2. Fish Pie
two
Fish Pie
Liam
Commission? What commission? That’s on top of the hourly rate, surely…
My left ear pulls slightly, and I’m snapped back into reality when my earbud slips free.
“Good day?”
“Ma!”
The earbud lands in my lap with a soft tap, and her hand ruffles through my hair. I didn’t even hear her come in. She’s stooping to grab the shopping bags, so I throw down the ExorSquad training manual I’ve spent the last hour studying and try to take them for her.
“I’ve got it.” She snatches the bags up like I’m a toddler, like I might spill everything onto the floor. Or more like she’s someone who finds it easier to control every single thing than to risk giving the smallest bit of control over to someone else. Especially me.
“What’s that smell?” she asks as I follow her through to the kitchen, still trying and failing to take a bag. “It smells good in here.”
My heart beats more wildly than it probably should, but I’m excited to tell her. “Fish pie!”
“Fish pie?”
“Fish pie!”
Her eyes sweep the bench—potato peels, onion paper, empty packaging. Her brow has already fallen.
“I’ll clean it up,” I rush to tell her. “In a minute. Or after tea. I was busy because—”
“You made fish pie?” She blinks at me.
“Yeah.”
“From scratch?”
My mum loves fish pie. I love fish pie. We always used to eat it on Saturdays, especially when it was cold out.
“Yeah. I did. It should be ready soon—”
“Where’d you get the money, Liam?”
Despite the warmth of the oven, the room turns cold. Her voice is quiet, but it’s like it’s the only sound in all of London.
It’s the implication that rings loudest of all.
‘You’ll come to no good.’ ‘You’ll end up just like your brother.’
“I got a job, Ma.”
But she doesn’t break into a smile like I’d hoped she would. Doesn’t celebrate this with me like I’d daydreamed about.
“Doing what?” she asks, lips tight.
And I don’t even know what to tell her. Catching ghosts? For random old people in posh parts of England? Expenses paid because I lied to the cops for my new boss?
Fuck. Even I know this is too good to be true.
But I’m going to push on anyway, because I have to make something of something at some point in my life.
“It’s kind of… it’s… a sort of social work thing?”
She slicks back a strand of dark, greying hair that’s escaped from her tight ponytail, tilting her head as she does in a way that says, ‘I raised you smarter than this.’
What she actually says is, “Since when did you have experience in social work?”
It’s a twist in the gut. So I start moving about the kitchen, cleaning the scraps I should have cleaned up earlier, before I got distracted by that ghost-catching manual.
“It’s on-the-job training. All expenses paid to travel.
It’s…” And I’ve turned to self-deprecating in the instant, mumbling out excuses for why they might hire me.
“It’s not hard work. Just going for tea with some old people who are a bit lonely and all that.
And it’s not well paid. And you know, it’s an area it’s hard to find people to work in. But it’s better than nothing, right?”
She’s quiet for a moment, grabbing some rubbish off the bench, dropping it in the bin. “Okay. And when did you start?”
Pushing down the flaring irritation, “I start tomorrow. I have a job in the Cots—”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yeah, tomorrow.”
“If it’s tomorrow, then why do you have money now?”
“Because he gave me…” Ah, fuck. How do mums always manage to catch you in a trap in thirty seconds flat? “It’s travel money. For tomorrow.”
“You’re spending your travel money, Liam?”
“No, I’m— There was extra.”
“Extra for what?” Her tone’s turned sharp.
“It’s just… There was a little more than the travel costs, so—”
“You’ve stolen it?”
“I haven’t stolen it, Ma!” I finally snap.
“I haven’t done anything wrong! I’ve just…
I got a job, and they gave me money, and I just thought…
” I can already feel the tears welling up, that pit of failure about ready to swallow me.
Twenty-five years old, not a thing to show for it.
Nothing but a string of shitty, failed jobs, a fuck-up for a father who left us without a penny, a fuck-up for a brother who tore our whole lives apart, and my tired mum trying to keep it all together working stupid hours cleaning on the days she can get out of bed at all.
“I just thought it would be nice, all right? I just thought…”
There’s a long, silent standoff.
Then it’s my mum who breaks first. Her hug is so warm, so tight, but too quick.
The peck she drops on my cheek never lasts long enough.
And her smile isn’t deep enough, but it’s there, even if I know she’s forcing it over the panic she’s trying to hide from me.
“Well done, Liam. Thank you for making dinner.”
I grab her hand when it slides from my shoulder. “It’s legit, Mum. I promise.”
She only nods her head quickly and stoops down to look in the oven. “Have you signed anything?”
“Not yet.” Even though I can’t see her face, I can tell by the way her head dips that this is more proof in her mind it’s bullshit.
“But I got a uniform,” I tell her.
She pops back up, a little glimmer of hope in her eyes. “Did you have to pay for it?”
“No,” I reply quickly, brightening that glimmer just a bit. “And I was just studying the training manual when you came in. That’s why it’s a bit messy in here.”
“Oh.” She looks over the benches again, and it’s as though she does it with fresh eyes. Like maybe it’s not so bad after all.
It’s heartbreaking knowing that’s all it takes. She’s so happy already, just thinking I’ve got the most basic work, sipping tea with the elderly.
I’ll take it. For today.
What I’m dreaming about is the day I walk in here with a real job, real money, and tell her she never has to work again. That I bought us a place. That I’m not a fuck-up like my dad and my brother.
I snatch up the dishcloth and wipe over the bench top. “It’s all haddock, but smoked and normal. And I put in eggs too.”
“You’ve been busy,” she says, a smile in her voice.
“I have. And I’m…” Before I can even stop myself, I’m telling her, “I’m going to keep this one, Ma. No matter what. If the boss is a dick, if the pay’s shit, if the clients are mad, I’ll keep it. Until I can find something better. But I promise, I’m going to make the most of it this time.”
Her hand falls on my arm, and I can’t help but lean into it. “I know you will.”
Even if she doesn’t believe it, I’m happy she said it.
And I believe it enough for the both of us.
Gerald can send me to whatever weird house he likes, with scammers, people losing their marbles, even real ghosts. I couldn’t care less. If there’s money coming in and my mum’s happy, I’ll do whatever I’m told. For as long as she can do without me being here all day.
She picks the groceries up off the floor, but this time I do manage to take them out of her hands. “Now go sit down. I’ll bring tea through in a moment.”
“Liam, I need to—”
“No. You don’t.” She opens her mouth to argue, but I get there first. “Not tonight, Ma. I’ve got this.”