Elisabeth Carpenter - Only a Mother

‘Come on, love,’ I said. ‘It’s Friday. No school tomorrow. I’ll have a word with your Year Head on Monday… see if we can get this sorted.’

‘No, Mum! That’ll make it worse.’

‘We’ll talk more about this at home,’ I said.

‘Jason’ll keep an eye out for him, won’t you?’ said Denise, nudging her son in the ribs.

‘Yeah, sure,’ said Jason. ‘I didn’t realise it got to you this bad, mate.’

Craig shrugged, kept his eyes on the floor.

‘Come on, lads,’ I said. ‘I’ll stop at the chippy on the way home and get us all a bag of chips.’

Jason rubbed his hands.

‘Nice one. Come on, lad.’

My son got up and followed Jason and Denise, leaving me in the bedroom alone. Its wallpaper peeled from the walls; the old fireplace with its tiny grate held ashes that must’ve been years old. There was a photograph on the windowsill and I couldn’t help but walk over. It was of a man and a woman. She was sitting on his knee, his arms wrapped around her waist and he was grinning. She wasn’t smiling. Her eyes were cheerless; a stare at the camera like she was telepathically begging for help. I knew it must be the woman who died here. I put the photograph in my pocket – couldn’t bear to leave her there, where it all happened.

I think I have that photograph stashed away somewhere. Perhaps that’s what’s brought me such bad luck. I should take it back to that old house; it still stands empty, unloved.

The confessional door slams shut. I flush slightly, which is silly, because Father Peter can’t hear my odd little thoughts. How long has he been in that box? No one must be confessing today because nobody else left from the other door. He brushes some dust from the top of one of the pews, looks down the aisle at the rest of them and shrugs.

He glances at me, and nods – unsurprised by my presence.

‘Cleaner mustn’t have been in this morning,’ he says. ‘Come to think of it – it’s been a few days since I’ve seen Mrs McNally.’ He tilts his head and looks to Jesus on the cross to my left. ‘Hmm. Must see how she is.’

I smile at him and he turns on his heels, his gown swishing at his ankles.

It must be nice for someone to care about where you are. I might come back at the same time tomorrow. If Mrs McNally doesn’t show up, Father Peter might be in need of a new cleaner. It’d be quite pleasant to have somewhere to go every morning, and no one would bother me in here.

He must be in his seventies now. I wonder if he recognises me from when I had to tag along with Mother. This was her church – the one nearest our house looked too much like a community centre . She always said she wished she’d married my father here, instead of the registry office in town. Not that it would’ve made a difference.

It’s strange, thinking about her having dreams and wishes. She always seemed content with her life, her friends.

Unlike her, the thought of marriage petrified me. I saw all these women rushing home from wherever they were so their husbands had a meal on the table when they got home from work (or the pub). Denise was one of them, too, in the end.

The night before her wedding, I’d stayed over at her parents’ house with her. It was 1975 and we were only nineteen. It was the best night of my life. We laughed so much we were in tears.

Her bedroom was big as she was an only child, and it had a single bed with a yellow and brown flowered quilt. The carpet was orangey brown as well. She still had the poster of David Cassidy above her headboard. It felt surreal that she put that up when we were in fourth year, yet here she was about to get married.

Her wedding dress hung on the front of her wardrobe. It was to the ankle, high-necked and had long flowing sleeves that cuffed at the wrists. It cost £30, but her parents had been saving for a wedding long before she’d even met Jim. They must’ve been itching to get the house to themselves.

She’d sneaked up a bottle of Cinzano, but didn’t have any mixer, so we just took little sips. We drank out of the china cups me and Mum bought for their wedding present, so Denise’s parents couldn’t see we were drinking alcohol. ‘You’ll want a clear head on the biggest day of your life,’ her mum said. Denise put her fingers in her mouth and pretended to be sick when her mum turned her back. ‘I’ll leave you girls to it,’ she said. ‘I’ll be up later with a few sandwiches.’

‘She’s so nice, your mum,’ I said to Denise. ‘My mother hovers over us… listens in on our conversations. She’s always so protective of me.’

Denise shrugged. ‘I guess none of us are pleased with what we’ve got. But she’s not bad, your mum. She’s funny. At least she let you come here tonight.’

‘Yeah, but I’ll bet you a quid she rings me at half eight before she goes to bed.’

Denise took a sip from her mug and giggled.

She’d just learned about face masks from an American magazine and made me apply one with her, so we both looked a fright in our frilly nighties and muddy faces.

‘I’m getting married in the morning,’ she sang, a little too loud after refilling her Cinzano. ‘Ding Dong, his willy will be mine!’

‘That’s disgusting, Denise,’ I said, giggling.

She scrunched up a piece of tissue and threw it at me.

‘Stop being such a prude. Don’t tell me you haven’t daydreamed about it?’

‘The chance of me meeting anyone is naught.’

‘But you’ve got such a pretty face. You should grow your hair out – that’s Twiggy’s hairstyle from about ten years ago.’

‘I don’t like to faff about with it in the mornings,’ I said. ‘Anyway, my mother would scare anyone who came to our house. She’d question them about everything.’

Denise pulled a face, but it was hard to tell what it was, it being covered in mud.

‘What about that lad from school… what was his name?’

‘Billy. He’s at university now… I heard he got into Cambridge.’

‘He never did! Well, imagine that… someone from this town and our school, getting into Cambridge.’ She sighed and leant back heavily on the legs of her white stool; it was feeble, and she nearly fell on her back, but it stopped against her matching vanity unit and she didn’t notice her close shave. Always the way: Denise never suffered from a crash landing. ‘What a different life that would be, eh?’ she said. ‘Not too far from London. Maybe you could write to him?’

‘I doubt he’ll want to hear from me – not after meeting all those glamorous posh southern girls.’

I felt my face flush, though Denise couldn’t tell. The mud was beginning to crack; there was so much satisfaction in stretching my mouth to feel it break.

‘What on earth are you doing?’ said Denise.

‘It feels so nice when it splits.’

‘You definitely need a man,’ she said. ‘Someone like my Jim.’

I blushed again. ‘He’s very handsome.’

‘One of those silent, brooding types,’ she said with a wink. ‘Though he’s got a bit of a temper on him. I’ll have to keep that in check.’

‘Yes.’ I put on an accent, mimicking how I thought the Queen might speak. ‘And make sure you’re never late with his sausage and chips.’

‘Ooh, Matron!’

I dipped a tissue in the bowl of warm water and started to rub the mask off my forehead.

‘I’ll hardly see you once you’re married,’ I said.

‘Course you will. I’m not going to be chained to the house… though ours won’t be ready for another fortnight. Can you imagine Jim and me, crammed in my single bed?’

‘I’d rather not.’

It was one of the best nights of my life, that Friday night.

And she was true to her word – she did make time to see me, even though it was only once a week when Jim went to the pub. It was better than nothing.