My Daughter, My Mother (2 page)

‘Oh no, she’s all right,’ Joanne said. ‘She just wants to play.’

Just then a voice called across the hall, ‘Dani, come over ’ere and see this!’

Dani, the black-haired woman, heaved her daughter off the floor and disappeared. The Asian woman sat down in her place in a shy, almost tentative way and, as she did so, Amy leaned over and snatched a little Duplo fireman out of her daughter’s hands. The other child gave a loud squawk of protest and held on for grim death.

‘Amy, stop that!’ Joanne said, breaking it up. ‘You can’t just take toys from someone like that. Now you let . . .’ She glanced at the mother.

‘Priya, but don’t worry about it—’

‘No, Amy, you let Priya keep it . . . I’m sorry,’ Joanne said. Amy looked as if she was about to cry, but she let go, seeming bewildered. ‘She hasn’t been with many other children. She’s not learned how to share yet.’

‘Oh, that’s all right. Priya’s got cousins, so she’s used to it.’ The woman sounded amused. She seemed friendly, her face thin and pretty in a gentle way, with lively eyes that seemed to hold a hint of mischief.

‘That must be nice,’ Joanne said wistfully. ‘The cousins, I mean.’

‘Hmm, sometimes it is. But they’re a bit older and they do push her about quite a lot. She’s had to be tough, even though she’s small.’

‘How old is she?’ Joanne asked. The girl looked so little and fragile.

‘Just eighteen months, tomorrow.’

‘
Is
she? I’d never’ve thought she was older than Amy – by two months!’

‘Amy, that’s pretty. What’s your name?’

‘Oh, Joanne. What about you?’

‘Sooky. My name’s Sukhdeep, but it sounds just a bit rude in English if you say it the wrong way, so everyone calls me Sooky.’ She gave a surprisingly full-throated laugh and the mischief in her eyes increased.

‘Well, I suppose – if you think of it that way!’ Joanne found herself laughing too, and it was a nice feeling. When was the last time she had laughed?

Sooky looked as if she was about to say something else, but then Tess called from the kitchen door, ‘Children’s drinks are ready!’ Everyone got up and headed for the squash and biscuits, and afterwards there was no chance to talk.

As they were all gathering up their children to leave at the end, though, Sooky pushed her buggy over to Joanne, with Priya already strapped in. Shyly she said, ‘See you next time, maybe?’

Joanne found a smile breaking across her face. ‘Yeah – probably. See you.’

Walking home she popped into the shops to buy bread and a bunch of bananas. She felt suddenly cheerful.

Two

She was in the back room, perched on a stool beside Amy’s high chair, feeding her lunch, when the front door opened, then slammed shut. Joanne froze.

Previously Dave always used to shout her name when he came in. ‘Jo?’ Wherever she was in the house. Now, though, he’d taken to creeping in, as if he thought he’d catch her at something.

There was a long moment of silence, then his footsteps, Dave standing in the doorway, tall with close-cropped fair hair, vivid blue eyes, broad shoulders in a black T-shirt, his well-fitting jeans smeared with grease. Even when he was dirty he always looked neat.

‘Dada!’ Amy cried, looking up from smooshing carrots into the tray of the high chair. A band of sunlight through the window lit up her pale hair.

Dave’s lips twitched into a half-smile. Joanne felt relief pump through her. It was all right. He seemed to be in a good mood.

‘All right?’ she said carefully.

The smile vanished. He leaned up against the doorframe, weight on one leg, a hand pushed into his jeans pocket, watching them. His expression was blank, but to her it felt menacing.

His eyes roved round the room as if gathering evidence, his glance taking in the table pushed against the wall opposite the window. None of what was on it – yesterday’s paper, a couple of bits of junk mail, Amy’s red record book from the Health Visitor – had been moved since this morning. Joanne hadn’t bothered to sit for breakfast; she had stood eating toast in the kitchen before she set out. Nothing about the rest of the room – the three chairs, two pushed in under the table and an old brown easy chair, Amy’s toy box on the brown-and-fawn carpet squares or the spider plant on the windowsill – gave him anything to pick on.

He stared hard at her.

‘Where’ve you been?’ His voice was quiet, as if getting warmed up for something. He looked as if a dark cloud was hanging over him.

‘Been? To the toddler group at the church.’ She spoke lightly, feeding Amy a snippet of fish finger. ‘I did tell you I was going.’

‘You never.’

She knew she had; she wouldn’t have dared not to. These days it felt as if he knew when she went in and out of the house, even when he was streets away, working at the garage.

‘Maybe you’ve forgotten – you’ve got a lot to do.’ She forced herself to sound good-natured, respectful; anything to defuse his mood.

‘Where is this
toddler
group then?’ It sounded contemptuous, the way he said it.

‘Villa Road, the church at the end. She did some nice painting, didn’t you, babby, eh? Look, you’ve still got a bit on your hands.’

Amy looked up at the mention of painting and clapped. There was proof in the rusty smudges between her fingers.

‘So . . .’ He kept his voice casual. ‘Who d’yer talk to?’

‘Hardly anyone really. A couple of the other moms. It’s all women . . .’

‘No men?’

‘No – it’s a
mother
and toddler group.’

He fixed her with that stare again. It was something he had started doing over the last few months, his face stony, his eyes wide, boring into her as if trying to nail her to the wall. It made her feel trapped and, increasingly now, afraid.

Ignore it
, her inner sense told her, but her heart was already off on its sickening thump, thump.

Then the cloud seemed to clear. It was as if he had been struggling with something inside him and it had released. She saw him relax, move to perch on the arm of the chair and smile at Amy. Joanne’s breathing came more easily.

‘D’you want some dinner then?’ She cleared Amy’s tray away, wiping the child’s hands and lifting her down. ‘There’s some chicken in the fridge; and I bought fresh bread . . .’

‘Nah, been to the chippy; that Paki place.’

‘Cuppa then? There’s some cake left – chocolate.’

She’d baked it for him: he liked her to do womanish things like baking and ironing. If she tried hard enough, she felt, she could get things back to how they used to be, when everything was easy between them.

‘All right then: a quick one. Then I’ll have to get back.’

And everything was normal again, for the moment. She made him tea and they sat playing with Amy.

‘Nice cake,’ Dave said, through a big mouthful.

He told her they were having a slow day – that was why he had managed to get home. And that Al, who worked for him at the garage, was planning on getting married.

‘What – him and Lesley, all of a sudden?’ Joanne laughed. ‘Why’re they bothering?’

Al was in his forties, and he and Lesley already had three children.

Dave shrugged. ‘Dunno – she wants to. Wants a wedding, I s’pose. The girls’re going to be bridesmaids.’

‘Oh,’ Joanne said. She stroked Amy’s head. ‘Maybe we should’ve waited. Had Amy as our bridesmaid.’

Dave laughed, shaking his head. ‘Nah. It’s better to do things proper, like.’

They cracked some jokes about Al and Lesley, saying they might as well have waited to collect their pensions and paid for the wedding that way. Then Dave stood up, brushing crumbs off his jeans.

‘Anyroad . . . Got to get back.’ He put his mug down and stood up, saying lightly, ‘You won’t be going out again?’

‘Well, it’s a nice day. I thought I’d take her out to the swings and . . .’ She hesitated. Things had been going so well, but she’d better prepare the ground now.

‘What?’ A dangerous edge was back in his voice.

‘Tomorrow – you haven’t forgotten? I promised Mom to go over and help get ready for her birthday. She’s not feeling too bright . . .’

‘When is she ever? She’s like a bloody zombie, that woman.’

Joanne bit back an angry retort. It wasn’t as if Mom was easy, either. Instead she said, ‘She just wants a bit of help. I can take Amy over . . .’

He’d gone all tight again, full of resentment.

‘We’re only going to do a bit of cleaning,’ she said. ‘Amy can play – that’s all.’

Again she saw the struggle going on in his head. What did he imagine? She could see that he wanted to stop her, tell her she couldn’t go, but he managed to reason his way out of it. He shrugged.

‘All right then. Here, give us a kiss.’

She kissed him and then lifted Amy up.

‘Kiss Dadda goodbye.’

The front door slammed behind him. Joanne stood and took several deep breaths. Everything was all right. They had had dinner, talked. Nothing had happened.

Three

‘Excuse me – can yer let me sit down?’

From her annoyed tone, Joanne realized that it wasn’t the first time the woman had asked.

‘Yes, sorry.’ She moved her bag and pulled Amy in even closer on to her lap. The elderly woman dropped down into the seat, breathing chestily as the bus crawled under the Hockley flyover. Joanne faced the window. It was a hazy day outside. The woman beside her made clucking noises at Amy, but Joanne didn’t turn and look. She hadn’t the energy to talk.

It took two buses to get across town to her mom’s. Joanne had grown up in Kings Heath and each time it was like returning to childhood again: Mom and Dad still in the same smoke-filled terrace near the baths, her younger sister Karen still living bossily at home. The place never changed. She never looked forward to going very much; it sapped her energy. But she felt responsible for Mom – always had.

As the bus swooped gently down into town she thought: well, at least last night was all right. In the afternoon she’d taken Amy out to Handsworth Park, where they’d fed the ducks. Bits of Mother’s Pride and torn-up chapattis floated on the surface of the water. Amy had loved it. Joanne watched her adoringly, in grateful wonder at her daughter’s settled, happy disposition. Once home, she’d made sure Dave’s tea was ready – pork chops, which he especially liked. He’d phoned at six, apologetic, like his old, sweet self.

‘We’ve had this bloke in with a flash BMW – wants it done straight away. He’s made it worth our while. So I’ll be late, can’t say how long.’

‘That’s all right,’ she’d said, relief flowing through her. ‘Your dinner’ll keep. I’ll get Amy to bed – you take your time.’

There was a silence, then in barely more than a whisper he said, ‘You’ll be there, won’t you, babe?’

‘Course I will.’ In that moment she was touched by his need of her, as well as confused by his moods. ‘Where else’d I be going?’

‘Love yer,’ he’d mumbled gruffly.

She hesitated; she hoped not long enough for him to notice. ‘Love you too.’

What fantasy world did he live in, she wondered as she put the phone down, thinking she might conduct some affair in the hour or so that he was out late, with a young child to get bathed and into bed? It was all so ridiculous, the way he tormented himself – and her – with his crazed fears.

It hadn’t always been like this. It had mainly started since Amy, and this was the strange part of it. Looking back, Dave had had reasons to be downcast and angry with life. He’d had his shocks and disappointments: his dad dying the way he did, for a start. But he’d seemed to ride that and get over it. Basically he’d been a cheerful, lively lad, her Dave, the feller she’d given up everything else for. But then, just when something good happened – Amy arriving – he had started to change. Things began to happen that she would never have dreamed of before.

The first time he’d actually gone for her was nearly six months ago. It had been fireworks night, and Amy was already asleep, oblivious to the noise. Joanne didn’t know what had set Dave off. He’d been in a bit of a mood, but she didn’t know why.

He’d gone out the back to their little patch of garden to put bagged-up nappies in the dustbin, and she’d come out to stand on the back step. The air smelt of gunpowder, or whatever that stuff was they put in fireworks. There was a blue tinge to the night and coloured sparks spraying high above the rooftops. Every few seconds there were bangs and voices cheering and ‘ooooh’-ing. What with Guy Fawkes and Diwali, the whining and exploding of fireworks went on for weeks at that time of year, but this was the peak night.

Dave came and stood beside her. He was wearing jeans as usual and a big, dark-blue sweat shirt. She remembered that he had seemed disembodied: in the dim flashes of light, his face was the only part of him that was visible.

Except the fist that came swinging round when he hit her. Hard.

What had they been talking about? This and that, or so she thought. Pink sparks fizzed across the sky in front of them, lending a glow to the houses behind.

‘Funny, isn’t it,’ Dave had said suddenly. ‘All them people out there. All in their little boxes – thousands of ’em.’

‘All getting into bed every night,’ she’d said with a giggle.

She remembered he had rocked on his feet a bit when she said that, as if thinking about it. As usual he had his hands in his pockets. He was a big man – bigger now that he had stopped playing football and was drinking more. She had been standing with her arms folded, keeping warm.

‘You won’t be out there, seeing many of ’em, now will you? All those . . . milling crowds of people.’ He sounded disgusted. ‘Not now we’ve got Amy.’

‘Well, not till I get back to work,’ she said.

He was standing on her right. When he twisted round and punched her, the blow smashed into her right collar bone. She didn’t know if he’d misjudged in the dark, had meant to get her face or even a breast.

‘Wha . . . ?’ She gasped as pain jarred through her, clutching at her neck, and staggered forward into the garden.

‘You ain’t going nowhere.’ Even in her agony she could hear the extreme rage in his voice. ‘I don’t want you to. I earn the wages in this house, and you can bloody well stay at home like a proper wife and look after your daughter. That’s how it’s going to be. Got it?’