Perfect Daughter (6 page)

‘I’m not that old, Martha. I’m thirty-six, that means I’m not even halfway through my life!’

‘You hope!’ her daughter quipped.

‘Yes, good point.’ Jacks laughed.

‘What’s the worst thing about being old, Mum?’ Martha twisted the end of her bleached braid between her fingers.

Jacks chuckled, remembering how when she was seventeen, anyone over the age of twenty-five had indeed been considered ancient. Jonty had more of an older mum, granted. Nearly ten years was a big gap between the two. It was ironic that as soon as she and Pete had given up trying to conceive, having put it out of their minds after years of trying, including one failed IVF attempt, she had fallen pregnant almost immediately with their darling boy,
their
little bonus gift.

‘Well, as I said, I’m actually rather young and you will realise that one day. But I suppose the worst thing about getting old
-er
, is having to listen to this horrible boom-boom music!’ She grimaced. ‘That and not being able to eat like I used to. When I was young, I could shovel in chips and chocolate and not put on an ounce. Now, if I so much as look at a bit of cheese, my hips swell.’ She winked at her daughter.

‘Sounds horrible!’ Martha squirmed.

Jacks laughed. This was best. Keep it light. What was the alternative? Tell her the truth? Hardly.

Martha sang along loudly to the remorseless racket.

Jacks pushed Ida’s wheelchair along the Marine Parade, stopping and bending forward every so often to check her mum was warm enough or to turn the chair to face the sea. At this time of year, though, the sea was nothing more than a distant grey foaming flutter over the vast expanse of mud that tourists optimistically called the beach. Seagulls swooped and swirled, hovering on the breeze, cackling overhead as they hunted for abandoned chips and specks of burger bun that lay in tantalising trails, as if a modern-day Hansel and Gretel needed to find their way back to McDonald’s.

She paused to nod to other walkers and wheelers, all taking the air. She wondered if they too were escaping from homes that were too small to contain their occupants and all their belongings. Whether they too had cupboards crammed full of things deemed too precious to discard and whether they also felt the slow suffocation of living in a house that oozed disappointment, a temporary house, just until… Sunnyside Road had been temporary since they had married eighteen years ago. The improvements they had promised had simply become dreams: the conservatory, loft conversion, hand-built shiny kitchen. She thought about the money in their savings account, the first time it had ever been in credit. Money for a rainy day, it felt nice.

Jacks had lied to Martha earlier. Having to listen to crappy music? Ha! That wasn’t the worst thing about getting older, oh no. The worst thing was knowing she would never achieve all the things she’d once thought she might. She no longer saw a glowing window of opportunity ahead of her that she could jump through. She was stuck. She was Pete’s wife, the kids’ mum and Ida’s carer. This was the sum total of her life. She was the finished article and what she saw when she looked in the mirror didn’t come close to what she had imagined. ‘The worst thing about getting older is knowing that my life is ordinary but wanting so badly for it to be extraordinary and realising that I might be running out of time to change it.’ This she whispered into the air above her mother’s head.

‘It’s marching on. Can only ever make the most of what you’ve got. It’s not a trick, it’s the truth. Contentment in what you’ve got. That’s it.’ Ida’s voice was strong and clear.

Jacks bent down and looked into her mum’s face, acknowledging the truth in her words. Ida stared out to sea, silent once again, like she was looking at a painting. It was as if Jacks had imagined her mum’s words.

‘For goodness’ sake, hold him, Polly!’ The man’s voice echoed along the pavement as his wife raced towards them, in pursuit of a beardy-faced Border terrier that was now taking an interest in Ida’s wheelchair.

‘I am trying, Paz! Jeez, do you think I’d let him go on purpose?’ The woman giggled, trying to catch her breath as she ran along the Marine Parade in ridiculously inappropriate heels. ‘God! I’m so sorry! He’s new to us and we’re still getting the hang of being dog parents. I think the actual kids are easier, but possibly less cute!’ She smiled.

Ida reached down. ‘Hello, Rexy!’ she cooed. ‘Good boy.’ To her, it was the dog of her childhood, even if he had died when Ida was six. If he were alive today, Jacks thought, he’d be in his late seventies – off the scale in doggy years! He looked pretty good on it.

‘Come on, Bert! I’m so sorry, we’re only here for a little holiday, he’s a London dog, not used to this sea air. That and so many stationary birds are sending him a little bit crazy!’ The woman waved apologetically as she ran back along the prom towards her long-haired husband, who laughed good-naturedly at her inept dog handling.

Jacks resumed their walk, watching with a rueful smile as the woman fell into her husband’s embrace. She hadn’t wanted to trouble Martha with the mundane reality of her life. Her daughter was going to take the world by storm; she was a clever girl who worked hard and was well liked. Jacks pictured her all grown up, a lawyer, living in a swanky flat somewhere far away, like Paris or New York! Imagine that. She would do it all. And Jacks couldn’t wait! She’d miss her, of course, but had decided that she would visit her every birthday and they would go for a posh lunch and have pudding and then coffee after their main course. What was it her tutor had said?
‘The sky is the limit for a girl like Martha. With hard work and application, she can pick her path.’
A bubble of excitement filled her throat.
Pick her path…
how wonderful.
And you can do it for us both, Martha. You can make the most of all the chances I didn’t have.

Jacks regularly listened to Gina and other mates from school recounting tales of the girls who’d got away, girls who had escaped from Weston-super-Mare and made something of themselves. There was Rosie Barnes, who had married a banker and now lived in Monaco with a swimming pool in her basement and a tennis court on her roof. Which Jacks thought sounded ridiculous; it seemed like a hell of a long way to go to retrieve lost balls. And then there was Martine Braithwaite, who had gone to Oxford; this wasn’t something you could forget, not with her mother telling anyone that would listen every time you bumped into her in the street, whether it was relevant or not.

‘Hello, Mrs Braithwaite. Bit windy!’

‘Ah yes, probably windy in Oxford too, where my Martine went to university!’

‘Tell me, Mrs Braithwaite, how are your haemorrhoids?’

‘Oh, fine. I’ve been to see the pharmacist, a smart man, but not as smart as my Martine, who went to Oxford, you know!’

Jacks chuckled at this imaginary exchange. Martine was now a successful doctor working in London and gave the odd interview to the BBC about her various triumphs. It wasn’t that she was outright jealous of girls like Rosie and Martine – that would be ridiculous, knowing that Martha was all set to be the Martine of her year – but she had to confess to a certain touchiness that flickered within her and flared at different times in her life, sometimes turning to anger, which she swallowed. It wasn’t that she wanted to
be
them, not at all, but rather that she wanted more out of the life she had. Sometimes, when she was exhausted and miserable, she would contemplate Rosie’s life in the sunshine, away from her parents, away from the seafront, the monotony and the relentless pull of duty. With her arms deep in foul, tepid water, trying to scrub away the evidence of her old and unable Mum, she would visualise Rosie waking late each day, wandering down a sweeping staircase and ambling off to retrieve her tennis balls from the street below. Other times, as she answered the bell yet again – for a drink, an extra pillow, a change of bed linen – she would imagine Martine’s life and how, after a day of doctoring, she must be spending her evenings laughing and having fun in the capital.

Sometimes, roused from the deepest sleep, Jacks would jump up, thinking she had heard the bell. Tumbling into her mother’s room she would find Ida sleeping peacefully, slack mouthed and snoring in blissful oblivion. It was as though a cruel joker waited until 4 a.m. to ding-a-ling her from her rest, knowing she could not return to it once she was up and about.

She looked out across Beach Lawns towards the house in which Sven and his family had lived, picturing her teenage self with a curly perm and backcombed fringe, trotting up the path with a tummy full of nerves and a heart that fluttered. She had rather liked it. She wondered what it would be like now if Sven had stayed, if they had both moved into one of those conservatory houses. She saw herself waking and staring across a pristine white sheet towards his sleeping form. As the sunlight poured through the large sash window, she would sit up, stretch and take in the vast room with the white carpet, neat dressing table and carefully positioned silver-framed photos of them on holiday in far-flung places.

‘I’ve passed water.’ Her mother reached backwards, gripping Jacks’ arm and pulling her from her dreams.

‘Oh, okay, Mum. Not to worry. Shall we get you back then?’ She smiled and slowly turned the wheelchair in the direction of home.

Jacks sometimes wondered how she had ended up with the life she had. What was it Sven had said?
‘You are not like these sheep-girls. You’re different. You will have an amazing journey.’
And where had that amazing journey taken her? Three streets away from where he had uttered those words as they lay flat on the grass in the dark. Some journey! Glad she hadn’t bothered buying a return ticket. She quickened her pace. They would have to forgo a trip to the supermarket; instead, she’d dig something out of the freezer for tea. She was glad that the wind was quite fierce as it carried the odour away from her and out to sea.

6

Nineteen Years Earlier

It was the first day of term, a brand-new school year and her last ever. She was in the upper sixth! She sat at the breakfast table and ate her bowl of Frosties. Steve Wright’s breakfast show was playing Whigfield’s ‘Saturday Night’. Fish-and-chip wrappers from last night’s tea sat scrunched into a greasy ball on the draining board. Jacks drummed her fingers in time to the music.

Her mum stood by the table. ‘Got everything you need, Jackie?’

‘Yes, thanks.’

Ida hovered, twisting the tea towel in her hands. ‘Did… did you hear Dad come in last night?’

‘From work? No. I was asleep, plus I had my Walkman on as I dropped off.’ Her dad was working later and later, she loved him for it. He wasn’t getting any younger and yet was still a grafter.

‘Upper sixth, can you believe it? You’re growing up so quickly.’ Ida looked close to tears.

‘I’m not leaving home, Mum, just going to school. I’ll be home by four.’

Ida patted her arm. ‘I know, love. I know.’ She returned to the kitchen to busy herself at the sink.

Jacks walked to school with an air of superiority as the reality of her now being at the top of the school hierarchy began to sink in. Once in school, it took only a matter of minutes for her to feel the absence of Gina, who had taken different options to her and was going to be in fewer of her classes than ever before. She arranged her new locker as she considered her lessons for the morning: English and business studies. She loved the look and feel of her immaculate folders, newly sharpened pencils and pristine notepads, all ready to go, and she felt the excitement of a new term in the air. Just one more year, one more year of school and then her dad had agreed she could go to college. These were the stepping-stones to getting out of this place. She would go somewhere exciting, somewhere that wasn’t Weston-super-Mare, anywhere!

Suddenly there he was, walking towards her. She felt a warm blush, as though the lingering scent of summer followed him on this frosty morning. Her heart beat so quickly she felt like she might fall over.
I love you. I love you!
The words danced in her throat before whooshing straight up the back of her nose and exploding inside her head like fireworks. She was sure that if he looked into her eyes he’d see the glittering cascade as it rained down on everything she glanced at. She would never tell him, because if he didn’t feel the same way, she was sure she would die. Actually die.

Just a single glimpse of him across the corridor and she couldn’t speak and couldn’t breathe. She was just as enamoured of her beautiful blonde Swedish boyfriend as she had been when they had first started seeing each other, and every time he sought her out, ordinary Jackie Morgan, she felt like a very special thing. It made her feel like one of the smart girls, the girls who discussed future careers, knowing they would be going on to university, or the girls who went abroad during the holidays to practise their second language. At all other times, she was as far from these girls as you could imagine, lurking at the back and aiming for a junior administrative role at a firm within walking distance of home – that was, until she found her career path, and then whoosh! There’d be no stopping her. And she had to admit, she liked being one of those girls, even if it was only for the few minutes that she was in his company.

Gina thought he was a nerd. ‘Have you seen Brains?’ she’d ask and Jacks would beam because even if Gina was calling him names, sneering and failing to see the attraction, at least they were talking about him and he was her favourite topic.

She had seen him eight times over the six-week holiday. They had walked barefoot together down to the chilly edge of the sea and as her toes had touched his on the shoreline, she’d felt a thrill like a thunderbolt jolt right through her body. She wouldn’t ever forget it. It was the same when he held her hand. They had been for glorious bike rides along Poets’ Walk and stopped for picnics at the Sugar Lookout with a wonderful view of the Bristol Channel. It was while they’d lain staring at the sky, using their raised arms as pillows, that Jacks had learnt his mum was called Stina and came from Stockholm. She spent hours before falling asleep wondering about his mum’s foreignness. Did she grow up in the snow? Did they celebrate Christmas? As someone who craved travel and who woke with a yearning to jump on a plane, eat food under a foreign sun and paddle in a warm sea, his family fascinated her. Stina had a fat twist of blonde plait that sat over her left shoulder and pale blue eyes in a heart-shaped face. Strangely, despite being blonde and rangy, her perfect parts did not add up to a beautiful whole; in fact she was quite manly, boxy and plain, with a soft down covering her cheeks and chin.