Phosphorescence by Raffaella Barker Page B

hat and his daily stroll along the quay getting slower every year with his encroaching arthritis. In London, I don’t know a soul on our street, and the youth in the newspaper shop never acknowledges me with so much as a flicker of recognition, no matter how often I go in for chewing gum and phonecards.
    The window in my room is stuck shut and Mum is working too hard to get it fixed, or so she says. I asked on Monday after a restless night, and then again on Tuesday and Wednesday.
    â€˜I’m sorry, darling, could you organize it yourself?’ Mum says finally.
    This is the last straw. I am a child, not a caretaker. I slam out of my bedroom yelling, ‘Mum! Why don’t you do something about this place? It’s not a home, it’s a cell.’
    Mum looks stricken. ‘I’m sorry, darling,’ she repeats. ‘I’ve been so busy at work I haven’t had time to think about it.’
    â€˜Well, life isn’t just about work. You’ve got to live somewhere as well,’ I storm. ‘This flat is awful. I want to go home.’
    And Mum sits down on the sofa, and for once doesn’t cry.
    â€˜This has not been an easy time for either of us, Lola, and I know I have neglected your needs. I am sorry for that.’ God, she is so serious. All I wanted was my window open. But the look on Mum’s face, which is kind of soft but strong, makes me slide down next to her. ‘I don’t know if I can make it up to you, but I can make an effort, with your help, to make this a happy place to be.’
    â€˜OK,’ I agree. ‘Let’s make some rules about things each of us should do.’
    The next day Mum comes back from work late with big bags of rugs and lampshades, cushions and a silver-grey velvet throw for my bed.
    â€˜Here, I bought you this because it reminded me of the sea.’ She smiles, wrapping me in the silvery softness. ‘And I got takeaway for supper – sushi tonight.’
    Actually we have takeaway most nights. I like it. In fact I love it, although breakfast the next day isn’t so great. We had curry last night, and this morning Ihave to hold my breath, because of the rank smell of the empty cartons. I must be a very contrary person, I think, because I find myself hankering after supper at home in Staitheley when all three of us sat down together at the table for fish pie or lasagne, proper meals that I took for granted until they stopped existing.
    â€˜Why don’t you cook any more, Mum?’
    We are both leaning on the breakfast counter, eating cereal and watching the toaster.
    â€˜I do,’ protests Mum, rinsing a mug for each of us, and throwing in a tea bag. ‘It’s just so nice not to do it every night, especially now I’m working, and you love takeaway, don’t you?’
    â€˜Yes, but not every day.’
    I pour hot water over the tea bags and pass Mum her tea. Right now I’d be happy to have breakfast with Miss Mills and her dachshund if it meant I could sit at a table with a knife and fork and have tea from a pot. Honestly, anyone who could hear my thoughts would think I am a granny myself. The truth is that Mum is happy and engrossed, and I feel left out and lopsided. Mum brought me to London and now she is getting on with her own life and I am supposed to do the same. In some ways, being treated as a grownup is just what I want, but the contrast between now and family life in Norfolk is so extreme.
    Nell is envious when she calls.
    â€˜It sounds brilliant to me to be living in a flat with no cooking or clearing up,’ she says. ‘We had roast chicken tonight and guess who had to peel all the potatoes, and shred the cabbage?’
    â€˜But I like cooking, and Mum used to as well,’ I reply forlornly. ‘We haven’t had any roast dinner at all since we’ve been here.’
    â€˜Oh, Lola, come on. You sound like a baby,’ laughs Nell. ‘Tell me about the boys in