M Word Page 4

  Everyone’s forgotten about Shakespeare scenes and art school assignments. It’s good being a full-time student.

  ‘What are we going to call this band?’ I go.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about this,’ Alfie goes. We prick up. ‘What about Four Tops?’

  ‘I think that band already exists,’ Plum states.

  ‘Four Seasons then?’ Alfie adds.

  ‘Like the hotel?’ Davis goes.

  ‘If I can just say,’ Plum pipes, ‘I think that band name also exists.’

  ‘And what’s with all the numbers?’ I go.

  ‘Stop!’ Davis booms, putting his hand in the air. ‘Maybe next meeting each person has to come with at least one potential band name.’

  ‘Agreed,’ I go.

  ‘Agreed,’ Alfie goes.

  ‘Yes, fine,’ Plum goes.

  ‘And it has to start with the something,’ Davis adds.

  ‘Agreed?’ we all go.

  We talk so much that Davis and Alfie miss their dick-flick. I care zero per cent.

  It’s pissing down. We huddle in a bus shelter outside Cineworld. Alfie and Plum sit on the metal bench, knees and fingers touching. I try not to watch. Feel like a complete gooseberry. I sort of give Davis a toothy grin. He smiles. We say nothing, like our lips are sewn up. I’d walk the discomfort away if it wasn’t belting it down. Alfie and Plum peck each other. God!

  I stare straight ahead and imagine snogging Davis; imagine hooking my arms around his waist, him fixing his around mine. He puts his tongue in my mouth, more than the tip. I’m not mad on exhibition kissing, but I go with it. Enjoy it. No, love it.

  Everything is so wet; I despise rain.

  When my bus arrives, I sneak on through the back doors. Heart chugging all the way home. White-knuckle ride.

  Chippy

  I’ve a major spring in my step, dead excited about telling Mum I’m going to be the cool singer in a band. How in a few years I might be able to buy her a better gaff or whisk her away to the sun or get her fashionable clothes. Can’t wait to put a smile on her chops, make her proud of me for doing something other than darkening her door.

  I practically sprint from the bus stop.

  ‘Mum, guess what?’ I shout as soon as I enter the house. ‘Mum!’

  There’s still some light outside yet she’s got the house as dark as a sex pest’s dungeon.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘In here,’ she goes from the living room.

  I burst in.

  ‘I’m going to be the lead singer in a new band.’

  ‘That’s great,’ Mum goes with all the enthusiasm of a used tampon.

  ‘Did you hear me?’

  ‘I heard.’

  ‘I’m going to be in a band.’

  ‘Sounds great, Maggie,’ she goes without looking up.

  Honestly, FFS.

  ‘Dead dark in here. Want me to open the blinds?’ I go, really wanting to yank them off the wall and javelin them at her face.

  ‘No, leave them closed.’

  Here I am delivering positive news, something that could be corner-turning, something to ‘channel all my energies into’ as Earth Mother Anna would say, and Mum’s doing that adult thing that annoys the living crap out of me: she’s yanking all the joy from it cos, obviously, my life’s so insignificant compared to hers.

  ‘It’s a real band,’ I go.

  ‘So you’ve said.’

  Stuff it! I’m opening those blinds, and I do. Pull the chord halfway. What’s she going to do – throttle me for illuminating her life? Let’s see how that one plays out with social workers and the NSPCC.

  There’s a rainbow in the sky; the final blast of the sun squints her face. You’d think she’s in Ibiza or something the way she shields against it. No doubt she’s been sitting on her arse all day, sucking nicotine into her lungs. Place looks worse than a piggery.

  ‘What do you think about it then?’ I go.

  ‘It’s fantastic.’

  ‘We don’t have a name yet, not a proper one anyway, but we will soon, then we’ll start actual rehearsals and I guess we’ll do some gigs. Then, after that, who knows.’

  ‘I’m thrilled for you, Maggie,’ she goes.

  Thrilled?

  Really?

  Could’ve fooled me.

  Man, it’s as if I’d just told her I’m up the duff. With twins. Don’t know who the dad is. Could be one of many.

  Anyway, I’m sure she’ll blow her mind when she sees us play. Might even crack a giggle.

  ‘What’s for dinner?’ I go.

  ‘Oh, I didn’t have time to pick anything up.’

  ‘I’ll have a look.’ I head to the kitchen.

  Fridge: same, nothing exciting.

  Freezer: some meat thing, fish fingers, skinny burgers, half a loaf.

  Cupboard: pasta, beans, tomato ketchup.

  I want chips.

  ‘Mum!’ I shout.

  ‘What?’ she shouts back.

  ‘There’s nothing here.’

  ‘There’s soup.’

  ‘Don’t want soup.’

  ‘There’s beans.’

  ‘I want chips.’

  ‘Look in the freezer.’

  ‘Not frozen chips.’

  ‘Well, have soup then.’

  ‘Can I have two quid for the chippy?’

  Nothing.

  I can’t see her but I know she’s pure sighing. As if I’d just asked for a wrap of smack and a pair of Louboutins.

  ‘Mum?’

  Nothing.

  ‘MUM?’

  FFS.

  I go into the living room again.

  ‘Sake, Mum. I’m shouting.’

  ‘Maggie, don’t start.’

  Don’t start? Don’t start what? I’ve steam billowing. Close to throwing a wobbly. And totally not my fault.

  ‘I only asked for two quid to get some chips.’

  ‘I’ve had a rough day.’

  ‘What, sitting there?’

  ‘No, I haven’t been sitting here. I’ve been down the social all day, trying to get money out of them. I’m tired. I’m annoyed. So, just cut me a little slack, OK?’

  ‘What did they say? Did they give you money?’

  ‘They just told me what I was entitled to.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Fifty-seven ninety a week.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘Plus twenty-seventy for you.’

  ‘Seventy-seven-odd quid? That’s all?’

  ‘That’s all,’ she goes.

  ‘Is that to pay the rent too?’

  ‘Housing benefit will cover that.’

  ‘You’ll need to pack the fags in,’ I go.

  Her eyes snarl at me.

  ‘I know what needs doing, Maggie, you don’t have to remind me.’

  ‘Just saying.’

  ‘Well, don’t!’

  It’s painful being in her company when she’s a face on her like this.

  ‘So, can I have two quid for the chippy then?’ She frowns. I’m holding my anger in, trying to do that breathing-through-the-nose thing. ‘I’m starving, Mum.’

  She practically fires the coin at my head.

  Should I put my hand on her shoulder to let her know I’m here, that I understand? Clearly I don’t though.

  ‘Thanks,’ I go. ‘You can share mine if you want.’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  I make my way to go, then turn; she’s twirling a fag around her fingers.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did you check for jobs today?’

  ‘Just go to the chippy, Maggie, will you?’

  Comments

  A good few weeks before the Moya thing, some rotten shit was plastered all over Instagram about her; could’ve been on more places as well, never heard. Basically, her cock of a boyfriend posted these pics of her. Nothing nude. Must’ve thought it was some big laugh though. One when she was mangled drunk and conked out on a floor, then anot
her of her lying face down on a bed in her knickers. Wasn’t the pics that was the problem it was all the comments underneath them, which obviously he didn’t give a toss about, otherwise he’d have come out and defended her honour, wouldn’t he? It was mad-vile stuff. Most of the names I didn’t recognise, but there were some from school that I did:

  Total dog!!!!!!!

  Size of that arse, wouldn’t piss on that.

  OMG, did she even wash those knickers?

  Is that an actual girl cos all I’m seeing is a steamin ugly skank?

  Period pants!!!!!!!

  Red neck if that’s someone’s burd

  And that’s not even a quarter of them. God, I was part sad, part mortos for her, and full-on useless.

  I didn’t phone to ask how she was, nor did I tell her I’d seen anything, cos a bit of me was hoping that she hadn’t. Yeah, right, course she hadn’t. We all know that teenagers and social media are like a cancer-injected rocket.

  That night she sent a text: Im comin round

  ‘Can you believe that?’ she went.

  ‘What a pure Weinstein,’ I went. ‘I hope you’ve dumped him, Moya.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That prick boyfriend of yours.’

  ‘Why would I dump him?’

  I was like, are we thinking about the same thing here?

  ‘Cos of those Instagram pics,’ I went.

  ‘What Instagram pics?’

  Oh, fuck, she actually hadn’t seen anything.

  ‘What pics, Mags? Show me.’

  So, I showed her, and know what she said?

  She went:

  ‘He’d just bought a new phone and was trying the camera out.’

  ‘Did he ask your permission?’

  ‘Erm …’

  ‘You’re not even looking at the camera. And the state of you, you’re a pure riot in that one.’

  ‘I know,’ she sniggered. ‘I was buckled.’

  ‘But look at the comments, Moya.’

  She read.

  Didn’t bat an eyelid.

  Didn’t faze her; then I got annoyed at myself for getting annoyed on her behalf, especially when she didn’t give a shit herself. If it’d been me in those pics I’d have wanted blood spilled. Why couldn’t she see it?

  I didn’t go into it with her, wish I had.

  Tears

  It’s not from the music, nothing in the tune’s background. When I turn the volume down, the sound is still there. I put my ear to my door, listen. Short, panting bursts seep from Mum’s room. Definitely crying. I picture her twisted on her bed, knowing that tears have arrived. Pure sobbing her heart out. I know the position. I know the emotion. I know I should go to her, but I can’t. No way.

  Heart

  I turned the volume right down and played the music much softer. I lay there, ear to the mattress, waiting for the short, panting bursts to seep from my body. But I was definitely not crying. I was all twisted on the bed, thinking of what I could have done, trying to pure sob my heart out, but tears just didn’t arrive. Still, these emotions caused my body to ache. Could I have done more for her, gone to her? No way.

  Hugland

  ‘Sit down, love,’ she says when I come in from art school. Mum never calls me ‘love’. This is serious. She’s either won the lottery or it’s something terminal.

  ‘What …’

  ‘Sit down. We need to talk.’

  ‘About what?’ I go, chest chirping at me.

  ‘You’ve probably noticed that I haven’t been myself lately.’

  You?

  What about me?

  What about me, Mum?

  I don’t even know who myself is any more … What about ME, your daughter?

  Remember her?

  I’m here.

  I exist too.

  Truth: Mum’s been an utter headcase since her dinner-lady duties stopped. Lost count of the times I’ve been like, ‘Go have some me time for five minutes. But whatever’s winding you up, can you please get off my case about dirty knickers on the floor or the state of the shower? Nobody cares. Put your brain back in.’ And, get this, last week she was making powdered soup. I noticed her stirring and stirring for ages, not even looking at the pot; totally mongofied, pure glaring at the wall. That’s not the best bit, oh no, cos I freaked out when I actually clocked what was happening: the gas wasn’t lit. I was like, ‘Mum, the gas isn’t on.’

  She just went, ‘Oh, right,’ ignited the flame and stirred her minging soup as if bugger all had happened. My face was like that stupid emoji with the wide eyes.

  I sink into our springless sofa. Mum leans towards me, puts her mitt on top of mine. I’m totally positive it’s something terminal. And all at once I feel like a spoilt-devil daughter. Her hands are moist. She smells like a showerless weekend.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘I haven’t been myself since losing my job,’ she goes.

  ‘Me neither,’ I go, and instantly want to rocket vomit for making it all about my shit. Again.

  ‘I know you haven’t, Maggie. I know that, and I’m sorry I haven’t been fully there for you.’

  ‘You have,’ I go.

  She hasn’t.

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘Well, there’s nothing anyone can do about it now, is there? We just have to get on with it.’

  ‘That’s sensible.’

  ‘Tell me, Mum. Tell me what’s going on.’

  Her head falls to her chest.

  ‘I feel really unhappy, really low.’

  ‘Like bottomless-pit low?’

  ‘Just feel a bit hemmed in, like everything’s dark.’

  Well, open the bloody blinds, woman!

  ‘Are you able to see any light at all?’ The lines in her forehead sink deeper.

  She looks at me as if I’ve had a brain transplant. Like, is this my daughter speaking? It’s a decent question. Truth: these are questions that Anna has put to me in the past. I banked them. Now, nicking them.

  ‘I’m only trying to explain my behaviour, Maggie. I’m aware of what you’re going through, so I don’t want you worrying about me, that’s all.’

  Going through? Funny how we rarely mention the M word these days.

  I take a quick gander at the living room. Place is a complete dive.

  ‘I’m tired all the time,’ she goes. ‘But can’t sleep during the night.’

  ‘So, what do you do?’

  ‘I sit.’

  ‘In darkness?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  My instinct is to say, ‘What, like a mental patient?’ but I restrain myself. I don’t contort my face.

  ‘What, just sitting doing nothing?’ I go.

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘Is it cos you’re worried about me?’

  ‘I worry about lots of things.’

  ‘Money?’

  ‘That never leaves me.’

  ‘Is that why you cry?’

  ‘Partly, but my body tells me to cry. I can’t stop it.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  Her hand clasps her mouth; she shakes her head. It rocks actually. I’ve an urge to hug her, which would be super weird. We don’t exactly come from a long line of huggers.

  ‘I’m not sure, Maggie. All I know is that I want to feel like my old self again.’

  ‘Really?’ I go, all sarky-chops.

  Then she starts bawling.

  Shit!

  She needs me to step up, take action. Maybe I should hoover or dust. This isn’t some randomer who needs me, it’s my mum. Love is a verb, Maggie. Do something. Act. I slowly reach out and place my hands on her elbow. Mum responds with one of those grimace-smirks. Then she practically falls on to me, howling her heart out. I don’t know where to look or what to do with my hands, so I wipe tears from her face and hold her like a baby. What else am I supposed to do? There’s no manual on this, people.

  Her cheap mascara stains my fingers and white T-shirt too. No soap powder alive will get this cra
p out. Good mind to storm straight into Primark, kicking and screaming: ‘Here, you lot, your mascara is a total rip-off. It’s not even sad proof. Money back now or this place is getting wrecked!’

  After breaking our hug we sit in silence for a bit. Mum stares at the blank TV screen. My muscles are tense, wondering what she’s thinking. I mull over what songs could be played at a funeral. Her belly goes up and down and I try to follow the rhythm, to be at one with her.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m sad that you’re sad. I don’t want you to be.’

  ‘It’s going to be OK, Maggie. It’s losing my job that’s …’

  ‘How’s the search going?’

  ‘Disastrously,’ she goes, looking much sadder. Some help I am.

  ‘Don’t worry, something will …’ I stop myself mid-flow cos thinking about her plonked here miserable all day scares the shit out of me. People do stupid things when they’re skint and directionless, when they’re so paralysed they can’t think straight. The fucking stupid bastards do fucking stupid things cos they’re fucking stupid bastards. She can’t turn into stupid; I won’t let her. I won’t let it happen again.

  A tear drips and falls on my tights. Moist. Looks like an exploded map of Scotland on my thigh. Bit of dust from the rank carpet must have shot into my eye.

  Yeah, right.

  Piss off, Moya, this isn’t your time.

  Oh, God, Mum’s noticed my eyes.

  ‘Come here,’ she goes, and pure love assaults me again.

  I gasp for air, my belly shudders; body moves with the tempo of hers. She puts her hands on the back of my head, squeezes her cheek into my neck. Think she wants to tell me everything’s going to be fine and how she’ll always be there for me. Shouldn’t I be the one doing that?

  She releases me. My head’s throbbing. Raging cos I let Moya in again. I let her make it all about me and disregard Mum. It’s a pressure cooker inside me. Heat rising. Something’s building. I boot a glass that’s sitting on the floor. Breaks into three tidy bits. No need to hoover.