Once in a Lifetime (32 page)

Her hands hurt, from the tendons in her wrists down to every flexor in her fingers. The dull ache seemed to come from the inside and was like nothing she’d ever felt before.

It had been the same all week: she’d feel normal in the morning, then at intervals during the day as she worked in Kenny’s cafe the pain would return, throbbing, pulsing into every sinew. Night-time was the worst. No matter how tired she was, she’d wake at least once every night from the awful ache, and it would be worse than it ever was during the day.

Kneading her hands, stretching them, doing odd bending exercises: nothing helped. She wondered whether this was what it felt like to go slowly mad: feeling something strange that you couldn’t explain to anyone else, but which was constantly haunting you?

‘How’s it going?’

Her father stood in the doorway, clad in his usual work uniform of worn corduroys, Wellington boots, an ancient sweater and a rain jacket. He brought the smell of the barn with him: a mixture of the scent of animals and silage. Natalie loved the smell. It was the smell of her childhood and somehow

infinitely more precious than any other aroma, although, if pushed, she’d say that Bess’s apple-and-blackberry crumble came a close second.

‘Not too bad.’ She laid down her hammer.

‘Bess said you were in bad form,’ Des said.

Natalie allowed herself a small smile. Her father never beat around the bush.

‘I am a bit, I suppose,’ she said.

‘Why? Is it Rory?’

Bess and her father had met Rory, and pronounced him very agreeable. Even better, the family dogs - wise barometers of human beings - had adored him at first sight, and the ram had gone berserk outside the kitchen door wanting to join in the fun.

‘Dr Dolittle,’ her father had said cheerfully. Coming from him, it had been a compliment. From Lizzie’s mouth - ‘You’re not seeing Dr Dolittle again, are you?’ - it had been a slur.

‘No, it’s not Rory, he’s great.’

He was great too. Kind, sexy, funny, generous: he ticked all the boxes. But despite that, Natalie hadn’t allowed herself to fall totally in love with him.

It was, she thought wryly, the perfect example of it’s not you, it’s me. It was her. He was lovely. She was the one who wasn’t sure, although she had no idea why. She simply didn’t feel like herself these days.

What with not sleeping well, she felt jumpy and achingly sad. She couldn’t bear to hear the news on the car radio on the way to or from work, and she hadn’t been able to look at the latest batch of leaflets for Molly’s anti-poverty organisation either. The main picture was a black-and-white shot of a small child curled up in a corner of a bare room, looking lonely and scared.

Natalie felt tears well up in her eyes the first time she saw it.

‘You’re sure it’s not Rory?’ her father went on. ‘We all think he’s a great fellow, but if he’s misbehaving, I can rush

round to the surgery and pretend to knock all his teeth out.

He’d win, you know, but I’d go through the motions for you.’

‘No, honestly,’ Natalie said, laughing.

‘Right, so,’ said her father, serious again.

Natalie wished she could summon up the courage to say, Actually, Dad, could you tell me about my mum, she’s been on my mind a bit

But

she didn’t know how to begin. How did you start a conversation you’d been waiting your whole life to have?

‘I’m not trying to pry. If you don’t want to talk, don’t. But I’m here if you need me,’ he said.

She couldn’t do it.

‘It’s Lizzie,’ she said. Well, it was partly true; Lizzie’s behaviour was upsetting. But since Natalie had been keeping out of her way, she hadn’t witnessed any other drunken nights.

Still, let Lizzie take some blame now to get Dad off the scent.

‘What’s she done?’ he asked.

‘It’s hard to explain. She’s my friend and I don’t want to be disloyal ‘

‘I promise not a word will go further than this room.’ Her father sat down on the scarred wooden bench that had sat in the farm’s kitchen for many years before being relegated out here. In the olden days, he’d told Natalie, they called it a ‘firm’.

She thought of all the things he’d taught her over the years.

He’d been a wonderful dad, but there were things he had kept from her, things she needed to know.

‘What’s Lizzie done?’ her father repeated.

‘Molly says she’s an alcoholic,’ Natalie said, and even to her ears, it sounded shocking. ‘I don’t know, Dad, I can’t get my head around it. She does drink a lot. But she has a job and everything, and she’s not living in a cardboard box. It’s not as though she drinks every day. I’ve seen her keep to soft drinks when she’s the designated driver ‘

‘It’s not always easy to see it,’ her father said, and Natalie

had the feeling that she’d said something to upset him. ‘You know, I think I left the light on in the garage,’ he said, getting to his feet quickly. ‘I’d best turn it off while I remember.’ He laid a hand on her arm. ‘Look, Lizzie’s a nice girl, but you don’t know what goes on in people’s lives. Don’t let it mess you up, love.’ And then he was gone. Natalie was hurt at his abruptness.

No longer in the mood for work, she tidied up then headed to her bedroom to get changed. Her precious photos of her mother were in the bedside bureau, and she took them out and looked at them. There were three photos of her mother, two with Natalie when she was clearly only a baby, and another when Natalie was perhaps two and a half. Her mother looked just like her, the same lanky body, the same long dark hair and eyes that looked black in old photos. Her smile burst out of the pictures, though, and she looked as if holding the baby Natalie was the greatest joy in the world.

Natalie ran her thumb over her mother’s face, as if touching it would somehow impart knowledge of her.

‘Mum,’ she tried. ‘Mum.’

This woman was her mother. And she knew nothing about her.

‘Hey, Nat.’ Joe wandered in. Her youngest brother never waited to be invited in, just sort of threw himself against the door in a half entrance, half knock at the same time. Natalie shoved the pictures under her pillow quickly.

Joe’s hair was all gelled up and he was wearing an awful lot of aftershave.

‘You going out?’ she said.

‘Yeah. What do you think of this look?’

He was wearing an old rock band T-shirt and the hoodie she’d given him for Christmas. It was Diesel, very cool, he loved it.

‘Fabulous. You’ll knock their socks off. Or her socks off .. Is it a date?’ she asked.

‘Yeah,’ he said, still in full-on cool mode. He admired himself in her dressing-table mirror, posing, putting his hands in his pockets and striking a moody look.

‘What’s her name?’ Natalie asked.

‘Sarah,’ he said. ‘She’s really different, not like Kylie at all.’

Kylie had been his last girlfriend, a major mistake in Natalie’s opinion. A blip on Joe’s previous record, Kylie measured worth in terms of Louis Vuitton handbags and was scouting around for somebody to keep her in the style to which she wished to become accustomed. Natalie had disliked her on sight, and the feeling had been mutual.

‘What’s Sarah like?’

‘She’s sort of pretty, has long hair and … you know. She’s into music. She’s sound,’ he added.

Natalie grinned: a man of few words, was her brother. She loved him, even if he didn’t have that much to say. She’d go out and kill Sarah with her bare hands if she wasn’t nice to him. Actually, she owed Kylie a bit of thumping too, now that she thought about it. Anyone who dared upset her little brothers would have her to contend with.

‘You look great,’ she said, ‘but I’d wash off a bit of the aftershave, just a small bit, you know.’

‘Too much?’ he said anxiously, a little boy again.

‘Sort of.’

‘OK, Sis - bye,’ he said.

When he was gone, and his overpowering miasma with him, Natalie looked at her photos again briefly, before putting them back in the bureau. There were no more answers there.

But after closing the drawer she had second thoughts.

She opened it again, took out the smallest photo and put it in her handbag It would be comforting to carry it around with her.

The next morning, Natalie was on the early shift in Kenny’s.

Although the store didn’t open until nine, the cafe itself opened

to staff at half past eight for breakfast. The first person in that morning was Charlie.

‘How lovely to see you,’ said Natalie, smiling. She hadn’t seen Charlie for an age, although someone had said her mother had had an accident and she’d taken time off to take care of her. The place wasn’t the same without Charlie around. There was something so friendly about her smiling face and shining eyes. And she’d been a life-saver at Lizzie’s wedding when the make-up artist hadn’t turned up.

‘Hello, Natalie. Can I have a large cappuccino and -‘ She scanned the pastries on the countertop - ‘I fancy one of those maple-syrup muffins, even though I shouldn’t.’ Her hand patted her stomach. ‘But I haven’t had one in weeks.’

Natalie plated one up and began to make the cappuccino.

‘Your mum was sick?’ she said with her back to Charlie.

‘Yes, I was taking care of her and today is my first day back.’

‘Welcome back. Very worrying, was it?’

‘You could say that,’ Charlie said slowly. ‘Perhaps I’m not cut out to be a nurse. It’s hard taking care of someone, and my mother’s not the most patient patient in the world.’

‘It must have been tough for both of you,’ said Natalie automatically.

‘Yes, it was,’ Charlie said, following the approved script.

She sighed and abandoned the script. ‘It was a nightmare, actually. I thought I’d never get back to work. My mother and I don’t really get on that well. Throw a broken hip into the mix and it’s a recipe for disaster.’

There, it was out. She’d said it.

They both stopped what they were doing - Charlie fiddling in her purse for coins and Natalie wiping the bottom of the cup with a piece of disposable towel - and stared at each other, Charlie’s honest words still hanging in the air.

‘Sorry,’ she said suddenly. Why did I say that?

‘No,’ Natalie said, ‘don’t say sorry. If that’s the truth, that’s the truth.’

‘I shouldn’t have said it,’ fretted Charlie. ‘There must be something wrong with me. Nobody else talks about their mother that way, do they?’

‘I don’t know - my mother died when I was little,’ said Natalie.

‘God! I’ve made it worse,’ Charlie groaned. ‘I’m really sorry ‘

‘No, stop.’ Natalie placed the cup on Charlie’s tray. ‘I’m glad you said it. I’ve spent my life thinking I was intrinsically different from the rest of the world because I don’t have this classic mother person. I mean, I have Bess, my stepmother, and she’s wonderful, but I don’t call her “Mum”. Everyone and their granny seems to have a marvellous relationship with their real mother, so it’s nice to hear someone say they don’t get on with theirs.’

‘Is it?’ said Charlie doubtfully.

‘Of course. It makes me feel less out of place. If all you’ve ever heard about mothers is that they’re wonderful, then you feel even more left out. People tell you the good stuff and that’s what you see mostly. And even when they do have their quarrels, everyone says: No matter what happens, your mother loves you.’

They both considered this.

‘It’s not easy being a mother,’ said Charlie. ‘You’re afraid of getting it wrong all the time. Whenever I get angry with my mother. I look at my son and wonder if, when he’s my age, I’ll be driving him nuts and he’ll want to murder me.

Like it’s a cycle and, no matter what you do, your kids’ll end up groaning about the mistakes you made. Do you mind me asking, what happened to your mother?’

‘She died when I was three. I don’t really know the first thing about her,’ Natalie said.

Charlie recognised that Natalie was about to cry.

‘Sit down with me,’ she urged.

‘I can’t ‘

‘You can. If anyone else comes in, you can hop up and serve them, but sit now.’

Charlie went behind the counter and poured another cup of coffee for Natalie, then carried the whole lot over to a table.

‘Go on,’ urged Charlie, sitting down.

It was strange. Natalie thought of all the people she could have talked to about this, yet Charlie was just the right person. And here, in the cosiness of the cafe, knowing that only people from Kenny’s would come in, was the right place.

‘David’s funeral really upset me,’ she said, ‘and I began to think about her. I did some research on the internet about being motherless, and some things began to make sense. Like everything that was hard when I was growing up, stuff I didn’t understand at the time. I remember when my friend, Lizzie she’s my best friend, sort of - had long talks with her mum about periods, and her mum gave her a book. I borrowed the book and then, when I started my periods six months later, I didn’t even ask Bess about it. It was like this was something mums were supposed to do and it was safer to hold it all inside than ask. Does that make sense?’

Charlie nodded.

‘This website talked about the defining moments in your life and how they’re hard when you’ve lost a parent. And in my house, nobody talked about my mother.’

‘So you feel you can’t ask your dad about her?’ Charlie prompted.

‘Exactly. He’s never spoken about her to me. He gave me photographs when I was small, but that’s it. I don’t want to dredge up painful memories.’

‘You have to ask him,’ Charlie said.

‘I should,’ Natalie said unconvincingly.

‘Listen, I spent years not getting on with my mother and feeling guilty because of that. I didn’t learn to deal with it