Five
Carry me home
Like you did at the start
Carry me home
The first woman I loved
‘Mama’ from Roses
It’s the first weekend since Ollie left, and it’s nearly a week until school starts. Faye and Kira are over, trying to cheer me up. I’ve not told them about my crush on Ollie, but I’m starting to feel it might not be as much of a secret as I’d thought.
‘Come on, Selena,’ says Faye.
I am lying horizontally on my bedroom floor while they flick through YouTube videos on my laptop.
‘Look there is a new Date in the Attic with Anu Kapoor. You love him.’
‘I don’t have time for love,’ I say, a tad too dramatically. ‘I’m in mourning.’
‘And it’s the actual morning,’ says Kira, ‘and one of the last few days of summer! I think we need to go outside and you need to see the sun.’
I grab my phone and turn up the volume, so Rose Conrad’s ‘I Loved You Like That’ plays out louder.
‘Okay,’ says Kira, getting off the bed and grabbing my phone. ‘That’s enough Rose Conrad for now.’
‘Guys . . .’ says Faye, from the bed.
‘But she sees into my soul,’ I say, waving my arms around but still not getting up.
‘Guys!’ says Faye, shouting, which is unlike her. ‘Someone is moving into Ollie’s house.’
I’m up so fast I could break the world record for standing up, if there is one. All three of us kneel on the bed, our noses pressed against the window.
There is a black people-carrier in the drive of Ollie’s house, and a large white van parked behind that. Suitcases are being wheeled along the driveway by men in overalls.
An older white man in chinos and a shirt is pacing the front of the house, speaking on the phone, with his other hand in his pocket.
A Black woman dressed in an expensive-looking summer dress comes out of the house and taps on the car back door.
The window rolls down, she bends over it.
‘God, I wish this had audio,’ says Kira.
‘Do you think we should open the window?’ I say.
‘Shhh, look,’ says Faye.
The door of the car slides open and a mixed-race boy gets out, heavily side-eying his mother. He barely looks at her as he saunters into the house.
‘How do you get all the fit neighbours?’ says Faye. ‘I have two grandmas on either side of my house!’
‘We don’t know he’s fit,’ I say. ‘We can barely see him.’
‘He has fit energy,’ says Kira. ‘You can tell by the way he walks,’ she adds seriously.
‘We’re really showing that we go to an all-girls’ school,’ I say. ‘You’re acting as if you’ve never seen a boy before!’
A younger boy gets out of the car and says something to the mother, looking apologetic, before following the older boy into the house.
The mother throws up her hands into the air in exasperation, then follows him inside. The older boy may be fit, but it looks like he may be a bit of a dick.
One thing is clear, though. These are definitely my new neighbours.
***
It’s been a week since the new neighbours moved in, and I’m dying to know more.
‘Have you met the new people next door?’ I ask Mum, as nonchalantly as I can. Which is hard because we’re trying to put up a metre-long painting on our living room wall and I’m breaking out in a sweat.
‘I’ve seen them walk in and out. Think there’s another boy your age there,’ she says, looking at me knowingly.
‘Whatever,’ I say, as we finally catch the back of it onto the nail. ‘They’re no Pointers.’
We stand back, and Mum adjusts the painting.
‘Where did you even get this from?’ I say. It’s an abstract painting of people in various positions.
‘It’s a modern interpretation of the twelve Olympians. I like it,’ says Mum, standing back and surveying.
‘That’s because you like anything to do with Ancient Greece,’ I say, pushing her on the shoulder.
‘Exactly,’ she says, pointing to the fireplace below, where a terracotta vase sits. ‘I think it’s a nice contrast with my amphora.’
The amphora is Mum’s prized possession, and from what I understand, worth a lot of money.
She got it when she left home, taking a solo trip to Greece against her parents’ wishes.
She never turned back. We now see Nani and Papa twice a year, for their birthdays.
They live in East London and every time we go over it feels formal and stilted.
Mum sits down on the sofa. She struggles getting down, because of the stiffness in her knees.
‘Do you want help?’ I say, rushing over to her, just as she manages to sit.
‘I’ve got it,’ she says, holding a hand up.
‘How are you feeling?’ I say. ‘It looks worse than normal. Do you want me to get you some painkillers?’ Following Mum’s diagnosis I’ve become an expert on the different types of painkillers you can get. I also know where to find them on each floor of the house.
‘I’m just having a flare-up. Good old rheumatoid arthritis. I’ll be fine, Selena. You need to stop worrying about me. I’m your mother, not the other way around.’
Easier said than done: I know I’m all Mum has. What would she do without me?