Lynne Banks - Stealing Stacey

Me and Mum laughed. I thought, I bet everywhere you go, they have to make up new regulations just for you. I didn’t know how right I was.

We were halfway through tea (she still hadn’t stopped talking) when I started thinking about where she was going to stay.

Surely not with us? We only have two bedrooms. I had another thought. Where was her luggage? Of course! It must be at her hotel. Phew.

After tea I excused myself and went to my room. When I opened the door, I got a mega shock. I saw where her luggage was, all right.

I counted the pieces. There were four and a half. They all matched – bright orange with yellow sunflowers all over them – and went from a small box-thing on a shoulder strap, to a trunk. You certainly couldn’t miss them coming around on the airport carousel. You couldn’t miss them in my room, either. In fact I could hardly get in for them.

I suddenly felt desperate. Not only was she planning to stay – she must be planning to stay for ever.

Just then Mum came in behind me. She shut the door. We were squeezed together behind the trunk. She said, in a very soft voice, “Yes. I’m sorry, Stace.”

I just stared at her. Then I whispered, “How did all this stuff get here?”

“She came from the airport in two taxis. The taxi-men carried it up. She tipped them a tenner each!”

“She must be rotten with dosh. Why doesn’t she go to a hotel?”

“She said she wants to be with us.”

“Can’t she see we’ve got no room ?”

“I – I’m afraid I said you wouldn’t mind moving in with me.”

I couldn’t speak for a moment. For horror.

“But I’ll have to sleep in your bed!” I wailed.

“Shhh! We must be nice to her.”

I didn’t feel like shushing. “ Why? ”

“I don’t know really,” said Mum. “I just know we must.”

That was so like Mum. You probably think she was thinking that this person was rich and we ought to suck up to her, maybe, but that wasn’t it. Mum doesn’t know why anything. She just does things. It’s like she acts on instinct. I bet if someone had asked her why she was marrying my dad, she’d have said, in that same helpless voice, “I don’t know exactly. I just know I must.”

Come to that, I bet Nan did ask her. Nan stayed married to my grandad for forty-two years and she’d be married to him still if he hadn’t gone and died. She’d never have married a no-hoper like Dad. Fancy watching your kid do something that stupid and not be able to talk her out of it. That’s why I’d decided I was never going to get married. Even if I’d liked boys, which naturally, considering what a bunch of duck-brained wussy creeps they are, I did not , I wouldn’t let myself get tied up to someone who might run out on me and leave me penniless and probably up the duff. (Of course Mum’s too old to be up the duff. Which is one good thing at least.)

Anyhow, there it was. I kicked up a terrible fuss (but quietly – even I didn’t want the vision to hear) but in the end I had to move out of my room. I was so upset I was crying. We carried my clothes and the rest of my clobber into Mum’s room. She’s got the double bed from when Dad was around. At least she had a washbasin in the room. I thought, Good, cos I bet when “Glen-deen” – of all the stupid names – gets in the bathroom, she puts down roots. This was going to be a nightmare.

I started to sink down on the bed. Mum pulled me up before I touched. “No, you don’t. Back you go and talk to her. I’ll arrange your stuff.”

“Mum! I won’t know where anything is!”

“I’m going to give you half of all my space. Even my dressing-table top.”

“Big deal!”

“Yes, it is. Now go and talk to your grandmother.”

“What am I supposed to call her? I’m not calling her Nan, I’ve got a nan already!”

“Call her Grandma then.”

I went slowly back into the kitchen. Grandma (ugh! Who says “Grandma”?) was washing the tea things at the sink. I took over – she was a guest after all.

She took off Dad’s stripy apron. “Did my wild Australian boy leave this?” she said, dangling it. “I bet that’s all he did leave! I never saw the domestic side of him, I must say! When did he nick off, the little mongrel?”

I was shocked rigid . She was his mum, after all. Mums are supposed to be on their kids’ side. “Two years ago,” I mumbled.

That shook her.

“Two years… And I never knew! Any excuses?”

“No. Him and Mum had a last row. He slammed out and that was it.”

“You don’t know where he is?”

“Yeah, we do. Living with his girlfriend in Greville Drive.”

“Where’s Greville Drive?”

“Ten minutes’ bus ride from here.”

“So how come he sent me a postcard from Thailand?”

I nearly dropped a mug. Thailand? My mouth went all dry.

Grandma went on, “It just about made me throw up from shame.”

I said, “Please – uh – Grandma – Glendine, don’t tell Mum. Greville Drive was bad enough.”

“I bet!” she said. “When I saw that postcard I thought, sounds like he’s living it up. That’s when I decided to pack up and come over and see how you fellas were getting on.” Well, we’re not, I thought. We’re in the crap. We’ve got no money, Mum’s working her socks off at the checkout and everything’s horrible. What can you do about it?

Then I remembered those ten-quid tips. And the posh luggage. And the way she dressed. I couldn’t help it – I thought, She’s really rich. I wondered why Dad never mentioned that. He never had any readies. Whenever he had a job, we didn’t see much money from it. Most of it went on booze. And dope, if you ask me. We didn’t know that for sure, and he always flat denied it, but there’s a difference between the way people get when they’re pissed and when they’re stoned.

“How do you think he managed to go to Thailand?” Grandma was asking.

After a bit, I said, “I think his girlfriend had some money.”

My mum had called her a little slapper, among other things I won’t repeat. But Greville Drive is quite posh. Compared to our road, anyway. It was houses, not flats. She most likely put up the cash. She was probably in Phoo-kuk or whatever the place is called with him right this minute, lying on a beach wearing three triangles of lace tied on with string, under a bunch of palm trees. Thinking of this made me want to throw up. Not from shame, though. From rage. Whatever problems I have with my mum, she doesn’t deserve to be treated like that.

Grandma Glendine settled in with us.

I hated her being there, but not because of her so much. It was because I had to share Mum’s room. And Mum not only smokes – she snores.

“Mum! Roll over!” I’d shout when her snores were driving me wild. The most infuriating thing was that Mum simply refused to believe that she snored.

“It’s lies, I don’t! Dad would’ve told me.”

“Probably too stoned to notice.” I shouldn’t have said that. She just turned her back and her shoulders started to shake. I knew she was still crazy for him.

Somehow Gran – I’d decided to call her just Gran – arranged her things in my room. She used all that luggage as extra furniture. The trunk turned into a table. Gran wrote loads of postcards on it, all touristy pictures of London, beefeaters at the Tower, guards at Buckingham Palace, that kind of thing. Even some of Princess Diana. She said a funny thing about her, that I should have taken more notice of at the time, but I didn’t.