Chapter 13
13
HOLD UP, WAIT A MINUTE
It’s been a long time since the three of us sat around a breakfast table, green to the gills and trying to figure out what we can have for breakfast, having examined the contents of my cupboards and fridge.
‘The way I see it,’ Niamh says, ‘is we have two approaches. We play it safe and go with toast and coffee. No one ever died from toast and coffee. It will get us through these first dark hours anyway.’
I wash back two paracetamol with a drink of water before passing the box of tablets on to Laura who does the same.
‘Or we could adopt the kill or cure approach. You’ve eggs, bacon and sausages there, Becca. I say we cook them up, along with the toast and the coffee. Make them into one dirty big toasted sandwich each and get it down our necks.’
Laura groans. ‘I’m not sure I’ve the constitution for that,’ she says.
‘Nonsense,’ says Niamh. ‘It’s long known that an ‘Ulster fry’ is the perfect cure for over-indulgence. What’s the worst thing that could happen?’
‘Well, erm, you did say it was a kill or cure approach, so I think the kill outcome might suck a bit,’ I tell her.
‘You make a fair point,’ she says. ‘But I’m sticking the frying pan on anyway. Just let me know if you want some.’ I love that Niamh can treat my home like her own. It’s true in reverse too. I know what belongs in what cupboard chez Niamh and I’m not above making myself a cup of tea and digging into the biscuits. It used to be like that at Laura’s too, but I suppose it’s different now. I look at my friend who is best described as a picture of misery. Her face is paler than normal. Her black dress is wrinkled and her hair is messy. She looks smaller than before, as if her grief is weighing so heavily on her it is compressing her.
‘I’m so tired,’ she says, and I remember that. It’s not just that we had a late night or that we were drinking. I remember the exhaustion that comes after the funeral when the world goes back to normal and you’re just left shellshocked by the last few days.
I could barely speak, let alone move around, in the days after my daddy’s funeral. Every single ounce of energy I had was used to remind me to keep breathing, and to play different edits of the last few days over and over and over.
My phone ringing and my mother’s voice sounding strange and strangled. How it took a moment for me to realise just how serious things were. How there was a lag in my brain as I heard what she said but didn’t understand it. These words did not make sense. Not when it came to my daddy.
‘Rebecca,’ my mother had said, her voice tight. ‘I need you to come home. Now. I need you to come home right now. Your dad… I don’t think… well, he’s not very well, Rebecca and I don’t know what to do and I need you to come home now.’
‘What’s wrong with him?’ I’d asked, the sound of my mother’s voice enough to wrap a coil of dread around me and pull it tight. ‘Can I talk to him?’
‘No. No. No, love. You can’t talk to him. He’s not… He can’t. Can you please come home.’
Her voice had cracked at the word please and I’d known then. I’d known he was gone even though we played the game for another while. I phoned an ambulance as I ran out of my house and to my car. I stabbed at the ignition with my keys but my hands were jelly, and the whole world was distorted and I knew nothing would ever make sense again. Not in the way it once had.
The ambulance hadn’t arrived by the time I got there. I don’t remember getting out of the car but I remember going in the front door which my mother had left open. I don’t remember going up the stairs or down the hall, but I do remember the look on my mother’s face. She looked scared, and small and vulnerable. My father looked at peace and I remember wanting to shout at him, ‘Do you not know you’re dead? How can you lie there so calmly when we need you?’ He looked so at ease and if it hadn’t been for the unnatural pallor on his face, or the way his mouth was drooped ever so slightly I’d have said he looked well.
I remember the thunder on the stairs, the call of the paramedics. I remember telling them he was gone as they ran into the room and started to examine him and I wanted to tell them they were wasting their time because he was not here any more. The energy in the house had shifted. The energy in the whole world had shifted. Because my daddy was dead.
I didn’t have time to process it. The machine of death and dying took over. Neighbours offering to help. A doctor. A priest. An undertaker. Mourners. Shopping for black ties for the boys in Marks and Spencer and having a mini-breakdown by the fleece jumpers near the checkout. My daddy loved his fleece jumpers but he only ever wore the ones from Marks and Spencer. I had one lifted and over my arm to treat him before it really hit me that he didn’t need it. He never would. Through sobs, I bought it anyway. It’s still in the bag in the back of my wardrobe.
I remember cups of tea, and discussions about hymns, and some laughter and singing. I remember my boys sobbing like children over his coffin just before the lid was put on for the last time. These two six-foot-tall boys who had already become men even though they were just seventeen, looking at me as if I could make it better. That was my job, after all.
I remember just getting through it and then not knowing what the hell I was supposed to do when it was all over. Every cell in my body was frozen in shock and exhaustion and I recognise that now on Laura’s face.
‘Do you want to grab a shower while we make breakfast?’ I ask her, remembering how the shower became my salvation. I could be alone, and cry and shout, and wash a little bit of the horror of the days that had been off me. No matter how dark the days that followed, I always felt just a little better after a shower.
She blinks up at me. ‘I don’t have any clean clothes. I think I’ll just go home.’
‘I have clean clothes,’ I say. ‘They’ll be big on you but they are clean enough to help you feel more human again. I’ll get you a sweater and a pair of drawstring joggers. They’ll do in a pinch. I’m afraid any spare underwear I have might swamp you, so you might have to go commando.’
‘I have spare knickers in my car,’ Niamh says. ‘We’re the same size, aren’t we? I can get them for you.’ Both Laura and I turn to look at her.
‘Spare knickers? You’re going to have to explain that one,’ I say. ‘Is that something we’re supposed to do?’
‘They’re in my go-bag. I have a full change of clothes, a multipack of new knickers, toiletries, trainers, power banks, some cash etc,’ she says, as if it’s a perfectly normal thing to have.
‘A go-bag?’ I ask. ‘What’s that? Are you on the run from the law or something?’ I can’t help but smirk.
‘Everyone should have a go-bag,’ she says, her face serious. ‘You never know when you might find yourself in dire straits. It just means I’m prepared in case of emergencies. You never know what might happen in the world in this day and age. It could be anything.’
‘What, like the zombie apocalypse or an alien invasion?’ I ask, partially intrigued and impressed, and partially just very amused that Niamh has this secret survivalist side to her.
‘Mock all you want,’ she says, ‘but come the day of the revolution I’ll be chatting on my fully charged phone, wearing my new knickers and you’ll be there with not so much as Candy Crush to distract you nor a clean pair of pants to wear. You know it makes sense.’
The depressing things is, she’s not wrong. There’s another thing to add to the list of worries that come with middle-age. Having to be the most adult adult in the room and be prepared for all eventualities.
‘A shower would be nice,’ Laura says, drawing us back to her. ‘Fresh clothes would be nice. I think I might burn this dress. I don’t see me ever wearing it again.’
‘We can totally do a ceremonial burning of your frock if you want,’ I say before remembering the black dress and jacket I still have hanging in the wardrobe from my dad’s funeral and which I have not worn since. Every time I so much as see them, I come out in hives. ‘And I’ll burn my clothes from Dad’s funeral too,’ I add.
‘That sounds like an idea,’ she says, with the smallest hint of a smile. Even though it’s sad and doesn’t quite reach her eyes, I know she feels marginally better than she did first thing and that is a good thing. I give her shoulder a little squeeze and she reaches up to squeeze my hand back.
‘Right,’ I say. ‘You come with me and we’ll get you organised. Niamh – go fetch your go-bag and the new knickers.’ They both nod and we don’t so much as spring into action as gently amble in the vague direction of action. Hangovers never used to be this bad.
By mid-afternoon, I’m done in. It has taken all of my energy today to just keep putting one foot in front of the other. Laura had showered and dressed while Niamh and I had hammered together an artery clogging concoction that thankfully didn’t kill us. I won’t say it cured us either, but it aided the start of our recovery.
Once they’d left, I’d taken Daniel for a walk which I’d hoped would blow the remaining cobwebs away. It had almost blown Daniel away, never mind the cobwebs. I was worried he’d turn into some sort of kite/dog hybrid.
After battling to dry him off when we got home, I’m trying to gather strength enough to shower and change into my pyjamas even though it’s not long dark and there are hours to go until bedtime. Drinking a well-earned mug of tea, my mind wanders back to the list I’d written in the wee small hours after reading the letter from the time capsule.
I wish I’d had the chance to discuss it with the girls but it didn’t seem appropriate. Not when Laura was clearly struggling with the aftermath of all that had happened this week. We didn’t even get the chance to burn the blasted clothes of doom – as we decided to call them – thanks to a pretty non-stop deluge of November rain making it impossible to set fire to anything successfully in the garden. Sadly, the fire in my living room is gas and enclosed, and useless for burning cursed items so we have decided to wait until another day.
So for now, the first part of my adventures will fall to me. Obviously, I’m quite limited as to what I can do on a rainy night in late November but I suppose it won’t hurt to have a quick look at some of the dating apps.
I don’t know much about online dating. I’ve heard it talked about on TV of course, and on social media. I know Tinder is viewed as a bit of a hook-up site. Bumble and Hinge are the two others I’ve heard talked about but are any of them suitable for a woman of my age and appearance? As I look at the pictures of fresh-faced, bubbly and no doubt sexually adventurous young things looking for love, I start to feel like I haven’t a chance of getting noticed, never mind asked out.
If these apps were like Pet Rescue Centres, the gorgeous young things would be the cute labradoodle puppies that look like lead characters in Disney animations and everyone wants. Meanwhile I’d be the oldest, most cantankerous mutt in the pound. I can imagine the wording of my appeal:
Can you give this old girl a loving home?
Due to no fault of her own, this friendly, if a little skittish at times, mutt, has found herself without a forever family.
All Becca wants to be happy is a warm bed, regular exercise (not too much exercise) and toys to entertain herself. (Get your mind out of the gutter!)
Is good with other dogs but can be possessive about her food.
Mostly continent but given her age can have the occasional accident. Especially when she coughs or sneezes.
Are there dating sites for more mature ladies? I type in ‘mature lady looking for love’ and hit the search button. The first thing I see is an ad for one of the big-name dating sites. This encourages me, but the fee they charge puts me off. I’ll keep it in mind though.
As I scroll, the options get worse, or I suppose better depending on your outlook. There’s a site for cougars promising hot young men for ‘thirsty’ older women. A vision of some manchild who the twins went to school with showing up for a blind date with me is enough to keep me scrolling. I don’t want a hot young man. I’ll settle for a lukewarm, middle-aged man with a dad bod and a sense of humour. Actually I wouldn’t even consider it settling. That would be ideal.
Next to pop up is a site for ‘sugar mamas’ which seems to have a similar premise to the cougar site, except it likes its female members to be rich. I know rich is relative, but a sum total of less than a thousand pounds in my bank account even on payday would not be considered rich by anyone’s standards. And I’ve bills to pay out of that!
By the time I reach ‘OldieGoldies’, I’m losing the will to live. Their pitch could easily be adapted to match me with my undertaker of choice, or a carer to make sure I take my dementia pills. It’s all ‘twilight of life’ and ‘someone to warm your slippers’ and pictures of couples in matching slacks with lap blankets and those little tray tables beside their matching lift-and-rise chairs.
There has to be some option out there. One that doesn’t cost the earth or operate as an open invitation for scam artists to come and prey on elderly, rich, dementia-addled women. Maybe I’ll get Niamh to ask some of her teacher friends which sites they use. Surely there are some single folks in her school.
Deciding that searching for love is making me quite depressed, I decide to work on another one of my goals. Scanning last night’s list for inspiration, I decide to look at trips to Yorkshire. I’m not sure who I will be able to talk into coming with me, but I’m not averse to going on my own. I could even factor in a visit to the boys in Manchester. This is doable, I think. I can easily plan this and it will give me something to look forward to in the new year.
I’ll visit Haworth and the parsonage, and of course the moors. I might even go all Kate Bush. I wonder whether I’ll need a cloak. And even if I don’t strictly need a cloak, might it just be fun to buy one anyway? I’ll have to plunder my not-too-impressive savings but this isn’t just for me, it’s for sixteen-year-old Becki who was obsessed with Wuthering Heights to the level that she even went to see a production of it, on her own, in Belfast. While all her friends were sneaking off to pubs and concerts, she was sneaking off to go to the Grand Opera House to watch a play. Doesn’t she deserve to have her moment on the moors?
I swear I can feel her in the room with me, vibrating with excitement as I research hotels and activities and oh my God, you can even stay in Ponden Hall – the house that inspired Emily to write Wuthering Heights !
I can feel my heart start to race, and my skin prickle with excitement. I can do this. I don’t need to be a cougar, or a sugar mama or have a man at all to go and see a little part of the world that meant so much to me then, and still can now.
I’m taking notes, totting up costs and promising myself I will re-read Wuthering Heights for the umpteenth time when my phone rings. I smile when I see Saul’s name flashing up on the screen. Of my two boys, he is the wildest of the pair and always has been. When he was young, I used to joke he had his own seat in the A&E waiting room due to the frequency of our visits. So far, he has managed to navigate his time at university without any major disasters but that doesn’t stop me from living in fear that there is a catastrophe looming around the next corner. But even though he’s fairly lax at calling me usually, this unexpected call on a Sunday night doesn’t necessarily herald that bad things are afoot.
‘Saul,’ I say as I answer the phone. ‘How are you, love?’ A part of me always cringes that I’ve adopted the affectations of an Irish mammy and unconsciously add love or son to the end of my sentences when speaking to my boys. It feels like something a middle-aged woman would say and while I know I am middle-aged deep in my soul, I struggle when my status becomes so obvious.
‘Hi Mum,’ this deep man-voice booms down the line. Is this really someone I gave birth to? I swear I still expect to hear their high, light childhood voices when we speak. ‘Look, I don’t have long, but I need your help if that’s okay?’
‘Of course,’ I tell him, simultaneously proud that he has come to me for help but also terrified of what his request might entail. I can manage if it’s to guide him in whipping up a lasagne, or to check in his room at home for a forgotten textbook. I’m not sure I’ll be able to react quite so calmly if he tells me he’s phoning from the back of an ambulance or, worse again, the back of a cop car. None of those four scenarios would be beyond the realm of possibility for Saul. Not that he’s a troublemaker, as such. The police haven’t had reason to come my door. Not yet anyway.
‘What do you need?’ I ask him.
‘Well, you know how I’m your favourite son?’ he asks.
‘My favourite first born, yes,’ I tell him. I always answer my children in this way. Saul is my favourite firstborn and Adam my favourite second born. The true answer to that question, of course, is my favourite is whichever one is causing me least trouble at the time.
‘Your favourite, son, yes,’ Saul replies and even though I can’t see him, I can hear that he is smiling. I can imagine the cheeky glint in his beautiful blue eyes. He’s a handsome boy – a perfect combination of the best bits of my father and the best bits of Simon.
‘Saul…’ I say, my voice offering just enough of a warning to let him know I might not be overflowing with the cup of maternal kindness today. Call me a psychic, but I can see my fairly small savings pot start to disappear in front of my very eyes. I glance at my notebook and the excited doodles I’ve drawn on it and feel the heart that was so excited just moments ago sink to my boots.
‘The thing is, Mum, that I’ve found myself a little financially embarrassed. You know there’s a cost-of-living crisis, and the price of everything has gone up so much and I’ve been trying to be sensible. Honest. I’ve not been pissing it up the wall.’
‘Language…’ I chide, in a voice not unlike my mother’s but he pays no heed.
‘So look, I just wondered if I could borrow some money to get me through till I come home for Christmas maybe, or until my next student loan payment comes through.’
And there it is. My night in Ponden Hall gone. Over the past ten years I’ve become adept at doing boy-related maths very quickly. It’s still a few weeks until the boys are due to come home for Christmas, and another three weeks after that until they get the next instalment of their student loan money. And I know that if Saul has to hand over an immediate chunk of that as soon as it arrives he’ll find himself back to square one relatively quickly. And then there’s the accommodation to be paid for the next term, and the boys’ final year. I’ve already had to remortgage the house to fund their education – and that’s with Simon helping and me saving as much as I could in their younger years. As it stands, the cost of their accommodation comes in at twice what my mortgage payments are. It’s certainly not cheap to be a student.
I try and hold back my instinctual reaction of losing my actual shit by taking a few slow, deep breaths and reminding myself it’s only money, and if Ponden Hall has stood this long it will stand a little longer until I can afford to visit. While I’m internally talking myself off a cliff, Saul tells me he has been budgeting and living off pasta and cereal and really, truly, he hasn’t been at the Student Union in weeks.
‘And Adam? What position is he in?’ I ask, girding my loins for a double hit. The joy of having twins is that there has never been any reprieve since they were born. Every single thing I’ve bought has had to be multiplied by two. If one of them wrecked his shoes, the other would follow within days, if not hours. They grew together at a rate of knots. Getting ahead of myself financially was as pointless a goal as emptying buckets of water from the deck of the Titanic.
‘He’s fine,’ Saul says. ‘You know, Adam. The golden child.’
‘You are both my golden children,’ I say, even though at this moment Adam is definitely the shinier of the two. When he was home in the summer he worked all the hours God sent in Tesco and saved two thirds of his salary. He went back to Manchester with a healthy bank balance. Saul, on the other hand, worked two days a week in a pub and enjoyed spending his wages in the same establishment, or on clothes and a PS5. I had warned him he would be in for a rougher ride and now, here he is, dealing with the consequences of his own actions.
But what am I supposed to do? Leave him to starve? Tell him to suck it up?
‘I feel really bad about this, Mum,’ Saul says and the slightly cocky bravado appears to disappear. ‘It’s the last thing I want to do to come and ask you for help when you do so much for us anyway…’
He chats as I’m spinning beads on an imaginary abacus in my head. If I cut back on my own shopping, and hit my savings a little then I can help him out without bankrupting myself. Sure, it’s a mother’s duty, isn’t it? To put her children’s needs above her own. I have always wanted to be that kind of mum. The kind who remains close to her grown-up children. Who doesn’t abandon her maternal responsibilities simply because they’ve turned eighteen. The kind who feels needed…
‘Okay, son,’ I say in my best Irish mammy voice. ‘I’ll send you ￡50 over now and you get some shopping in and have money to keep you going, and then I’ll do some sums and come back to you about the rest of term.’
‘There’s just one more thing, Mum,’ he says. ‘I kind of spent the money you sent me to book my flights for Christmas. I didn’t even realise I’d done it until it was too late and now the prices have gone up and…’
‘How much?’ I ask, starting to shiver with the cold of my wet clothes and with the fear of what this is going to cost me.
‘One hundred and forty pounds would cover it, Mum. To get me home on the same flight as Adam.’
‘Okay,’ I say, doing my best to sound upbeat and not annoyed, because the last thing a mother wants to do is make her child – who is hundreds of miles away – feel bad about themselves. Especially not if their child is a teenage boy and in the demographic group most likely to harm themselves in any way. ‘I’ll book your flight as well,’ I tell him, ‘and I’ll send you a message when it’s sorted.’
‘You’re the best, Mum,’ he tells me. ‘You’re an absolute legend. I love you.’
I tell him I love him too because of course I do absolutely love him more than words can say, and I try to bask in the feeling of being considered an ‘absolute legend’. Even if I’m now an exceptionally skint absolute legend who will have to call her ex-husband to see if he can help with a bit of extra financial support.