asked me not to tell you. How could I be with you keeping that a secret? But then I didn’t want to not be with you. I hate secrets, Jen. But this wasn’t mine to tell. Oh, God.’ He puts his head in his hands. He exhales. ‘You said that since you’d met me you’d neglected your mum, and I thought, I’ve got to step aside, let you guys have time together. So that’s what I did. But I didn’t want to hurt you. Oh, I hated to hurt you. And I know you probably can’t forgive me. But’ – he swallows, and runs his fingers through his hair – ‘that’s what happened. Anyway, after the tea, your mum came and visited me. She gave me a letter, she said, “This is for Jenny, after I’m gone, hopefully I’ll get to tell her before I go, and then I’ll come and tell you and we can throw this letter away. But if I don’t get a chance, for some reason, if the old brain wants to speed things up, then can I ask you to give this to her?”’

He pulls a square envelope out of the front pocket of his hoodie and pushes it along the table towards me.
Jenny, my beautiful girl
it says on the front.

‘I best get out of your hair,’ he says, standing.

I look up at him, at this beautiful man.

‘Will you be coming to the funeral? It’s the day after tomorrow.’ I whisper.

‘It’s up to you,’ he answers quietly. ‘If you want me to.’

I nod. ‘The dress code is The Rolling Stones.’

We lock eyes and let our breathing synch for a moment. I never notice my breathing with anyone else, yet with Joe King, it’s as if our respiratory systems are desperate to dance together. He steps away from his chair and walks towards the door. I follow him. He turns when he’s on the threshold so we’re facing each other.

‘Jenny, I’m so sorry,’ he whispers.

‘It’s OK.’ I mouth the words.

I look into his kind, wretched face. And he looks down at me. And, as if at the same time, our arms open. Mine find his back, they pull him towards me, and his hands land on my shoulders and draw me into him. His head rests on top of mine. I can hear his heart beating. I don’t want to leave this embrace and I don’t for a long while. When I do I say, ‘Will you go home…’ Joe King looks at me and nods sadly. But I hadn’t finished because what I was going to say, and what I do say, is, ‘Will you go home and get your guitar and come back?’

Joe doesn’t answer.

‘If you want?’ I add.

‘I want,’ he says.