Elisabeth Carpenter - Only a Mother

And Denise was right in a way: I did meet someone.

It wasn’t exactly a lie when I told Craig that his father didn’t tell me his real name. I saw him at Christmas in 1978 when it was the supermarket’s do. We had a three-course meal down at the Berni Inn (fruit juice to start, turkey with the trimmings, and cheese and biscuits – I’m not a dessert person). The drinks were included in the four pounds fifty we had to contribute. I didn’t go out all that often – certainly never to a restaurant – and I didn’t have many outgoings then, so I didn’t mind spending that much on a night out. I even bought a red V-neck dress with a black belt from Denise’s catalogue.

They went straight to my head, the drinks. Needless to say, Mother wasn’t a drinker, so we never partook at home (not many people did, then). It was my first taste of sherry, champagne (probably sparkling wine), and port. I was walking to the ladies’ and he was standing at the bar on his own. He held my gaze as I walked past, and my face burned. He was the classically tall, dark and handsome man that I’d read about, but he had blue eyes. His hair was longer at the front, so it half covered one of his eyes. He stopped me on my way back to the table, touching my shoulder.

‘I’ve not seen you around here before,’ he said. ‘What’s your name? I’m John.’

I thought he was joking at first, about his name, because I certainly knew him . I was almost going to give a fake one myself, but I couldn’t think of anything but Agnetha Fältskog, and that would’ve been silly, especially as I didn’t know how to pronounce it.

‘Erica,’ I said.

‘I’ve never met an Erica before,’ he said.

‘Well, you have now,’ I said, emboldened by all the drink.

He extended his hand, so I held mine out, too. His large hand covered mine, and its dry warmth felt reassuring.

‘I bet you’ve never had a Harvey Wallbanger,’ he said.

‘What makes you say that?’ I said, not knowing what he was talking about.

He shrugged. ‘You look innocent. You’re probably the only one in here not caked in make-up.’

‘You hide it well,’ I said.

It took a while for him to get my awful joke. He didn’t laugh (the barmaid didn’t laugh either). He ordered me a Harvey Wallbanger and I was about to tell him that we hadn’t pulled our crackers yet so I should be getting back, but when I looked over at my supermarket table they were getting up to go to the bar, all wearing the paper hats. I tried to hide my disappointment, feeling silly.

‘Are you with that lot?’ he said, frowning as he peered over my head.

I nodded. He swiped the two drinks from the bar and said, ‘Let’s take these somewhere a bit more private.’ And I followed him.

Denise helped me get ready for my first date with him.

‘So it’s John what?’ she said, her face inches from mine as she applied blue eyeliner under my bottom lashes. ‘I can’t believe you don’t know his surname – why didn’t you ask?’

It felt wrong, really, not telling her who I was going to meet, as though I was betraying her.

‘I didn’t tell him mine,’ I said. ‘Wouldn’t want him to think I was being nosy. Men hate women who pry too much, don’t they? They like to be all mysterious.’

I think she rolled her eyes, but it was hard to tell from that close.

‘Maybe in your books, Erica. Not in real life. Men love talking about themselves. Jim only stops to let me speak so I can ask a question about him and his day.’

She leant back, her eyebrows furrowed as she examined her work. She went over to her wardrobe, opening it while rubbing her back. Her belly was huge now; it was like she’d stuck a pillow up her dress.

‘I’ve been bored, stuck inside most of the week,’ she said, ‘so I’ve been going through a few of my outfits for you.’

She pulled out two hangers, both with complete outfits on them, and hung them on the handles.

‘This,’ she said, stroking the black top and matching narrow trousers, ‘is a bit Olivia Newton-John, but I think you’d look great in it.’

My mouth dropped open a little.

‘I can’t wear that, Denise. He’ll think I’m a… you know… a bit of a goer.’

‘Hmm. Do you reckon? Maybe you’re right. Don’t want you looking like you’re going to a fancy-dress party. The other one it is then. I’ll just visit the lav… for the hundredth time this evening.’

I took the dress off the hanger. I’d always loved it, and she knew that, and I felt teary that she let me borrow it. It looked exactly how I’d imagined it would on me. It was dark blue denim, with pale pink spaghetti straps that tied on each shoulder. It had a matching drawstring waist in a bow around the middle.

‘Oh, Erica,’ she said, as she waddled back into the room. ‘That looks lovely on you.’ She walked up to me and played around with my hair (not that there was much to play with). It was all blonde, then, and cut short, barely covering the top of my ears. It was so thick, it just went back in its place, even after Denise had covered it in hairspray. She shrugged. ‘Oh well, I tried. So when’s he picking you up?’

‘At eight. I’m meeting him outside the library.’

‘What on earth…? Why isn’t he picking you up from home? Your mother must want to meet him.’

‘I told her I was round here tonight. You don’t mind, do you? Only… I think she’ll worry too much about me and—’

‘It’s fine, it’s fine. I wondered how she’d let you out so easily.’ She kissed me on the cheek. ‘Now go and have a good time.’ She flopped onto the bed and lay on her back. All I could see was belly. ‘Tell me all about it tomorrow because I can’t remember what it’s like to have fun. I’m going to be miserable for years, I can tell,’ she said dramatically.

‘You’re going to be such a good mum, Denise.’

‘Yeah, I suppose.’

I did have a good time. He drove me to Blackpool and bought me a cone of chips. He didn’t even try to kiss me, which was good because I’d never kissed a lad before, even though I’d practised on my hand.

It was the first of many dates. He told me not to tell anyone we were courting. He said his mother wanted him to concentrate on the family business and didn’t want him out gallivanting . I knew that was rubbish, but I didn’t pry.

‘He’s probably married,’ Denise said when I wouldn’t answer her questions a few months later. Where does he work? Does my Jim know him? Does he have any brothers or sisters?

‘Do you really think I can get away with this pink lipstick?’ I said instead. Because I didn’t want to answer. I knew what I was doing was wrong, but it was exciting – a chance to escape my life – even if only for a few hours a week.

I told Mother that when I went out at night, I was working a late shift at the supermarket. She never thought to check, never thought I would lie to her face. She had no reason to doubt me – I’d always been a good girl in that sense.

The church door opens now, making me jump slightly on the hard seat. There’s a draught on the back of my neck. A woman in her eighties shuffles in.

I’d better be going anyway. Sitting in silence is bad for the soul sometimes – I don’t want to be dredging up the past. The devil finds work , and all that. I shift to the end of the pew and genuflect; some habits never leave.

‘Oh, Mrs McNally,’ says the priest, appearing from nowhere.

‘Sorry I’ve not been in for a few weeks, Father,’ she says. ‘My hip’s been playing up… and what with my cataracts… it’s been difficult to get around.’

‘Oh, we did miss you,’ says Father Peter. ‘I hope you’re feeling better now?’