Chapter 24 Four Wedgwood Plates and One Demented Parakeet
In the end, we drive in a two-car convoy as far as a service station that lies just before the exit for Stoke-on-Trent.
I park slightly later than him, and he has already bought me a coffee. I accept it gratefully, and we go and sit outside in what could very loosely be described as a garden. There are some planter boxes full of half-dead flowers, and three scrawny pigeons fighting over the remains of a sausage roll. It is very picturesque here, among the car fumes and the sounds of traffic.
“So,” he says as we finish up, “I hope it goes well. Give me a bell afterward if you feel up to it. You know I’ll be thinking of you.”
“No, you won’t. You’ll be in a sugar coma and all your sisters will be fussing over you.” He smiles and replies fondly, “Well, they do get excited when the little prince comes home . . . and I’m told there will be a popcorn machine.”
“Lucky swine. I love popcorn.”
He nods, acknowledging his luck, and says: “But I mean it. Let me know. And I’ll text you our address, in case you change your mind. In case you need some company afterward.”
I nod and wrap my hand around his and thank him. We get up to leave, and I head for my car and Karim heads for the shop, where he tells me he is going to buy a bagful of giant Toblerones for his niece and nephews. I can tell that he is both concerned about me and happy at the thought of seeing his family. He has known loss, he has suffered, but he has always had that security, that safety—the certain knowledge that he is loved and wanted. That he could always come home, to a place where he was valued, welcomed, and safe. I fight a pang of unattractive envy as he walks away, and head toward my car.
The rest of the drive is straightforward, down the motorway and toward a hilly city that the map tells me is split into separate towns. Some of it is perched within waving distance of the Peak District National Park, some of it edging toward nearby counties. It is dominated by its industrial heritage, and I see hints of former grandeur in the civic buildings, and signs of both decline and renewal fighting for prominence.
I let my GPS guide me to her address, which is in a town called Hanley. Home of the Potteries Shopping Centre and the Potteries Museum and my long-lost mother.
I drive into a neighborhood that is similar to and yet distinct from the one where I grew up in London. There are tower blocks and maisonettes and flats and bungalows, but also a lot of green space and views of distant countryside roads. Kids are playing football, and older people are standing on corners, chatting, leaning on walking sticks.
It is, without doubt, a housing project—but it is a pleasant one.
I have done my very best not to think too hard about all this on my way here. I pondered buying flowers or chocolates at the service station, decided it wouldn’t feel right. That it would add an extra sense of occasion to one that is already heavily laden.
Now, as I sit here in my parked car outside a three-story block of flats built in a squat rectangle, I feel nervous. It reminds me of all those times I avoided going home as a kid, hanging around in the shop or in the dark spaces beneath stairwells. Uncertain of what I was going to find when I opened the door, but never expecting it to be anything good.
Part of me still wants to leave. To drive away. Past Alton Towers. Past Birmingham. On and on to who knows where—a place where nobody knows me and nobody judges me and nobody wants anything from me at all. My hands are still on the steering wheel, as though they might still decide to make a run for it, no matter what I decide.
I breathe deeply and pull down the mirror to check my hair. Heaven forbid I should have one out of place.
It had been a strange meeting to dress for, this—not exactly formal, but hardly the kind of relaxed reunion Karim is heading toward either. In the end I went with my smart skinny jeans and a silky black blouse with floppy sleeves that always makes me feel a bit like a pirate.
As I force myself to finally get out of the car, a woman approaches. I’d noticed her from the corner of my eye, quietly standing in the doorway to the flats, watching me. It wasn’t a surprise—I was a stranger, after all, and strangers are always worth keeping an eye on. Maybe especially me, because I look a bit like a pirate.
She is in her fifties, short but solidly built, the kind of woman who looks like she takes no nonsense and gives none in return. Her hair is dyed dark pink at the ends, and she is wearing a top that proudly displays her allegiance to Stoke City Football Club to the world.
“Are you Gemma, duck?” she asks as I lock up the car. I am taken aback and stare at her more closely. I know a lot of time has passed, but there is no way this could be my mother. Also, why is she calling me a duck?
I simply nod, waiting to see what she wants. Maybe, I think, my mum has changed her mind. Maybe she has done her own version of a runner and has sent this person to intercept me, to repel me, to send the pirates packing. Maybe I’d be quite relieved if she had.
The sense of warmth and homecoming I’d felt after that first conversation with my mother has faded in the harsh glare of reality, assaulted by a backlog of feelings that aren’t quite as optimistic.
“Right. I’m Sam. Nice to finally meet you. You need to put this in your car.” She passes me a small plastic-coated card, and I see that it is to grant me resident parking privileges. I feel very special.
I insert it in the windscreen and turn back to Sam.
“Your mum’s waiting for you upstairs,” she says. “I’m off to get us some oatcakes. I’ll be gone awhile, don’t worry.”
I thank her and walk toward the doorway. I have no idea who Sam is, or what role she plays in my mother’s life, or even what oatcakes are. I am out of my depth here, in so many ways.
I tap in the entry code my mum has given me and enter a concrete lobby with four doors leading off it. Each door is painted the same green, and as I walk up the stairs to the top floor, I know that all the levels will look exactly the same. It is clean, though, and some people have put fake plants outside, or added brass horseshoes to the doors. Taking pride, trying to carve out some individuality amid the uniform face of social housing.
I reach the top floor and see her door. It has been left open, but I linger outside. I feel like I should announce myself somehow, so I rap on the green wood with my knuckles and shout a tentative “Hello!” as I make my way inside.
“Down here, Gems,” comes the reply, and I walk on thick carpet down a narrow hallway. There are doors off it, presumably a bedroom, a bathroom, all kinds of rooms. I am tempted to look inside them, but that would be purely to put off the inevitable. Also, weird.
I emerge into a large lounge decorated with chintz-patterned wallpaper. There are pottery ornaments all over the place, on shelves and window ledges and in glass-fronted cabinets. The familiar blue and white of Wedgwood plates, proudly displayed on the walls. Two comfortable-looking sofas, a large-screen TV, an upright unit holding CDs, large windows that give views over the buildings to the hills beyond.
All of this, and her.
My mum, standing in the middle of the room. She is still tiny, still thin, still looks as though an especially sharp wind could sweep her up, up, and away like a plastic bag caught on a current.
She is only in her fifties but could be two decades older. Her cheekbones are raw, her face sunken, as though her demons have eaten her from the inside out. Her skin is pale and tinged with yellow, and her red hair is awash with gray, hanging around frail shoulders.
She stands there holding two steaming mugs of tea, staring at me in the same way that I am staring at her. A squawk interrupts us, and I see a parakeet in a large cage, preening and shaking his tail feathers.
“That’s Monty,” she says by way of introduction. “I’ve made you some tea. Lots of milk and sugar, how you like it.”
Inside, I grimace, but outside I try to look appreciative. It is how I liked to drink tea when I was seven, but it seems harsh to point that out to her right now.
She puts the mugs down, and we both stand awkwardly, not knowing what to do next. It feels too soon to hug, to chase that distant memory of her embrace. I’m not sure it even really existed.
“You look great, love,” she says, reaching out and briefly touching my hair. She snaps her hand back as though she’s been shocked, and I know this is as hard for her as it is for me. I was her baby once, and now I am practically a stranger.
“You too, Mum,” I lie. In truth she doesn’t look well, and it is obvious from the wheeze in her breath that a lifetime of abuse is catching up with her.
She chuckles and answers, “No, I don’t!”
“Well, at least you’re not dead?” I reply, smiling.
“Ha! Ain’t that the truth of it. Better than dead, that’s for sure. Sit yourself down now, you’re making me nervous, and I think we’re both jumpy enough, aren’t we?” I sit and find that the sofa is one of those that has no bottom, like the one in Erin’s house. I live in a world where I seem destined to be eaten alive by other people’s furniture.
I look around at the busy but clean room. At the puzzle books and the small collection of remote controls on the arm of her chair. It reminds me of Margie’s place a bit, with its air of clutter and the sense that if you dug deep enough, you’d find traces of prehistoric existence.
“This is nice,” I say, and mean it. The fact that she still has a large-screen TV, still has a mobile phone, still has what look like good-quality pieces of pottery, suggests that she is as clean as the room—they’d have been long gone if she was still using.
It is a huge relief, and one that makes me sag as much as the sofa. I hadn’t realized how worried I’d been—that part of me half expected her to tap me up for money and make her farewells. That fretting about how she was going to be had dragged me down so much.
“It is, isn’t it? Best thing I ever did, getting out of London. Too many bad memories. Too many bad friends.”
“What made you do it in the end? Leave, I mean?” I ask as I sip the tea, as much for something to do as from any genuine desire to drink it. “I never knew where you went. Your phone just went dead.”
She nods, and I see her fists clench and remember her habit of denting her own flesh with her fingernails when she was upset. I wonder how good for her this meeting is, and hope it doesn’t push her back in the direction of bad habits. I know it’s not my responsibility to police my own mother, but I also wouldn’t want to be a catalyst for a collapse into her old ways.
“You don’t have to talk about it,” I say quickly. “We can just forget about it, Mum—it’s in the past.”
She looks up at me, eyes big and face sad, and I get the feeling she knows I am worried, and exactly what I am worried about.
“It’s okay, babe. I don’t mind . . . except, well, it’s a sorry tale and not one I’m fond of recalling, Gems. But ignoring it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen, and ignoring it also means it might just creep up on me later, so best spit it all out.
“I’m not going to go into too much detail, but basically I hit an all-time low. Even by my standards, which we both know weren’t very high. I owed money to some people who weren’t fussy about how they got paid back. I was using again, even though I’d cleaned myself up while I was at Her Majesty’s Pleasure. You seemed . . . sorted, on your way. You certainly didn’t need me. There just didn’t seem to be anything worth staying in that life for, and I knew if I did, it’d be the end of me. I suppose I had to make a choice—me or that place, the past. You were . . . part of the past. I thought it was better for both of us.”
That jolts, and I feel the familiar stab of rejection that I grew up with. Whatever maternal feelings she had toward me were always so easily overridden by her own needs. I am not in a position to judge—but it still stings.
“And Sam? You met her here?” I say, looking around and seeing clearly that this is a home inhabited by two people, not one. There are coats hanging up that are way too big for my mum, a mug left on the coffee table with a Stoke City emblem, the TV positioned so it can be seen from both sofas.
“I did, not long after I moved up. She used to live in the flat downstairs, but now she lives here. With me. Is that a problem for you?” I see her chin jerk up, a hint of her old defiance showing in her eyes.
“Why would it be?” I reply, smiling. “I’m glad you’ve found someone you can be happy with.” Despite the defiance, I can see that she is relieved at my response. That she has one less battle to fight now.
“I am, I suppose,” she says, “happy. Or at least as happy as I can get. I’m on my medication properly; Sam makes sure of that. I don’t use anything, other than the cigarettes, obviously—some habits I’ll probably take to the grave. I have a nice little life here, Gems. It’s more than I expected. More than I deserve. I wasn’t much of a mum for you, was I? I’m sorry. Didn’t ever feel like I could do anything different. I wasn’t ready for a kid, and even now I’m probably stuffing it up.”
“It’s okay,” I say gently, concerned at how quickly she has reached such an emotional point. “I always knew you did your best, Mum.”
“Did my best? I suppose I did—but that won’t look good on me gravestone, will it? My best was crap, and you should have had better. I was . . . I was a mess. My own childhood was a mess too, even though I never told you about it, and I ran away from home when I was in my teens. I didn’t know what a mother was supposed to do. I didn’t know anything. I couldn’t even look after myself. I should have given you away as soon as you were born; at least then you’d have had a chance.”
Her final comment hits me like a punch to the throat. My mother knew I was pregnant. She knew I gave Baby up for adoption. Is this her way of telling me I did the right thing, or has she simply forgotten? Rewritten history?
I don’t know the answer but I am hit by a powerful mix of sadness and anger. I put the tea down, the sugar sickening my stomach anyway.
“I turned out all right, Mum,” I say simply, chewing my lip to keep the other words inside. The angry ones. The painful ones. The ones that are desperate to lash out but will not help either of us.
“No thanks to me for sure. Anyway—tell me all about it. Your life. Everything I’ve missed.”
“I will,” I reply, standing up, “as soon as I’ve used the loo.”
She directs me to the bathroom down the hallway, and as soon as I am inside, I lock the door behind me. I stand in front of the mirror, holding on to the edges of the sink to steady my shaking legs. I splash cold water onto my face and stare at my reflection.
Even now, away from her, I can somehow feel her self-pity. Even as she apologizes, I can feel her self-justification. I can feel her need to be told she was right, she did her best, that everything turned out fine. She was always a black hole of need, and I think I’d somehow buried that memory.
You are not a little girl anymore, I tell myself. You are not weak, or vulnerable, or scared. You do not need to feel threatened. You do not need to give more than you have, in the hope that it will help—in the hope that it will fix her. That didn’t work when you were a child, and it will not work now.
I do a quick and automatic tally of the number of items balanced on the sides of the bath—two shampoos, one conditioner, Tesco own-brand bubble bath, one exfoliating face mask, one rubber duck—before I use the facilities and wash my hands. I give myself another stern look before I leave.
When I go back into the living room, she has obviously just finished a quick cigarette, stubbing it out hastily as I return and then wafting the air to clear it of the smoke. I notice the smell of plug-in air fresheners rising around it but not quite claiming it. Monty squawks away to himself, running up and down his perch as though furiously protesting the presence of a stranger.
“Well,” I say, my voice steady as I settle back onto the sofa opposite her, “like I said, I live near Liverpool. I’ve moved around a lot, done lots of different teaching jobs. Now I am a history teacher. I live in a nice flat right by the beach, and I have a lovely neighbor called Margie. I share her dog, Bill. I’ve been there awhile now.”
She nods and leans forward, her skinny arms wrapped around her body.
“That sounds brilliant, Gems. I know it doesn’t mean much, but I was always so proud of you. Despite everything, you’ve done so well. And what about your love life, eh? Gorgeous girl like you. Any boyfriends?”
“Or girlfriends?” I respond, grinning.
“Fair point. Anyone special?”
I think of Karim, miles down the motorway, probably home by now. Wrapped up in the happy chaos of his family, getting grilled by Asha, playing with the kids.
“I think so,” I say. “But it’s early days yet. I’ve not got the best track record on that front; I’ve managed to mess a lot of stuff up, so I’m just taking it one day at a time.”
We share a look, and we both understand what I haven’t said—that my track record is poor because I am not good at building and maintaining relationships. That I am scarred and damaged. That I, too, have done my best.
I haven’t said it, but she gets it, and I see her lips pinch together in dislike. For a moment, I am seven years old again, seeing the signs of a row brewing and willing to do anything to dissipate it. This is the point at which I would normally surrender, distract, try to draw her attention away from whatever was irking her.
I don’t do that this time. I am too old for such games, and I already know that I cannot win.
“Any photos?” she asks, breaking the moment.
I pull out my phone and sit next to her, realizing as our bodies touch that she is even less solid than she looks. Barely even there.
We sit, and I show her pictures and tell her stories, and she asks questions. We share information about our lives, both of us treading carefully, both of us knowing that there is too much lurking just beneath the surface. Too much between us that could erupt.
I am there for about an hour before Sam returns. She shouts out as she lets herself in, and as she enters the room, I see her worried gaze dart immediately to my mum. Checking for breakages, inside and out. Guarding her, concerned for her.
“Everything all right, duck?” she says, looking from my mum to me and back again.
“Everything’s grand,” Mum says reassuringly.
Sam has a package in her hands, waves it in the air, declaring that she has oatcakes and will get the kettle on.
“What are oatcakes?” I ask, still confused. “And what’s with all the ducks?”
My mother laughs, and I remember that sound so well. It is a beautiful laugh, all the more special for its rarity.
“Oatcakes are a big deal around here, babe. Kind of a savory pancake, I suppose, that you make with cheese and bacon and, in some weird cases, jam. And ‘duck’ is just a term of endearment. It’s a strange old place, but I like it.”
I can hear Sam clattering around in the kitchen, the sound of cups being washed, of the fridge door opening. It is so simple, this small domestic scene. It is comfortable and calm, the two of them settled in their world.
I am glad that she has found this. For the whole of my life, I have never known her at peace. I have only seen the small spaces between the pain, and then the price she paid for them. This—with her oatcakes and her ducks and her parakeet and her pottery shire horses—is what happiness looks like for her.
I stand up, knowing that it is time to go. We have danced around some things, faced some others head-on. We have tiptoed around the darkness, and I think I now have to leave. This has been big, and now I need to be small.
“I’ve got to get going, Mum,” I say as she gets to her feet. “But it was lovely to see you. I’m glad you’re doing well, I really am. The best I’ve ever seen you.”
Sam emerges from the kitchen, a tea towel in her hands, watching us.
Mum initially looks disappointed, her face creased with a small flash of irritation, but she covers it up quickly.
“It was so nice, Gems. I’m glad you’re doing okay.”
“I am,” I reply, not actually sure if I mean it or not.
At the moment I feel raw, like my insides have been scrubbed with a wire brush, but that will pass, I know.
When it does, perhaps I will make this drive again. Perhaps I will invite her to come and meet Margie. Perhaps, one day, this will feel less fraught. We will never be a normal family, but perhaps we can at least be a family—if we both carry on doing our best. And if she even wants to—she has never been an easy woman to predict.
Sam says goodbye, and Mum walks me to the door. She is wearing fluffy slippers with pink bows on them, I notice, her feet tiny, like a ballerina’s.
As we stand in the hall, she reaches out, takes hold of my arm with a strength that surprises me.
“Before you go, Gems, I have to say one more thing. I know it won’t change anything, but I have to say it. I wish I’d been a better mum for you.”
I place my hand on hers, whether to console her or to prize it off, I’m not quite sure, but she isn’t finished. “If I’d been a better mum, I could have kept you,” she continues, staring at me intently, as though willing me to listen. To hear. “And if I’d been a better mum, then you could have kept her . . .”
We have not mentioned the baby I had when I was a child myself. We have not gone down that road, both of us perhaps too scared of where it might lead. My eyes widen, and I have no words to use to tell her how I feel. To tell her that she is right. That if she’d been a better mum, perhaps she’d be known as Grandma now. If she’d been a better mum, maybe we would have raised her together. If she’d been a better mum, perhaps I wouldn’t be the way I am. Perhaps my daughter would be here with me now—eighteen years old, by my side. She is right, but it would be wrong for me to say so. Needlessly cruel and pointlessly harsh. What’s done is done, and I have no desire to launch some kind of witch hunt, to share blame, to cast around for someone else to carry my pain. But neither can I quite find it within myself to dismiss what she has said, to tell her it is not true, to reassure her that she played no part in how things worked out.
I stay silent, refusing to crack beneath the force of her gaze, the strength of her need. When I was little, I’d have crumbled. Now I am stronger, and I need to remember that. I nod once and smile, letting her interpret that however she wants.
We are at an impasse, looking at each other warily, both weighing up our next moves. I should have left earlier. I should stay longer. Maybe I shouldn’t have come at all—none of the options feel right.
Moments pass, and I realize that there is not going to be a neat ending. A warm hug and a promise to stay in touch. A tearful farewell and a lifting of hearts. There is only this—two damaged women circling each other in a dark hallway.
“Take care of yourself, Mum,” I say and turn to leave.