Fiona Gibson - The Woman Who Upped and Left - A laugh-out-loud read that will put a spring in your step!

‘Oh, imagine the kids writing those lovely things about you,’ Ellie exclaims. ‘You were made to work with children, it’s obvious …’

‘Maybe,’ I say, heading into the pub to buy a round, despite their protests that I mustn’t, and that today’s their treat. In fact, I did have a plan, as a little girl. At nine years old, just after Mum had left us, I got the chance to borrow a clarinet from school. By some mistake or mix-up – or, I suspect now, an act of kindness on the part of Mrs Sherridan, the music teacher – no one ever asked for it back. I took to it easily and played in my bedroom with the door firmly shut, so I wouldn’t be distracted by Dad bashing around in the kitchen.

At first, playing those rudimentary pieces was just an avoidance tactic, in the way that I start busily tidying when Mrs B waggles the crossword at me. Back then, it was maths I was keen to avoid, as Dad – appalled by my shoddy numerical skills – had appointed himself as my unofficial tutor. ‘We’re doing some long division,’ he’d announce. We’d sit together at the kitchen table, with the numbers making no sense and Dad’s irritation rising because anyone can do this, what’s wrong with you, Audrey? What are you going to do with your life if you can’t even manage a simple sum? I’d be trapped there for an hour at least. It felt like months, as if the seasons were changing, the trees shedding their leaves and sprouting new ones as Dad scribbled angry numbers in a raggedy exercise book. While Mum had never been terribly involved with me, her presence had softened the atmosphere somewhat. She’d been kind enough in her own way, when she was still with us, showing a vague interest in my homework assignments and occasionally plaiting my hair. But after she left there was no softening. In fact, Dad’s moods grew darker, my very presence seeming to irritate him, as if the Brian Bazalgette thing had been all my fault. ‘I need to do some music practice now,’ I’d announce, once the whisky bottle had joined the jotter and angrily crumpled A4 paper on the kitchen table. ‘School concert’s coming up and we’re doing a full rehearsal tomorrow …’ As I lost myself in the music I’d stop wondering what Mum was doing, and whether Dad had poured another whisky, and whether I’d ever be a normal girl who could invite friends round after school, as everyone else seemed to do.

I started secondary school and was pinged straight into remedial maths. By now, Dad had given up on me, and himself, or so it seemed: while he’d once worked as a carpenter he rarely left the house these days. Mum’s letters had dwindled to one every few months, and in my replies I was careful to stress that everything was fine at home, that I was happy and doing well at school. I’d passed grade 6 with distinction on my clarinet – Mum sent a rather wonkily drawn congratulations card which I treasured for years – and spent every spare moment playing. See, Dad, I can concentrate. Give me a piece of sheet music that’s so crammed with notes it looks like a swarm of ants dancing all over it and I’m fine.

Better than fine, in fact. While practising really hard pieces I’d stop hearing him stomping about downstairs. I’d be utterly lost in a world of my own, where I didn’t need Mum, Dad or anyone. It was only hours later, when I ventured downstairs in the night, that I’d see the smashed cereal bowl (Dad and I consumed a lot of cereal), the soggy cornflakes scattered, the milk having already seeped into our matted brown rug. Sometimes I’d wake to hear our rusting old van revving furiously in front of our terraced house. Dad would drive off, fuelled by whisky and despair, and I’d creep down to deal with the mess, because one thing I knew was that milk smells disgusting – like sick – if no one mops it up.

So yes, Ellie was right when she said that being a dinner lady wasn’t part of the plan. The dream had been to work my way through the remaining grades and apply for music college, and maybe one day stand on a stage, playing Debussy’s Rapsodie, which I loved – it sounded like running water – in a chic little black dress. But by the evening of my fifteenth birthday I no longer had a clarinet, and by seventeenth I no longer had a father either as he died in a car accident whilst under the influence.

I had to leave school then, and Mum rushed up to see me: to ‘look after you’, she said, rather belatedly, even suggesting I move down to Wales with her as I wasn’t in a position to pay rent and cook my own dinners and take care of myself. I told her tersely that I’d been cooking my own dinners for years. Convincing her I’d be okay, I packed her off home and managed to nab a job as a live-in cleaner at Sunshine Valley holiday park near Morecambe Bay. And that’s when my glittering career began …

Whoa, daytime boozing! It’s sent my thoughts racing as I loiter at the bar while Janice gets our drinks. I need to slow down, drink some water, like everyone says. But then, it is my birthday, and I’ve arranged a day off from Mrs B. So why not? The next few hours pass extremely enjoyably, and by the time I return home at just gone five, I’m so buoyed up that I barely even register the scattering of Hula Hoop packets littering the kitchen.

Morgan and Jenna have returned from their trip and are watching something very shouty on TV. Like Hitler invading Poland, my son seems to have annexed our living room as his private snogging quarters while I beaver away in the kitchen. No mention of my birthday yet, but never mind. I poke my head round the living room door. ‘I’ll do pizzas later,’ I announce, at which the lovers spring apart.

‘Mum! D’you have to just barge in?’

‘I didn’t barge , Morgan. I’m just trying to cater to your needs. Anyway, what am I supposed to do? Wear a little bell around my neck, like a cow, to warn you that I’m approaching?’

‘No need to be like that …’

‘It’s just, it is my house too. I actually live here. I’m not just the maid …’

Jenna giggles and smooths her rumpled fair hair. Oh God, there’s what looks distinctly like a love bite planted on her slender neck. I thought they went out of fashion around 1979, like Clackers. What the heck will her mum say?

The landline trills in the hall beside me and I snatch it from the shelf. It’s Vince, my ex. ‘Happy birthday, Aud,’ he says jovially.

‘Thanks, Vince.’ It’s lovely to hear from him, actually. Once we’d recovered from the break-up, we’ve functioned pretty well as friends; better, in fact, than as partners. ‘All the fours, eh?’ he adds. ‘How does that feel?’

‘Ancient,’ I reply with a grimace.

‘Doing anything nice tonight?’

‘No plans, I’ve just been out for lunch with the girls, that was lovely—’

‘Yeah, you sound inebriated,’ he teases. Since embarking on self-sufficient bliss in the wilds of Northumberland with his girlfriend Laura – a wispy, jam-making sort – my ex has become rather smug.

‘I’ve only had three glasses of wine,’ I fib, wandering through to the kitchen to top up Paul’s flowers with water.

‘Sure you have. Anyway, how’s our useless layabout of a son? Any signs of him shifting his arse off that sofa yet?’

‘Not so I’ve noticed …’

Vince grunts. ‘Can I have a word?’

‘Of course,’ I say, striding back to the living room and holding out the phone. Morgan disentangles himself from his lady love and squints at it, as if not entirely sure what it is. To be fair, cold callers and Vince are the only ones who ever ring.

‘Happy birthday, Audrey,’ Jenna says, somewhat belatedly, as Morgan falls into a muttered conversation with his father.

‘Thanks, Jenna.’