Chapter 38
38
LIFE IN THE OLD GIRL YET
I am in incredibly good form this morning. Even though my arse still feels as if it has been battered with a sledge-hammer and walking is painful, I can’t stop smiling. I have put Magic FM on and am doing my level best to bop around the kitchen to Kelly Clarkson’s ‘Stronger’, safe in the knowledge neither of my sons will walk in and look at me as if I’ve lost the run of myself, or complain about the music I’m listening too.
I’m in such a good mood that I don’t even mind that it’s so far taken me thirty-seven attempts to get through to my GP surgery and none of them have been successful. The anticipatory high of my forthcoming date with Conal is clearly having a better mood-altering effect than any amount of HRT or anti-depressant could ever have. My patience this morning is unlimited. I am unfuckwithable today.
I’m rewarded for my good mood by the phone finally connecting to a very stressed sounding receptionist who immediately apologises for the difficulty in getting through. With immense magnanimity, I tell her not to worry and that it can’t be helped. We chat amiably about the pressures on the system while she helps me arrange appointments for both Niamh and me to pop in together to discuss the menopause. I have to hold myself back from explaining how we’re morphing into witches and this is our wise woman era in case she decides to have me sectioned.
With the two appointments under my belt, I’m free to get on with my work for a few hours, while still in my joyous little bubble of imminent dating.
All is good in my world.
I’ve already made the decision that I will be decorating the Christmas tree tonight, so while I’m working, I put Michael Bublé’s Christmas album on and light a cinnamon-scented candle. The world of business-to-business marketing may not traditionally form a large part of seasonal festivities but today I am making the most of my good mood and channelling it into to some light-hearted content.
While it’s not exactly the job young Becki dreamt of, it does allow me the occasional flourish of creativity and that’s probably a large part of why I hang in here. If I do get the chance to write my own column for Northern People as well, then I’ll really get to go to town with my creative voice. The thought makes me almost giddy.
It’s quite impressive what a good mood can do when you’re writing your top ten office Secret Santa gifts, or a list of dos and don’ts for the Christmas party. Yes, I have to sprinkle in more than a little soup?on of wanky corporate speak and plug some really boring/morally questionable sponsored ideas (a ‘fun’ app that monitors your productivity which I’m pretty sure can relate it back to your boss, anyone?) but I still get to add a little heart and yuletide warmth into the article. Businessmen and women everywhere will be weeping happy festive tears into their morning coffees after reading it.
Wired by my writing buzz, I do what only a fortnight ago would have seemed impossible. I attach two draft columns, and a list of six further ideas and I pop them in an email to Grace Adams at the magazine. I may never hear back from her, but at least I’ve tried. Becki would be proud that I tried.
Just before lunch, my mother calls and for once I don’t immediately panic at seeing her number on my phone screen. It’s a sad reality that ever since my father died, my heart threatens to beat out of my chest every time I see her name and number light up. I live in fear of answering only to hear the voice of a paramedic or doctor on the other end breaking the worst news – but not today. Today I just feel in my bones that everything is okay. This is just my mother calling me for a chat in the way that mothers often call their children to catch up. The worst that will happen, I tell myself, is that she will refer to Daniel as ‘that dog’ again or tell me she’s stuck in the attic. If it’s the latter, I will arrange a rescue and then tell her of my own attic escapades and use it as a warning story to stop her trying any of her tricks again. I broke my arse which is bad enough. She could break a hip and have to stay in hospital for months sharing a room with people who snore and break wind in the wee small hours. She would not like it.
‘Mum, hi,’ I say, wondering if I should let her know about my impending date or if I should leave it ’til after when I can tell her how it went.
‘Rebecca Louise Burnside, I want to have a word with you,’ she answers.
Shit . I’m in trouble. I know that voice. I fear that voice. It has the ability to reduce me to a ten-year-old version of myself knowing I have just sailed up Shit Creek and subsequently dropped my paddle by sneaking open my Easter eggs on Good Friday. I thought I’d get away with my criminal endeavours by eating the back half of the egg, and propping the front against the box to look unsullied, only for Ruairi to rat me out before Peter had even denied our Lord for the first time.
I wonder if I should just hang up, turn my phone off, and deal with this drama later. I could tell my mum the signal went and hopefully by the time she gets through to me again – when I switch my phone back on, obvs – she will have forgotten about whatever it is that has given her the rage.
Of course that would go against my new policy of meeting things head on, so I take a deep breath.
‘Yes?’ I say. ‘Is everything okay?’
‘Well, no,’ my mother says, her accent particularly well enunciated in the way normally only reserved for when she talks to doctors and priests. This must be very serious business indeed then.
‘I’ve been talking to your brother,’ she says.
Ruairi! I think. He must have grassed on me. I’m not entirely sure what he could’ve grassed on me about, but that isn’t stopping this triggering my own version of PTSD anyway. Dear Reader, let me introduce you to PBWADD – Post-Brother-Was-A-Dick-Disorder. ‘Whatever he says, he’s lying,’ I mumble. ‘I didn’t do anything wrong. He just always wants to get me in trouble!’
I know they say there are times when, as you grow older, you open your mouth and hear your mother’s voice come out. I wasn’t aware there would also be times I would open my mouth and hear one of my own children’s voices as they tried their best to rat each other out.
‘He tells me you were trying to book a holiday for me, for us,’ she says in a voice that makes it sounds as if booking a holiday is the equivalent of taking a poo in the middle of her carpet.
‘Yes,’ I say, confused. ‘Just a few days, maybe. To Donegal. Like we did when we were little.’
‘Well, why would you be wanting to do that? And in winter? What would you do with yourself in Donegal in the winter? And the cost of it too. And you with those boys to put through university.’ She sounds absolutely horrified and enraged. The strength of her reaction is flooring me.
‘Because when we spoke recently about things you really enjoyed you said your happiest memories were the family holidays we went on when we were wee,’ I offer. ‘There’s plenty to do in Donegal in the winter. A walk along the beach on a blustery day is hard to beat.’
‘I’m almost eighty, Rebecca,’ my mother says. ‘There are lot of things that beat a walk on the beach on a cold day. In fact, almost anything does.’
‘And it’s not that expensive,’ I cut across her. ‘Besides, Ruairi said he would pay the majority and it’s not like he’s short of money, what with being so successful and everything.’
I know that going in with a comment praising her beloved eldest child in the hope of placating her is a bit of a manipulative move but needs must. Besides, I’ve no idea how else to go in. This is a nice thing I’m trying to do and yet she sounds mortally offended at the very notion.
‘Maybe so,’ she says, ‘but do you not think you should’ve talked to me about it before you started making plans? I might’ve made other plans already for myself.’
As if , I think but I know better than to say it out loud. ‘Well, we’ve not actually booked it yet. We were just looking at different options and we’d probably have run it past you,’ I tell.
‘Probably?’
She’s really not happy. I need to fix this quick. ‘Well, we would’ve, Mum. I promise.’
‘And I would’ve told you there’s no need because I already have a holiday booked, and I didn’t need anyone to do it for me. There’s life in the aul doll yet, you know.’
I am, for once, at a complete loss for words. My mother has booked a holiday. My mother who can’t even go to Asda on her own, has booked a holiday?
‘What? Where? With who? When?’ The questions spill out of my mouth as quickly as they land in my thoughts.
‘With Mrs Bishop,’ she says. ‘I was thinking about all the stuff you said about living life and trying new things and so I talked to Emily – Mrs Bishop – and she said she couldn’t remember the last time she went on holiday so we thought, you know, why not? Long story short, we found a travel company online?—’
‘You found a travel company online? Online ? You, who doesn’t trust the internet not to steal all your money?’ I interrupt, not sure whether to be impressed or terrified she has found some online crook who will, in fact, steal all her money.
‘Yes. Online. One of the lovely ladies down at the Central Library helped us find our way through it,’ my mother says and I immediately think that the lovely ladies in the Central Library must have the patience of saints. ‘We found a company that specialises in holidays for the more senior members of society, and we booked a week-long cruise around the Canary Islands. We fly out at the start of February.’
I’ve never really understood the expression ‘you could’ve knocked me down with a feather’ before now. Nothing in this modern world is really that shocking. Except, I realise, for this.
‘So you see, Rebecca, you don’t need to be spending money or time that would be better devoted to your work, your youngsters or that dog on me and taking me on some holiday. I appreciate the thought but I’m well able to make my own plans and there’s life in me yet. If you can go on a girly holiday, then so can I!’
The thought of my mother describing a break with Mrs Bishop as a ‘girly holiday’ is incredibly sweet. And even though she has just told me off for trying to do a nice thing for her, I can’t help but feel a swell of affection for my mother and a real deluge of pride that she has worked this out without my help. Who would’ve thought my mother and Mrs Bishop had it in them? I only hope they’re not about to unleash a whole new variety of Thelma and Louise-type mayhem on the world. Or maybe I hope they do.
‘Of course you can do it,’ I tell her. ‘I think that’s brilliant. Anything that distracts you from putting your affairs in order, or climbing into attics is a positive in my book.’
I hear a little laugh. It sounds almost girlish. Who would’ve thought that Pandora’s Shoebox would have such a positive effect on my mother as well?
‘Well, I’ll still be putting my affairs in order,’ she says, ‘but I promise that I won’t climb into any more attics. I’ll leave those sorts of antics to you.’
‘How… how do you know about that?’ I ask.
‘I have spies everywhere, Rebecca. Or maybe I just bumped into Niamh at the library. She was herding a group of rather boisterous school children. Fair play to her though, she kept them under control. She’s a lovely girl, that Niamh. I’ve always liked her.’
‘I’ll be sure to tell her,’ I say, also making a mental note to tell ‘lovely Niamh’ not to divulge any of my secrets to my mother in the future.
‘How’s your bum anyway?’ she asks.
‘Some lovely shades of black, purple and blue,’ I tell her.
‘Come over later. I’ll give you your Arnica cream back. That will help.’
My mother – ever practical and always good in a crisis.
‘I love you, Mum,’ I tell her and I feel it in my very bones. So many times we say ‘love you’ out of habit but there are times, like today, when it’s the truest thing we could ever hope to feel. I love my mum. All her quirks and annoyances too. I think of how she still has a kind word and a warm smile for everyone – even Daniel, begrudgingly – when her heart has been shattered by the loss of her life partner. She is a powerhouse. A woman who has been through hell with little to no complaining. A woman who went through the menopause before it was socially acceptable to talk about it. A woman who raised both me and my brother to be fairly decent human beings. Obviously, I’m more decent than Ruairi, but I can acknowledge he’s actually done quite well for himself and he’s not the worst. Even if he is a first-class tout.
‘I love you too, Rebecca,’ my mother says and I feel as coddled and loved as I did as a child.
‘Now if you are coming over later to the get the Arnica, would you mind picking up a few things for me from the shops? And for Mrs Bishop too? Hang on, I’ll get my list…’