Out on a Limb (27 page)

But I don’t do that. Because that would be illegal. So I plant both feet on the living room threshold and consider her instead. I think, momentarily, that she is engaged in some sort of yoga posture; the Swan, perhaps, for it has that sort of look, or maybe the Recently Beached Sea Cow. But then I realise she is not in fact posturing but scrubbing. At the carpet. With the new Landmarks of Venice tea towel I bought at the Airport.

‘You shouldn’t be kneeling,’ I say, automatically. She ignores me. I try again. ‘Mum, you know you shouldn’t be kneeling. Will you please
leave
that?’

She scrubs a bit harder. I walk around her and go and open all three of the top living room windows, causing billows of icy air to mushroom into the room. At which point she stops scrubbing and goes ‘tsk’ instead.

My mother could ‘tsk’ for Britain. My mother being, lest we forget, a dancer
and
an actress, has a variety of ‘tsk’ available for almost any situation, much as Inuit peoples have lots of words for snow. This ‘tsk’, this passive-aggressive little nugget, is a ‘tsk’ that means ‘bog off and leave me alone.’

So that’s exactly what I do. I go into the kitchen instead, where the table has been returned to its rightful position in the corner of the kitchen and Spike, order having been restored and the roof returned to his sleepy hole, is flat out and dreaming about whatever it is he dreams about. Not rabbits, I fancy. Has he ever seen a rabbit, even? No, perhaps he dreams dreams in which he vanquishes Airedales. I really must get him a new rubber bone.

And while I’m at it, a new rubber heart for myself. Something sturdy and unbreakable, ideally. I leave Spike to his slumbers and survey the chaos on the other side of the room. The worktop by the sink is now a sea of plates and glasses. Some of them empty, but some still playing host: to beer and whisky. Wine. Sandwich curls. Pringles. Cigarette ends. Cigar butts. Gherkins. Smears of pickle. I take it all in and I pull open the dishwasher. Which is still full from lunchtime. I click it back shut.

At which point my mother enters. In her slippy-sloppy slippers. I turn around. ‘Quite a party,’ I say.

She puts a foot on the pedal bin and empties the dustpan into it. It closes with a snap and Spike starts. ‘It wasn’t a party, Abigail. It was just a few friends round, for goodness’ sake!’

She turns on the hot tap and fires a stream of water into the washing-up bowl. Except there’s a plate sitting in there and the water bounces back, showering her skirt front instead.

‘Mum, can you just leave that? Please? I’d really like to get to bed and I –’

‘So
go
to bed, then!’ she snaps, slapping at her clothing. ‘Go to bed and leave me to it. I’m quite capable of washing a few glasses, you know.’

‘I’m well aware of that, Mum. I’d just rather you didn’t. They can go in the dishwasher in the morning.’

She carries on regardless, while I stand there and scowl. Then she turns around, clearly with something else to say. Which she does. Oh, and then some. ‘Honestly,’ she snaps, orange dish-brush in hand. ‘Why do you have to be such a shrew about everything?’

I gape at her. ‘
What
?’

She exhales. ‘Well, for goodness’ sake, take a look at yourself, Abigail! You are becoming so joyless and shrill! Why are you always in such a bad mood all the time? So I had a few friends round. Is that such a crime?’

Because I’m still stung on the joyless and shrewish bit, it takes me a couple of seconds to absorb the rest. No, it’s not a crime. And yes, I
am
in a bad mood. A very bad mood now, in fact.

‘No. Not a crime,’ I say, trying to keep my voice calm and measured. ‘But pretty off of you, even so. Tonight of all nights, Mum. With Jake’s gig and everything. And what on earth did you think you were doing, letting people smoke cigars in my house?’ I know I sound petty, but that’s just how I feel. ‘Why couldn’t they smoke in the garden, for God’s sake? I don’t want to be a kill-joy, but the whole place stinks!’

She tsks again. Which is getting
really
irritating. ‘Abigail, I cannot
believe
you are making such an enormous fuss about a few perfectly civilised human beings sitting in your living room playing cards. “Oh,
no
! End of the
world
! People are
smoking
in my
house
!”’ She grabs the washing-up liquid bottle and wafts it towards me. ‘What is this place anyway, Colditz?’

‘That’s not the point. It’s the principle.’

‘Oh, and we mustn’t upset your precious principles, must we? Dear me, no.’ She fires washing-up liquid into the bowl and then slams the bottle back down onto the drainer. Three little rainbow bubbles float up and away. Much like fairies do. Sometimes. Not always. I want to cry.

‘And Jake has
asthma
. Or did you forget that?’ She says nothing. So, yes, clearly.
Yes
. Why does that not surprise me? ‘Mum, just leave this, will you? I want to go to bed.’

‘Oh, no,’ she says. ‘Oh, no. Not likely. I’m not having you tutting your way about the place in the morning with
that
look on your face.’

I fold my arms. ‘Oh, right. Of course. And which face would that be? My mid-life crisis situation face, perhaps?’ She looks at me sharply. I glare right on back. ‘How
dare
you say that! I am not having a mid-life crisis, okay? Just a crisis, which is different.’ She continues to fill the sink with dishes and glasses, each one entering the water with a point making bang. I half hope she breaks one. Serve her right. ‘And it may have escaped your notice but if you had so much a shred of intelligence you might have realised the crisis might have something to do with
you
.’

Now she turns. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You heard what I said, Mum. How
dare
you patronise me like that!’

‘I was not being patronising. I –’

‘Not being patronising? Yeah, right. Sitting in my living room discussing me with all your friends? “Oh,
poor
Abigail! Man problems. Oh,
bless
.” How dare you! Did you fill them in on all the details, too?’

‘I most certainly did not.’

‘I should bloody well hope so.’

She lifts her hands from the suds and scrutinises me for a moment. ‘Hmm,’ she says then. ‘So it
is
still going on, then.’

I could weep. I really could. I’m too tired for all this. ‘I don’t believe it,’ I say. ‘You really have
no
idea, do you? No. ‘
It
’ is
not
‘still going on’, as you put it. This has
nothing
to do with bloody man problems, okay? This is all about me.
My
life. That thing that happens to
me
everyday! You may not have actually noticed, of course, but I have one too! I get up. I go to work. I come home again. I shop. I cook. I clean. I wash. I run around after everyone. I run around after
you
. And then I collapse into bed. And then, you know what? I get up and do it all again. Every single day, Mum. Ad nauseam.
Endlessly
. My life is just one big round of attending to other people’s needs!’ I stab myself in the chest now. ‘Well,
I
have needs too. And it would be nice, now and then, if you’d appreciate that fact and not turn my home into a bloody bordello. But no. The only person you ever think about is
you
. So, yes, you’re right, Mum. I
am
feeling joyless.’ I cast an arm about me. ‘Can you
blame
me?’

She stops banging about at the sink and dries her hands on a tea towel. Then she sniffs. ‘There’s no point in talking to you when you’re in this sort of state, Abigail. I think you should get yourself off to bed.’

Something in me snaps as she says this. And she’s lucky it isn’t her neck in my hands. ‘That’s exactly what I’d planned to do when I got home two hours back! Except you’d taken it upon yourself to invite all your bloody luvvie friends round for a knees-up!’

‘That’s uncalled for, young lady.’

‘Don’t you ‘young lady’ me! I am not a child any more. I’m an adult. And this is
my
house, okay?
Mine
. Not yours!’

She puts the tea towel, still in a ball, on the table. ‘I think you’ve made that much clear.’ She sniffs again. ‘Still, I’ll know to go elsewhere next time, won’t I? Somewhere a little more hospitable.’ She sniffs a third time, obviously going for the hat-trick. ‘You could at least have
tried
to be civil!’

I snatch the cloth up and hang it from the hook, where it belongs. Civil, indeed. Yeah, right. As in civil bloody servant. And then I think some more and I find myself seething anew. Because I
was
civil. I have been civil throughout. Yet, despite that, I realise that at no point since I got home tonight has it occurred to my mother to say sorry. Or if not that (one mustn’t push the bounds of probability too far), at least made some sort of enquiry about how
I
feel. Which is strung-out, strung-up, heartsick and lonely, and very much in need of a hug. ‘And you could have been less thoughtless!’ I bark back at her. ‘God, you are
so
selfish.’ I can feel tears welling up now. ‘You don’t care a jot about anyone else, do you? All you care about is whether
you’re
having a good time. Just the same as you always did. Me, me, me.’

‘I resent that.’

‘Well, resent all you like. It’s still true.’ I start to gather up the detritus that litters the kitchen table. She stands and watches, hands on hips now.

‘It most certainly isn’t!’

I slap the papers that I’d collected up back down on the table.

‘Yes it
is
, Mum!’ I look at her now and all of a sudden I’m fourteen again. Waiting for her to come home from some rave-up or something. Making Pru’s packed lunch for the morning. Worrying. Fretting. Wondering when she’ll get home. Frightened that I can’t actually bolt the back door because she won’t be able to get in. Night after night. So many wretched nights. And then coming down in the morning to find her gone again. Just a note. Always a note, on the hall stand. With bus money, but not always. Scrawled in haste. Always. ‘Byee, girls! Have a nice day!’

Then as now. Nothing’s changed. Nothing. ‘God, I don’t even know why I should expect any different!’ I rail at her. ‘It’s not like you’ve ever
been
any different, is it? You’ve never ever worried about
anyone
but you, and I’m sick of it, okay? I’m just sick of it!’

She removes her hands from her hips and stabs a finger in my direction. ‘That’s
not
true.’ Her voice is cold. Each word tipped with its very own icicle. ‘You really have no idea, do you? You have absolutely no idea what I went through when your father died. Oh, you can be as misty-eyed as you like about
him
, but who do you think it was that kept things together? Who put the food on the table? Who was it that paid for all your fancy clothes, your school trips, your riding lessons? Me! Don’t you
dare
talk to me about selfishness, Abigail! You haven’t the first clue about the sacrifices I made!’

‘But I didn’t
want
that.
We
didn’t want that. We didn’t want riding bloody lessons – we wanted
you
!’ I sound plaintive, I know. Fourteen again. Wretched. I spread my hands. Swallow. Feel the crack in my voice. ‘But you were never
there
, Mum, were you?’

I flee the room, altogether too choked-up to speak now. She goes back to doing the washing-up.

Symmetry. I’ve always rather liked symmetry. Especially the symmetry that is everywhere in nature. In a spider’s web, a crystal, a butterfly, a leaf. The human body, for which I’ve also always had a fondness, is symmetrical in so many useful regards. Almost everything in it has its own mirror image. Two hands to engage with, two legs for walking. Two kidneys. Two lungs. Two each of everything, from eyes, ears and nostrils to thumbs.

But crucially, just the one liver to take care of. And also, more crucially, just the one heart. Which is why it so needs taking care of.

And if it stops, so do you.

My heart feels so full tonight that as I lie in bed I am actively aware of it. The shuntings and whooshing and general activity; the doppelganger effect of each lub and each dub. And beneath that, the steady and insistent sensation that it’s working on go-slow: not up to full throttle, as so much of its energy is channelled elsewhere.

On Gabriel Ash. My mother’s fourth dead husband’s son. Who I very much wish I’d never met.

But try as I might – and I do try, because it’s such a pointless occupation – I can’t
stop
thinking about Gabriel – I just can’t. How could I
ever
have imagined that what I felt for Charlie was anything even remotely connected with this? It’s a feeling so powerful, so exquisitely painful, that I’m quite at a loss to know what to do. Where does it hurt? Everywhere.

It’s almost two. My mother has finally ceased crashing about, and the house, similarly, has long since ceased all its wheezings and mutterings and sunk slowly back into silence. And now I do sleep, fitfully, though not for very long, because the silence is almost as distracting as the noise was. And then, through it, I now realise why it is I’ve woken. Because there
is
noise. Soft, indistinct, but still insistent. Cutting through brickwork and plasterboard and paint. Faint and yet keening. Impossible to ignore. And then, suddenly, I realise that what I can hear is the sound of my mother. Who is crying.

I feel just like I did when my babies were tiny. I listen for a minute or two, anxious and fretful. Hoping it will stop so I can go back to sleep. But you never can, can you? It’s a sound that won’t let you. A siren-call, tractor beam, noose of a sound. I kick back my duvet, get out of bed, then I pad along the landing to see her.

I push open the door to Seb’s room and look in. Despite all the announcements stuck on there to declare it (keep out, radioactive, enter at your own risk) it isn’t Seb’s room any more. It is in the process of being reclaimed by nature. My mother’s nature, which, little by little, is imposing its practices and rituals and ethos on to the organised, creative and exuberant chaos that it was before its real owner left.