Clare Shaw - The Mother And Daughter Diaries

‘I’m playing darts tonight. Come along if you want, but I told Keith and Bev next door you might babysit—thought you could do with the money—but it’s up to you, your choice.’

‘Yeah, I’ll babysit.’

The next morning I woke up and my period had started. It was about ten days early, dragged forward by a vicious moon. I hadn’t come prepared. I padded my knickers out with toilet roll and went downstairs.

‘No breakfast for me yet, I’m just going to the shop.’

The best thing about Dad—you didn’t always have to explain yourself.

‘I’ll come too. We need some more milk.’

‘I’ll get the milk.’

‘OK.’

The next best thing about Dad was he didn’t feel the need to shadow me. And he was practical.

‘Great. That gives me some more time. We’re playing in a tournament at Brampton. Got to rush.’ Dad coached an under-sixteens football team.

The worst thing about Dad? He never changed his arrangements because of me. Maybe that was good, I could never work it out.

I walked to the village shop two streets away. My body was slow and heavy. Every step was an effort, like I’d already walked ten miles or something. I folded my arms across my aching breasts. As if I could stop them getting bigger. I felt messy and grubby and infected. I had a disease that I didn’t want and the only cure was to travel backwards in time.

I opened the shop door to let an old lady out. Then I backed in. I resented spending my babysitting money on tampons and paracetamol. I didn’t look at the girl when I paid for them. I envied Eliza her pre-menstrual childhood.

When I was ten I would run everywhere. There was an urgency about life, as if time was running out. I ran to see friends, I ran up the stairs, I ran races with myself in the garden. Now, as if I wanted time to stand still, I swung my legs slowly back up to Dad’s. I hauled myself up the path to the front door and heaved along the corridor to fall heavily onto the bed.

‘Do you want to come to the football?’

‘No, I’ll get the bus into town.’

‘OK, see you later.’

I had enough money to buy a new top. There was a freedom about shopping in a strange town. Nobody knew me which meant I could be who I liked. I wanted to be myself but I’d forgotten how. Instead I would be a model, an actress, someone with style, money, good taste. I would buy a top to suit the new me. Buy a top she would buy. Something classy and sophisticated, and very very different. Something Eliza would envy and Mum would be unsure of.

I went to the usual shops and saw all the usual clothes. Then I saw a local shop called Hidden Scream and it sounded like a good omen. The interior was lit dimly and smelt of burning musk. I saw a rack of red tops. Crimson, rose, scarlet, blood. I picked out a crimson velvety bodice with a laced neckline and loose, Tudor sleeves. It was theatrical, bohemian, historical, vampish. I paid more than I’d meant to which made me feel daring.

I was thirsty but not daring enough to sit in a coffee-bar on my own. I bought a bottle of diet Coke and found a park near the bus station. A mother and two daughters were feeding the ducks. The eldest girl was about eight or nine. She was pleasing her mother by pulling off fistfuls of bread from a stale loaf and throwing them to the waddling birds.

‘That one hasn’t had any,’ the mother was pointing out.

The girl threw the bread farther and looked at her mother to see if she’d done well.

‘Well done, Georgie. Now try that one over there.’

It was as if the mother was conducting an orchestra. The eldest child was the lead violin and was playing to please. She in turn was encouraging her sister. The eagerness of the girl made me feel sad. No, not sad. More like numb.

My stomach felt heavy, pressing down as if it was trying to escape. A dull ache had spread across my front and down into my legs. I didn’t want to stand up. I imagined sitting on this park bench into the night. Dew would form on my clothes, my bones would slowly turn rigid. Would anyone mind? Who would blame who? I opened my carrier bag and took out the new top. It wouldn’t go with anything I had in my cupboard.

I can’t remember going back to Dad’s on the bus. It was as if I was in a trance, not wanting to think. Not wanting to feel. All I knew was the continuous ache.

The next day I felt better. The first day of my period was always the worst. I had some black coffee and a bowl of cereal. Dad had to go to work. He’d had one day off for the football tournament but couldn’t take any more time. He was sorry, but he could drop me in town. We could go out for a meal in the evening. And to the cinema. I decided to stay at his house and read.

After he’d shut the front door, I felt free. I wandered around the house. I had a shower. I read a bit. I found some DVDs and slotted one in. The film and the space and the solitude made me feel vaguely happy.

The phone rang.

‘Just phoning to say how much I’m missing you. It’s not the same without you.’

Scarlet. So obviously Scarlet. Her words.

‘I miss you too,’ I said. ‘What’s happening?’

‘Usual stuff. What about you? What’s it like being at your dad’s?’

I looked around the empty hallway. I listened to the silence.

‘Cool,’ I said. ‘Once you get used to it. It’s better. I’ve forgotten what it was like when they were together now.’

‘I love you, Jo. You always make me feel better. Hey, guess what?’

‘What?’

‘Cathy’s dumped Alfie.’

‘No! Why?’

‘Fran heard him telling Rob that he liked blondes the best, that he’d go for a blonde any time. Blonde with blue eyes and big tits, he said.’

‘She could dye her hair.’

‘Yeah, yeah, and get coloured contacts and a boob job. No, she’s well out of it. No decent girl would change herself for a guy. Can you imagine a guy getting a penis extension just to please you, I mean, come on…’

I laughed. I wished I was like Scarlet.

‘I wish I was funny like you,’ I said.

‘You are, you are. You just don’t realise it. Got to go—text me, yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

The hall was silent again. I thought about Scarlet. Missing me, loving me, thinking I’m funny. Funny in a good way. She should have been my sister. That would have worked better. I went and sat in the lounge and did nothing. And didn’t think much. That was good, not thinking much.

Then Mum phoned.

It was as if she was there, in my space. Intruding. The silence had been invaded by voices. My freedom was slashed by her interrogation.

‘Are you having a good time?’, ‘Is it raining where you are?’, ‘Did Scarlet get hold of you? I gave her the number.’

I kept my answers short. I wanted my time back again. Anything lost could never be retrieved. The questions were time-wasters, pointless, conversational, lightweight fillers that didn’t mean anything. The next question had more weight.

‘Has your tummy settled down now?’

‘Yeah.’

I waited. It was a short, split-second of a wait that felt longer.

‘Only the funniest thing happened. Well, it was going to be a surprise but you know how useless I am at surprises. I mean, remember your surprise party last year—mind you, I blame Scarlet for that—anyway, that’s all under the bridge. Now, what was I saying?’

Yeah, what had she been saying? So many words, so little content. I knew what was coming. Like the punchline of an old schoolboy joke.

‘I’m decorating your room as a surprise. There, I’ve told you.’

But she hadn’t told me yet. I hung on for the punchline.

‘The silly thing is…well, I found some food under your bed and in your drawer. I wasn’t looking, I was decorating and, well…you know. I don’t know if it’s to do with this vegetarian thing or if it’s your tummy. Still, well, you know…I had to laugh, seeing all those sandwiches you’d obviously forgotten about, then I thought, Oh, dear, perhaps you’re not well. Only I could make a doctor’s appointment if you want. I only mentioned it because I was phoning anyway.’