Chapter 8 Zoe Spring 2025 #3
I edge through the gap, past a bedside table which has been pushed against the door. On the floor is a stone lion. It takes me a moment to recognise it. ‘That’s from the garden,’ I say needlessly. ‘I’ve told you not to just take other people’s stuff.’
Steph looks up from her bed. ‘It’s not “other people’s”’. She makes the inverted commas in the air that she so hates me doing to her. ‘It’s all of ours as it’s in the garden. In a common area. I’m just borrowing it.’
‘What on earth do you need it for?’
‘You won’t let me have a lock on my door so I wanted something heavy behind the door to stop you coming in.’
I take a deep breath. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Holding out one of the mugs.
‘No, thanks,’ she says, turning away. I grit my teeth. Another great start. Maybe I should just cut my losses now – it’s not going to go well, I can tell. Wait for a better moment. But there are no better moments. At least she’s not shouting.
I sit down on the side of her bed, next to Terry and June who are curled up on her pillow, and put her tea on the bedside table. ‘Biscuit?’ I hold out the packet of Rich Tea.
She looks at them for a moment and nods, so I throw a couple across to her.
‘Ergh, I don’t want the ones you’ve touched,’ she says, beckoning for the packet. I reach forward and pick up the ones I threw to her and start to eat them. She immediately covers her hands with her ears. ‘For God’s sake.’
I swallow the biscuit hurriedly. There’s a pain in my oesophagus as the biscuit works its way down too fast, and I take a slug of tea. Steph screws up her face.
‘What do you want?’ she asks.
And here it is. ‘I want to have a chat with you about Patrick,’ I say as calmly as I can.
She stares at the duvet, her eyes narrowed, but says nothing.
‘I want to make sure you’re being careful.’
‘Careful about what?’ She talks through the biscuit, flecks of it on her lip. I consider saying something but think better of it.
‘I wondered if it would be useful to go down to the family planning clinic in town.’ Paul would hate me for saying this, but I really need to. Although she doesn’t need my permission to go on the pill anymore.
She munches her way through another biscuit and I wonder if she’s heard me. ‘Steph?’
‘Stop it, Mum.’
‘Stop what?’
‘Stop trying to be my friend.’
I take a sip of tea. Calm, calm. ‘I’m not trying to be your friend, I’m your mum and I’m trying to keep you safe.’
She gets up from the bed and stands at the window, looking out.
Maybe I should just leave. ‘When are you seeing him next?’
She doesn’t turn round. ‘It’s none of your business.’ Her voice is raised.
‘It is my business. You’re fifteen and—’
‘And what?’ She turns to face me but doesn’t look at me.
‘You’re still a child and I need to look after you and make sure you’re safe.’
She curls her lip and laughs. ‘Make sure I’m safe. You haven’t got a clue about anything.’
I stand up, draining the last of my tea and take the leaflet out of my back pocket. ‘There’s some information here about the pill. I thought you might find it interesting. You can have a read and then you can decide what to do.’
She doesn’t react so I walk towards her, the leaflet in my outstretched arm. ‘Here.’
‘I don’t want that. Just leave and make sure you close the door on your way out.’
Something inside me snaps. ‘Why do you have to be so rude all the time? I’m just trying to help.’ I’m so fed up of being stuck between the two of them.
She turns suddenly, her eyes dark. ‘Because you’re a shit mum. A shit human. You don’t care about me, about us, about anything. All you care about is what people think.’
I do care what other people think, that’s true. Is that wrong? But I care about my family more.
‘That’s not true, Steph,’ I say, trying to reach for her. ‘I care about you all. I just want everyone to be happy.’ I feel the tears coming and try to squeeze them away.
‘We’d be happy if you weren’t here, if it was just me and Dad and the girls. Why don’t you just fuck off somewhere far, far away?’ She pushes her hands hard against my chest, enough that I stagger back. I was just off balance, I think. I right myself.
‘Don’t push me like that,’ I say.
‘I’m always asking you not to touch me and you take no notice, but if I touch you, that’s a different thing.’
‘I’m just trying to help.’
‘You’re a pathetic human being,’ she spits. She pushes me again and I back away. I shouldn’t have got so close. I trip over the bedside table, but get back my balance in time.
‘Fuck off out of my room.’ She’s properly shouting now. She lunges for me.
There seems too little space with the bed, the bedside table and the stone lion. I trip again, and hold on to the door handle. She grabs my wrist hard and twists it.
‘Let go, I’m trying to get out.’ I try to say it quietly but it comes out as a shout.
There’s a snapping and a surge of heat in my arm. I look down at my hand and there’s something wrong about the way it’s hanging. At a funny angle. I cradle it with the other hand, trying not to think about the pain. I’ve broken it. She’s broken it.
Steph stands back and looks at my wrist. Her hands flop by her side then she steps away and sits on the side of the bed, her head in her hands.
‘Well, the offer about the family planning clinic is there, if you want it.’ I step back and open the door with my foot and sidle out.
‘Mummy.’
The voice makes me look up. Fiona is standing on the gallery with a tennis racket. She must have come down from the playroom.
‘Oh, hello, darling, what have you got there?’ I try to speak normally through the pain.
‘Why were you and Steph shouting?’ She’s sobbing. I cuddle her with my good hand, the pain excruciating.
‘It’s nothing, darling, we were just talking.’
‘You were both shouting,’ she says through the tears.
‘Where have you got to, Fiona? We’re waiting for you.’ Alice’s sing-song voice comes up the stairs from the hall.
Fiona looks at me and then runs down the stairs.
‘There you are,’ says Alice. ‘What took you so long, poppet? Oh dear, why are you crying? Let’s dry those tears up and go and play tennis.’
I slide down the wall outside Fiona’s room, the stabbing feeling in my arm making me nauseous. Fiona is crying to Alice but the sound is drowned out by music suddenly thumping from Steph’s room. I start to cry again. I really need to strap up my wrist.
She always said before that it was an accident when I got hurt.
But she deliberately twisted my wrist. Or was I just slow leaving?
Was it my fault? If I’d left earlier, when she first asked, I wouldn’t have got hurt.
When do you say this is no accident, and start taking a stand?
And what does that look like? All the advice from that battered wife leaflet is to leave an abusive husband.
But I’m a battered mother and there’s no advice for that. You can’t leave your own child.