upstairs, and I emailed the thing off without a second thought. Gone. See? Motherhood wasn’t the only thing I could do. Lying came as easily as breathing.
The next morning, I dropped in to see my mum. She and my dad still lived in our old family home, a three-bedroom semi in Tooting, with its spotless net curtains and gleaming ornaments arranged neatly on every surface. Everything was just as it had been when I’d grown up there. Same carpets, same curtains, same layout of the furniture. The only difference I noticed whenever I came back, fifteen years after moving out, was the change of soundtrack. No more thumping music from Cat’s stereo. No more low giggles from Lizzie, sitting on the stairs, twiddling the phone cord around her fingers as she chatted to her mates. Nowadays I walked in and heard the kettle hissing, the Hoover rumbling or – if my mum was in a frivolous mood – Frank Sinatra.
Molly went to play with the jangly bead curtain and fridge magnets in the kitchen, as always, while I plopped Nathan on the floor to practise rolling, and sipped my scalding tea.
‘I take it you’ve heard about Mrs Green,’Mum said, perching on the edge of an armchair. My mum never seemed to sit comfortably in her own home. She always perched, as if she was ready to fly up and knock together a cauldron of savoury mince at any moment. I knew she’d be thinking of all the things she had to do before going to the school for dinner-lady duty, like ironing my dad’s socks or getting out the chicken to defrost for tomorrow’s tea. Even in her late fifties, she was every inch the diligent housewife, the domestic goddess of Fernwood Terrace.
‘Mrs Green?’ I frowned, wondering who the hell Mrs Green was. ‘No.’
She clucked her tongue. ‘Did Lizzie not tell you? Well!’ She put her cup down on the saucer. ‘It’s lung cancer. They’re devastated, of course. Six months, the doctors are giving her.’
‘That’s terrible,’ I said, racking my brains for some memory of the poor woman I was obviously meant to know.
‘Isn’t it just? With her Leanne almost eight months gone, and the father nowhere to be seen as well.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what the world’s coming to, I really don’t.’ I saw her looking down fondly at Nathan, who was trying to get over onto his front. ‘’Course, you’re all right, aren’t you, bubs?’ she said. Down went the cup and saucer on a polished side table, and there she was, hoicking him up in the air to nuzzle his hair. ‘I said, you’re all right, aren’t you, eh? Got a smile for your grandma, then?’
Nathan beamed at her and batted a fat hand in her vague direction.
‘Isn’t he Grandma’s little pickle, then? Isn’t he Grandma’s little darlin’?’ Then her tone changed. ‘Ooh, is that a tooth he’s got coming there?’ She squinted into his mouth. ‘Is that a toothy-peg, my little chubkin?’
I got to my feet in interest. ‘I hadn’t noticed anything,’ I said. ‘Where?’
‘Oh, I think it is,’ she said, expertly running a finger along his lower gums. ‘Right here. My Nathie-wathie got his first little toothy coming, hmmm?’
My hands twitched. ‘Can I see?’ I asked.
She passed him over. ‘’Course, you’ll want to put some clove oil on that, if it starts bothering him,’ she said, pursing her lips. ‘Shall I see if I’ve got some? Your dad uses it on his teeth sometimes.’
‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘I’ve got some homeopathic stuff for teething back at home.’
She stopped in her tracks. ‘Right,’ she said doubtfully. There was a pause. ‘Because I used clove oil for you three, and it was wonderful. That and a dab of brandy if you were screaming your heads off!’
‘I’ll see how he goes,’ I said. ‘He might not be too bothered by it. Molly’s teeth came through without too much palaver.’
My mum was still on her feet, poised to make a dash for the clove oil at the slightest sign of encouragement.
The next morning, I dropped in to see my mum. She and my dad still lived in our old family home, a three-bedroom semi in Tooting, with its spotless net curtains and gleaming ornaments arranged neatly on every surface. Everything was just as it had been when I’d grown up there. Same carpets, same curtains, same layout of the furniture. The only difference I noticed whenever I came back, fifteen years after moving out, was the change of soundtrack. No more thumping music from Cat’s stereo. No more low giggles from Lizzie, sitting on the stairs, twiddling the phone cord around her fingers as she chatted to her mates. Nowadays I walked in and heard the kettle hissing, the Hoover rumbling or – if my mum was in a frivolous mood – Frank Sinatra.
Molly went to play with the jangly bead curtain and fridge magnets in the kitchen, as always, while I plopped Nathan on the floor to practise rolling, and sipped my scalding tea.
‘I take it you’ve heard about Mrs Green,’Mum said, perching on the edge of an armchair. My mum never seemed to sit comfortably in her own home. She always perched, as if she was ready to fly up and knock together a cauldron of savoury mince at any moment. I knew she’d be thinking of all the things she had to do before going to the school for dinner-lady duty, like ironing my dad’s socks or getting out the chicken to defrost for tomorrow’s tea. Even in her late fifties, she was every inch the diligent housewife, the domestic goddess of Fernwood Terrace.
‘Mrs Green?’ I frowned, wondering who the hell Mrs Green was. ‘No.’
She clucked her tongue. ‘Did Lizzie not tell you? Well!’ She put her cup down on the saucer. ‘It’s lung cancer. They’re devastated, of course. Six months, the doctors are giving her.’
‘That’s terrible,’ I said, racking my brains for some memory of the poor woman I was obviously meant to know.
‘Isn’t it just? With her Leanne almost eight months gone, and the father nowhere to be seen as well.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what the world’s coming to, I really don’t.’ I saw her looking down fondly at Nathan, who was trying to get over onto his front. ‘’Course, you’re all right, aren’t you, bubs?’ she said. Down went the cup and saucer on a polished side table, and there she was, hoicking him up in the air to nuzzle his hair. ‘I said, you’re all right, aren’t you, eh? Got a smile for your grandma, then?’
Nathan beamed at her and batted a fat hand in her vague direction.
‘Isn’t he Grandma’s little pickle, then? Isn’t he Grandma’s little darlin’?’ Then her tone changed. ‘Ooh, is that a tooth he’s got coming there?’ She squinted into his mouth. ‘Is that a toothy-peg, my little chubkin?’
I got to my feet in interest. ‘I hadn’t noticed anything,’ I said. ‘Where?’
‘Oh, I think it is,’ she said, expertly running a finger along his lower gums. ‘Right here. My Nathie-wathie got his first little toothy coming, hmmm?’
My hands twitched. ‘Can I see?’ I asked.
She passed him over. ‘’Course, you’ll want to put some clove oil on that, if it starts bothering him,’ she said, pursing her lips. ‘Shall I see if I’ve got some? Your dad uses it on his teeth sometimes.’
‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘I’ve got some homeopathic stuff for teething back at home.’
She stopped in her tracks. ‘Right,’ she said doubtfully. There was a pause. ‘Because I used clove oil for you three, and it was wonderful. That and a dab of brandy if you were screaming your heads off!’
‘I’ll see how he goes,’ I said. ‘He might not be too bothered by it. Molly’s teeth came through without too much palaver.’
My mum was still on her feet, poised to make a dash for the clove oil at the slightest sign of encouragement.
Similar Books
