| MY MUM
by Jacqui Seddon.
I am so excited. It’s hard to keep still, I want to leap about and
go all crazy. I can’t believe it’s really happening - I’m
seeing my Dad! He is great, my Dad. He used to love my pictures - although
I’m hoping my artwork has improved since I was three. I’m
twelve now. We did tons of stuff together. Mum says I’m seeing him
through rose-tinted glasses and I’ve put him on a pedestal. She
is just jealous. I hate the way she has this look on her face, kind of
sad, like she can see something that I can’t.
‘Hmmm,’ she says. ‘Your hair smells lovely.’
‘Does it?’ I ask.
She nods. ‘Like freshly peeled lemons.’
I lean forward and apply a smidgen of sweet jelly lipstick. Mum passes
me a tissue and I kiss it. We smile at each other’s reflections.
I’m glad Mum has come round to my seeing him. She hadn’t at
first. I’d just blurted it out. She was standing at the sink chopping
onions. She didn’t say anything, not straight away, but I saw the
face she pulled behind her skin. Then she said, I’m sorry Charlene
- I forbid it. I’m twelve! I yelled. You can’t tell me what
to do! I hate you! You’re the worst Mum in the world ever! I’d
had to turn away cos I couldn’t stand seeing her like that, her
fingers tinkering with the potato knife like she wanted to slit her wrists,
a tear fiercely clinging to the corner of her right eye, mouth trembling.
It was an hour later when I went downstairs. She was still sobbing into
her mug of tea. So I went back upstairs. I could hear the theme tune to
Eastenders on the lounge TV when she finally came up with a boiled egg
and soldiers and shiny green eyes. She said lots of stuff, but said it
was up to me - if I wanted to see him she wouldn’t stop me. She
even took me to Top Shop to get this new outfit for my visit. She’d
smiled as I’d paraded in various tops and jeans, but the smile clashed
with her eyes. Like red clashes with pink.
It’s already nearly five o’clock! I’m seeing him in
an hour, Mum’s ordered me a taxi. I can’t believe it’s
really gonna happen, when I think about it my stomach gets all churny
and my hands sticky. There’s a whole bunch of stuff I’m gonna
tell him - if I don’t go and get tongue tied. I’ve got a tendency
to do that - like when I spoke to Robert Carter who I’d fancied
since infants, but this is worse. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve
had to rush to the loo and chuck up when I’ve thought how I’m
really gonna see him.
Anyway, like I said, I’ve got loads to tell him. How we did a poetry
slam, all the middle schools. I wrote one about what my Dad means to me.
Alison Benton won, with a stupid poem about seals. But everyone said mine
was the best, ‘touching’ they said it was. Mrs Foster, the
art teacher, said it moved her to tears.
I examine myself for the zillionth time in the mirror, my denim blue skinny
jeans, spotless white shirt, new hairstyle (that Rob says looks sexy and
makes me look eighteen) and polished shoes.
‘Do you think I look too formal?’ I ask, turning to inspect
the view from the rear. I have lost weight, having borrowed Mum’s
weight watcher’s guides as soon as I got the date for my visit.
I’m ugly but Mum says I’m beautiful, she says she doesn’t
know what I’m talking about, all that gorgeous naturally curly hair
and flawless skin. I stare at the Mount Everest wannabee of a zit on my
nose.
‘You look amazing,’ she says. She tries desperately hard to
light up her face with a big smile, but she doesn’t quite manage
the lighting-up bit. The air in the gap between us gets all staticky.
Her dark curly hair has been cut right short so that it looks like her
head is covered in woodshavings.
‘It’s okay,’ I say, ‘I’m not moving in with
him or anything.’ I feel a bit guilty because I am secretly planning
to. Mum can be a bit full on at times. Auntie Sue calls her over protective.
The taxi is here! I think I’m gonna be sick, my legs go all shaky.
We dash down stairs, well I do. Mum helps me on with my coat and I let
her even though I’m not five anymore. I wish I had some spearmint
gum, I hope I’ve not got dog’s breath. I breathe into my cupped
hand and try to sniff the captured air. Mum stands back and looks at my
face with her head slightly on one side: ‘You’ll be okay,
sweetheart. You know how much I love you, don’t you?’ I want
to say like, duh but it isn’t right so I just nod.
I get in the cab and place my poem on the seat like it’s a Ming
vase, Mrs West has laminated it for me - it looks the bomb. Mum reaches
in and gives me a massive hug, squeezes the life right out of me. The
taxi pulls away making the knot in my stomach get tighter, my legs shakier.
I keep worrying about silly stuff like do I hug him and kiss him or shake
his hand? I guess it’ll be like on Oprah and we’ll run to
each other and hug and cry. I’ve cried buckets already. My mate
Gina says I’m like Tracy Beaker wanting to see her Mum. I’m
not, I say, because her Mum couldn’t give a flying monkey about
her.
Anyway, I’m not a saddo like Tracy Beaker is. I mean, I know I do
a home-made Christmas card for him with soppy poems, but I don’t
do all the other saddo stuff that she does. It takes me ages to write
the poems, I always want them to be perfect. I’ve got them all in
a little box ready to give him.
He’ll probably have loads to tell me, what he’s been doing
all this time. We’ll chat for ages, even about what TV we like.
I wonder if he watches Big Brother. I hope so, Mum hates it. She’s
so lame sometimes. I bet he loves it, like me. I probably take after him,
more than Mum. Thank God.
I am here! At my Dad’s house! I get out and pay the taxi man. I
stand by the gate. The sun sinks behind the red roof tiles of his house,
like it doesn’t want to watch. I need to go pee, but I can’t.
Obviously. I give myself the once over. It starts to rain a bit so I go
up the path, my feet feel like they’ve been fastened to the gate
with elastic. I swear the jolly green giant is having a hissy fit in my
chest, stamping and stamping his feet. A breeze whips up and old Doritos
bags and pizza boxes start skittering about. I tap on the door. ‘Dad?
Are you there?’
The door is unlocked. I go in. It’s hot and dark and smells of beer.
The walls are nicotine yellow. I side step a chunk of fossilised cat poo,
and fix my hair in the hall mirror. I take a deep breath and gently, slowly
push the living room door open. He is there. On the sofa.
My Dad. My Daddy. My father. Who I’ve yearned to see ever since
I can remember, who I’ve dreamed about, cried about. He picks up
the remote and turns the TV volume up and goes, shhhh. He is egging a
horse on, waving his fists, bum perched on the edge of the sofa, legs
apart.
‘Dad,’ I say. My voice sounds so small it might have belonged
to a mouse in a Walt Disney film.
No response. The race ends. He bangs his fists down on a stained table.
Stops and looks up. Cricks his head round to give me a filthy look and
then goes back to his fist banging. Damn, damn, damn he says.
I have to wipe my hand over my eyes because I can’t see properly.
‘Dad? It’s me Charlene.’
Nothing.
‘What’s the matter?’ I say.
He swears at the TV and slumps back in the sofa. ‘Bloomin’
eejit of a horse has only gone and won!’
‘Isn’t that good?’ I ask, still with my mouse-voice.
‘Good?’ he roars. ‘Good?’
‘Well I –‘
‘Thought I could make me a bit of money, didn’t I?’
he mutters. ‘Thought Bert’s horse didn’t stand a donkey’s
chance of winning, didn’t I? Bert never bloomin’ wins. Bloody
typical. So I pocketed his twenty quid, didn’t I?’
‘Oh,’ I say (thick, thick, thick) ‘You were supposed
to place a bet for him?’
He cricks his neck round, the fat rolls move like raw chicken meat. ‘Catch
on fast, don’t ya?’
I do the calculations, and almost whistle. ‘Five hundred quid.’
He gives me a look that feels like he’s just slammed the door in
my face. He has beads of sweat covering his bald scalp. They don’t
glisten, they are dull, like grease.
Things are only just beginning to sink into my thick head. First, it was
obvious he wasn’t best pleased to have to stump up five hundred
quid. Second, he also wasn’t best pleased about seeing me. And still
isn’t. On both counts.
And then I know what it is my mother could see. What she has been able
to see all along. My heart. All stamped on by the jolly green giant. Ripped
and bloodied and strewn about. And I know she is out there waiting in
the bruised-grey light. My Mum. With tears on her cheeks and rain in her
hair. Standing there, her hands hanging limp by her sides. With her darning
needle and thread, ready to stitch my heart back together again. Just
like always.
My Mum.
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