Sins of the Mother (2 page)

There was a time, many years ago, when we had been really close. I was a real Daddy’s girl, following him around like a shadow. My mum had been married before and my two older brothers
Justin and Philip, and older sister Anna, were from her previous relationship. They were all in their twenties now and lived in Ireland. I was my parents’ only child together and there was a
big age gap between me and the others so they hadn’t played with me when I was little. But since I was Dad’s only child, he doted on me. He was a practical man, a painter and decorator
by trade, and he used to let me help out with all his jobs around the house. I never left his side and I loved it. He was a really good artist and he taught me how to draw. I’d help him with
his painting, woodwork, gardening – you name it, we did it together. But as I got older something changed suddenly. It felt like he didn’t want me around.

These days if he said he was going to do some woodwork in his shed and I asked to help him, he’d tell me no. ‘You stay here,’ he’d say. ‘I won’t be
long.’

We barely spoke any more, except to argue. Dad refused to let me grow up. I was fifteen years old and, still, I wasn’t allowed to go into town with my friends on my own, let alone to the
cinema or, God forbid, parties. So instead, I signed myself up to all the after-school clubs, just to get me out of the house. I’d even had to fight him to let me walk to school on my own
once I started senior school. And boys? Forget it! Lucas, a lad who lived across the street, was a friend of mine and one day he asked me out. I was dying to say yes because I liked him too, but I
knew my dad would never allow it. He didn’t even let my male friends come in the house – they had to wait on the doorstep. It was crazy – he didn’t trust anyone.

He didn’t even trust Mum or me. Dad had a habit of hiding all his stuff. He had a lot of secret compartments in the house and all his possessions were kept out of sight. So if, say, I
wanted to borrow a book or his computer I’d have to ask and he would get it out of a hidden drawer that I didn’t even know was there. All his stuff was secreted around the house in
funny little hidden places. Did he think we were going to steal them?

At least my dad was predictable – sullen, strict, secretive and uncommunicative, yes, but predictable. With Mum, I never really knew where I stood or what mood she would be in from one day
to the next. She had always suffered with her ‘moods’ – that was something I had grown up with. We all knew there were times that Mum would ‘go under’ – then
she’d take herself off to her room and lock herself away for a few days at a time, not coming out to eat or wash herself. It usually went away after a little while and then she was back to
her normal, energetic self. But recently the moods had worsened and become more frequent.

Right now, she was in the middle of one of her ‘bad episodes’ and hadn’t left the house in about a week. She hadn’t even changed out of her pyjamas the last few days and
her greasy, unwashed hair lay lank against her face, while her eyes were always puffy from crying. The rare times she did leave her bedroom to go to the toilet her face was a mask of misery. I
didn’t know what made her like this or why she got so upset.

She often put her music on loud to drown out the sound of her sobbing but it didn’t really work. I could always tell. And then there was the banging. I knew, I just knew that she was
banging her head against the wall. But I couldn’t do anything. The door was always locked. From the youngest age, these moods frightened me.

‘Mum, what’s wrong?’ I’d call out to her through the door, tears stinging my own eyes. ‘Can I help? Please open the door and let me in.’

But she never did. ‘Mum, please!’

‘Leave your mother alone,’ Dad would chide gently from downstairs. ‘She’s having a bad day. Leave her alone now. She’ll be fine tomorrow.’

Dad never seemed upset when Mum was like this – he was just stern with me, worried I might upset her further. It was confusing. I mean, I knew this wasn’t normal, even if I
didn’t know what was wrong.

In the last few months, it had taken Mum longer and longer to return to her normal self again. I used to think it was my fault – that I had made her miserable somehow,
though I didn’t know how. I just wanted to make things right. But now, at fifteen years old, it didn’t upset me any more; if anything it just made me resentful.

Why can’t you be like a normal mum?
I seethed silently in my head as she trudged round upstairs like a zombie. Night after night I came home to a dark, empty house. No kisses or
cuddles for me, no ‘here’s your dinner, darling’ or ‘how was your day, sweetheart?’ Nope – just silence. We were like planets orbiting around each other, never
coming close enough to touch.

There had been one fun holiday, I remember, many years before when we had gone up to stay in a little cottage in Scotland for a week. I was about nine at the time and we went on walks on the
beach every day and played in the sea. That had been lovely, and Mum and Dad had both been in good moods – there were no arguments the whole time. But apart from that, I didn’t have any
happy memories of my mum as a young child.

Further up the road now, a bunch of small kids swerved around me on their bikes, laughing and shouting to one another, weaving dangerously close to the cars. My heart lurched suddenly and then I
felt a wave of anger.
What are these kids even doing out on their own without adult supervision? Where are their parents?
I would never have been allowed to play out like this as a child.
That’s partly why I was such a success at school. I was predicted good grades for my GCSEs and my parents had high hopes for my education. Well, I didn’t have anything else to do so I
had thrown myself into my schoolwork.

The only other time I got to leave the house was for my job at the weekend. I was a chef’s assistant in the kitchen of a homeless hostel every Saturday and Sunday, from 8 a.m. till 4 p.m.
It paid £12 a day, which was just enough money to help pay for my bus pass and any extra bits I needed for school. Though as a family we’d never really had any money, it riled me
sometimes that Mum and Dad didn’t even have enough to get me the basics like books or shoes. Since we were on benefits, I’d long since given up asking them for money but I just
couldn’t work out why Mum or Dad couldn’t get a job.

‘Not right now,’ Mum would shake her head when I asked her if she could get a small job to help us out.

‘What about Dad?’ I asked her then. ‘Dad could get a job.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Mum replied slowly. And that was it – no explanation, no discussion. If only they told me things occasionally, perhaps I could understand! But they
treated me like a stranger.

When the opportunity came up to earn my own cash, when I was thirteen, I jumped. Mum wasn’t happy at first but I soon persuaded her – after all, if they weren’t going to give
me money, they had to let me earn it somehow. And I loved working in the kitchen. For one thing, it got me out of the house. I’d already spent years dreading the long, boring weekends stuck
at home with Mum and Dad. I’d listen enviously each Friday as my friends would describe their exciting plans ahead – trips with their parents to the cinema, a meal out or even a visit
to their grandparents had me green with envy. I’d listen and smile, yet all the while a little voice in my head screamed out:
Take me too! Take me too!
We never went out together
– my parents just didn’t have the money. No, no – that’s not true. We went to the cinema twice in my life: once to see
James and the Giant Peach
and once to see
Godzilla.
That was it.

It was all down to money, they said, but over time I began to question whether it was just that they didn’t like to go out. It’s not like they took me to the free places either, like
the park, the library or the museums. Nope, that’s wrong again.
Once.
Dad had taken me to the park
once
in my whole life. Generally, they were quite content to just stay at
home. It was infuriating and mind-numbingly dull.

The only friend my dad approved of was called Rosie and she lived in the house opposite – occasionally I was allowed to play at hers but apart from that, most weekends were spent in my
room going slowly, silently mad. So getting out every Saturday and Sunday was a novelty. On top of that, I was learning how to cook. This was useful since Mum had long since given up cooking.

There had been a time, many years before, when Mum made meals from scratch like stews, pies and soup. Her Irish stew in fact was amazing. But those days were long gone. Gradually, as my mum
stopped cooking, my older sister took over in the kitchen and I would come back from school to her freshly made shepherd’s pies or delicious curries so I didn’t really notice at first
that Mum didn’t cook. But when Anna left home for good at nineteen Mum resorted to shoving frozen chips and burgers in the oven. Dad only ever ate toast and bowls of cereal and Mum, well, she
barely ate at all. She was thin as a rake and I almost never saw food pass her lips. She had short blonde hair and her face was very drawn so she always looked older than her years.

I was twelve when, fed up with freezer food, I started to teach myself to cook. At first, I made a lot of stuff from packets and tins, but thanks to my chef’s assistant job I learned a
decent number of recipes and started cooking proper meals like curries, pasta bakes, risotto and stir-fried noodles. I even tried to encourage my parents to eat with me, but neither seemed that
interested. Mum occasionally tasted my food and sometimes she even managed half a bowl of curry, but she didn’t have normal eating times so I started to freeze meals for her so she could eat
whenever she was hungry.

Some days, it felt like I was the parent. Once upon a time they had both worked and I barely saw them because they had jobs – now, at fifteen years old, I was the only one working in our
house, making the meals and trying to encourage my parents to eat. I wouldn’t have minded so much but the stillness, the quietness of the house, got to me. At one time I longed for a baby
brother or sister to play with. Each year they bought me a new board game for Christmas and every time my heart sank as I read the instructions on the side of the box: For 2 or more players.
Gradually, I realized it wasn’t going to happen and, when I turned thirteen, Mum confirmed that she couldn’t have any more children. It just wasn’t possible.

I turned down the pathway that led between the houses on the main road. Large railings on either side instantly muffled the roar of the traffic. I wondered if it would be
another quiet night tonight or if they’d be arguing again. Over the years, Mum and Dad had perfected the art of rowing and on more than one occasion I’d come home to find Mum’s
bags packed and ready at the door. A sense of glum resignation settled over me now as I emerged from the pathway and onto the quiet backstreet, turning left towards our cul-de-sac. I could see our
end-of-terrace semi now, with its neat front garden and perfectly mown lawn.

One time Mum had actually left. It was funny because she hadn’t said anything beforehand – there hadn’t even been a big row.

‘I’m going to see my friend Ellen today,’ she’d told me casually that morning as I’d hurriedly wolfed down my breakfast before school.

‘Mmm, that’s nice . . .’ I’d mumbled.

‘I’ll be back in time for tea.’

But Mum wasn’t there when I got home after school and teatime came and went without any sign of her. By 7 p.m. she still wasn’t home and I started to worry. I asked Dad if he knew
where she was. He just shrugged in response. So I went upstairs and, rifling through Mum’s drawers, I discovered she’d taken half her clothes and her suitcase. Alarmed, I called my
brothers and sister in Ireland but none of them had seen her. Anna seemed really panicked when I told her Mum had disappeared but Philip, who had always been closest to our mum, was calm and
reassuring on the phone: ‘Look, she knows what she’s doing and if she needs to get away, she needs to get away. Just relax – she’ll be back when she’s
ready.’

‘Dad, aren’t you worried?’ I asked him that night. ‘Mum’s gone! She’s taken off!’

‘Ah, she’ll be home soon,’ he frowned, flicking the channels with the remote control. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

But of course I worried about it. Mum had never left home before and certainly not without a warning. His indifference was baffling. She was a missing person, surely! What if something had
happened to her? What if she was in trouble and needed our help? Days went by and, despite the fact Dad didn’t seem worried, I felt increasingly panicked and upset.

Finally, three days after she disappeared, the phone rang. ‘It’s me,’ she said. ‘Look, I just had to get away for a few days. I’m in Liverpool staying with a
friend. Don’t worry. It’s not because of you and I’m going to come home soon. I promise.’

It was weird frankly that Mum even had a friend in Liverpool! She only ever talked about her one friend in Manchester; other than that she never saw or spoke about anyone. But I had to accept
what she told me and she was as good as her word. A week after she disappeared she came home but she didn’t say anything. Both she and my dad acted like nothing had happened. It was
maddening, as usual! I wanted to ask them what it was all about but I knew they’d just fob me off with something meaningless. On top of that, I was still worried about Mum’s behaviour.
The way she had acted was just so strange and out of the blue. I knew nothing about mental illness at the time but I guess I felt deep inside that something wasn’t right with her.

I flipped up the latch on our wrought-iron garden gate and pulled it shut behind me before walking up the pathway towards our green front door. I wondered what lay behind this door today.
Quietness, crying or shouting? Was Dad awake? Was Mum dressed yet? Had anyone bothered to make tea? I pulled out my front door key and fitted it in the keyhole. Then I turned it till it clicked
and, hefting my shoulder against it, pushed the door open.

2

JENNIFER