Elisabeth Carpenter - Only a Mother

‘Didn’t you see Erica waiting at the bus stop?’ she hollered to him from the living room.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ I hissed to her. ‘I like the bus. I don’t want people thinking I’m after lifts all the time, because I’m not.’

‘Well, it wouldn’t harm him to offer occasionally.’ She leant towards me. ‘Was he on his own in the car?’

I shrugged. ‘I didn’t notice.’

She didn’t used to be suspicious of him. I can’t remember when that started. Gradual, I suppose, like these things tend to be. I don’t even know if they’re still together. I’m not privy to any gossip these days. People used to tell me everything when I worked at the supermarket. Some of them just wanted someone to talk to, have a bit of a chat. Some would say I’d be the only person they’d talk to all day – which is ironic really, now I don’t speak to many people. Others thought me invisible, part of the backdrop of the shop, so they used to discuss their problems with their friends as they walked around the aisles. And the older people got, the more honest they were about their problems. I’ve heard them all: Mrs Waterhouse has the depression, you know, or Gayle’s husband ran off with the man at the tyre workshop , that sort of thing. But now I know nothing.

God, I hate this town. Rows and rows of terraced houses; the back alleys with heaps of rubbish the council have given up clearing away, the bloody clouds and the bloody rain. I’ve lived here for most of my life. In the same house I’m in now.

I spot Brian Sharpe in the distance. My knees weaken; I rest my hands on a garden wall for support.

Deep breath. Deep breath.

What’s he doing around here? He must know Craig’s home now. He might be looking for him.

I stand up straight and turn into the alley on my right. If I walk slowly he’ll be gone by the time I get there.

The cobbles are uneven beneath my feet. Either side are wooden gates leading to the backyards of the terraces that block out the sun. There’s not as much rubbish down this one. No doubt Denise had something to do with that – she was always vocal about the goings-on in her precious street.

I’m almost at her gate and look up at the house. I can see from the movement behind the frosted glass of the window that there’s someone in the bathroom. I don’t want to be caught being a peeping Tom, but I steal a glance inside her bedroom.

There’s a man leaning against the window. It doesn’t look like Jim – this man’s taller, has all his hair. I walk slowly; I’m parallel to Denise’s bedroom window. It’s Jason; I’m sure of it.

He stands, and a head pops up from next to him. It’s a young girl; she only looks about seventeen from here; fair hair and she’s wearing a bright red top. She looks like the girl from earlier – Lucy… No, it can’t be. It’ll be my imagination, seeing her everywhere.

Oh God, she’s seen me.

She waves at me.

My face flushes with heat.

I put my head down as Jason is turning around. I hear a tapping on the window, but I don’t look back as I rush forward. I almost run to the other end of the alley. It brings me out on to the street and now the shop’s on my left.

I knew going out around here would be trouble. What did I come in for?

I fumble in my anorak pocket for the five pounds and the list and head to the fridges.

Oh God, it’s Pamela – every time I’ve ever been in this place, she’s always bloody here. She’s with two others I don’t recognise. The reason it’s quiet on the streets is because everyone’s in this damn shop.

Milk, bread, beans, sausages. That’s all I need and then I’ll be done.

I wish I’d got a basket; now it looks as though I’m thieving it all.

I reach the vultures and they’re standing in front of the tins. I’ll have to leave it; I’ve got tomato sauce at home anyway.

‘Are you wanting something behind me?’

Pamela folds her arms and grimaces like she’s on an episode of Prisoner Cell Block H or something. She’ll think I’m scared of her, but I’m not. I just don’t want the bother.

‘Beans,’ I say.

‘Hmm,’ she says standing aside.

‘Thank you.’

‘Most I’ve heard her speak for nearly two decades,’ she says to the other two, who burst out laughing.

Oh Lord, I really want to ignore them, but there’s this feeling in my stomach and it’s coming up to my chest.

Walk away, walk away , I tell myself.

‘But she looks as though she’s aged forty years,’ says another. ‘I reckon she’ll move on soon, now that monster is back. What the hell were they thinking, letting him out? Life should mean—’

‘Excuse me,’ I say, walking slowly towards her. ‘If you’ve got something to say, then say it to my face.’

‘Well, that wouldn’t be as much fun, would it?’

‘What’s wrong with you people?’ I say. ‘Haven’t you got your own lives to get on with? He’s done his time.’

The clichés coming out of my mouth are straight from EastEnders , but I can’t help myself.

‘You can’t expect people to ignore it – he’s only just come out! And if I remember rightly, you loved a bit of gossip when you worked at the supermarket.’

‘I… there’s no point arguing with you. It’s my life you’re talking about.’

My heart is pounding. I’m as bad as them – spouting stupid rubbish that means nothing.

‘You’re lucky it’s only me,’ says Pamela. ‘If my Gordon were here, he’d have given you a few stronger words. He saw your Craig in the pub yesterday – off his face, he said. He would’ve given him a good kicking if he wasn’t with that smarmy friend of his.’

‘If your Gordon didn’t weigh thirty stone and could lift his leg higher than the kerb,’ I say.

Her mouth falls open. Finally, I’ve managed to silence Pamela Valentine.

I walk away. Why did I engage with them? It happened when Craig was first arrested – it’s like the conversations are on repeat. I’m living the same life over and over again.

‘People like him never change,’ shouts one of the other old cronies to the other. ‘I give it six months and he’ll be back inside.’

We’ll show them, I think to myself. My hands are shaking.

The cashier won’t look at me as she scans my items. She doesn’t bag them for me, and when I ask her three times for a carrier bag, she flings it at me.

‘I’m a paying customer, the same as everyone else,’ I snap.

She’s standing there, holding out her hand for the money while I’m flapping with the bag. Why are they so hard to open? I throw in my things and hand her the five-pound note. She pinches it off me – holding it as though it were covered in dog shit. She holds it up to the light, even though she doesn’t need to with these new plastic ones.

‘Hmm,’ she mutters, placing it in the till.

I hold out my hand; she drops the money into it, and shouts, ‘Next!’

This is why I go to the Co-op in the next town.

I turn to leave, but find there’s a man standing there. It’s Brian Sharpe. I really shouldn’t have left the house today.

‘I can’t believe I’m seeing you in my shop,’ he says to me.

‘It’s not your shop, it’s—’

‘You know what I mean.’

I go to open the door, but he stands in front of me.

‘I only came in for a few bits,’ I say.

He brings his head a little closer to mine. ‘You and that bastard son of yours don’t deserve to be living around here.’ He barely opens his mouth, speaking quietly so no one else can hear. ‘I can’t believe you’ve got the gall to show your face. Do you not get fed up, eh? Of everyone hating you? Can’t you feel it in that shell of a house you rattle around in?’