Chapter Five
Millie
T here are precisely one hundred and twenty-two ducks scattered across the sun-striped wallpaper of my godmother Rosin's spare room. And how do I know this? I've counted them, every last one of them. Technically, it's one hundred and sixty-eight if you include the ones hidden by the wardrobe and curtains.
It's nearly ten o'clock. I've been awake for almost two hours, counting ducks and watching the morning sunlight slowly slink into the room. I have no idea what to do.
What would a normal person do on a Saturday morning? What would a normal twenty-year-old do?
Usually, I'd be awake, showered and dressed. I would have already helped Mum take a bath, taking extra care to avoid the sharp bones jutting out from her marbled blue skin. Then I would have helped her dress into clothes that hung off her once solid and comforting frame, a body that had been perfect for hugs and snuggling.
Slowly and with the greatest of care, I'd help her take her place in her favourite armchair in the front room. The one with the best view of the TV and the window (she liked to watch Mr Fletcher from number eleven gardening topless). After popping bread in the toaster, I'd do the washing and put away yesterday's dry dishes from the sideboard.
After, we would eat toast, sip tea and catch up on crappy reality dating shows. We would let the rest of the morning linger on in a gentle rhythm of more tea and more TV. We'd argue about which guy was the better looking and whether a six-pack was really enough to make up for being a terrible human being (yes, in Mum's case, no in mine). We'd laugh. Laugh hard until our stomachs ached, and we'd forgotten everything outside of the little universe we'd constructed together.
Mum would forget she was in pain, a pain so twisted and knotted deep within her that it had become as much a part of her body as I once was. I would forget about what my (let's be honest—former) friends were out in the world doing. I would ignore the itch and twitch of my fingers as my phone beeped with shiny Friday night posts, who's-with-who-now messages and hangover selfies.
That's what I would have been doing.
Mum died in the early hours of a Thursday morning three weeks ago. Me and Roisin were by her side in the sickly, sweet-smelling cancer ward. I've spent more time in that hospital in the last six years than I did at school. From the moment the doctor uttered the word 'terminal', Mum had a black hole sucking and stripping her life bare. As it stripped hers, it sank its claws into mine. But 'terminal' was always something in a future that seemed just far enough away to be in our thoughts but not near enough to be a recognisable reality. I knew Mum would die, but somewhere in my heart, I didn't really believe it. I still don't.
The last few weeks have passed in a blur of paperwork and funeral arrangements. I didn't know so much had to be signed, meetings attended, and hands shook when someone died. Considering how many people die daily, I wonder how we can all keep going. It shocks me that all the offices and shops aren't empty because people are too busy dealing with the business of death. Mum had left clear, written instructions for the funeral, and I wanted … I needed … to keep as close to what she desired as possible.
Everyone had to wear purple. Black was unacceptable. As people walked in tearfully, I stood at the side, handing out lilac scarves and lavender cardigans to ensure that even the most stubborn traditionalists were properly attired. Auntie Glenda snarled when I placed a violet throw around her black-clad shoulders. I snarled right back.
Rule two: only songs by Robbie Williams were permitted, except for “Angels,” which was banned for being 'too obvious’. Her exact words were that she wanted her beloved Robbie 'to fill every orifice in the room'. When we read this part out to the Reverend, he went a shade of puce himself and choked on his Rich Tea.
But now it's today.
I have nothing to arrange, no boxes to fill, and no paperwork to sign. The day is mine, as is the rest of my life. I have absolutely no idea what I'm supposed to do with it.
I stomp down the stairs. The extra hours in bed have left me feeling sluggish and headachy. I tug my T-shirt over my cotton shorts, yawning deeply as I walk into the front room, my toes sinking into the plush carpet. Everything here is so different from my home with Mum—white and gleaming. Leather sofas that are like sinking into cotton wool, stylish glass ornaments and an enormous TV and sound system take up most of one of the walls. Our flat had been a combination of charity shop finds and sale pieces. It was homely and only stylish if you considered mismatched chic a look.
The twins, Archie and Simon, are sitting in front of the TV. I hear the familiar swish-swoosh sounds of their favourite cartoon. They're in their pyjamas, lying on their stomachs with their legs kicking in the air. They pay me no attention as I pass by, stumbling from the spacious lounge area into the open-plan kitchen.
Roisin is perched on a stool, elbows leaning on the breakfast bar, appearing to watch the boys, but I know she's looking past them. Her eyes are red and swollen. When she notices me, I see the effort it takes to raise her lips into a small smile.
“Morning, sweetheart.”
“Morning … though I think it's technically afternoon now.”
“I should probably get the boys dressed.” She makes no sign of moving other than taking another sip of tea.
Pouring myself a mug from the teapot, I take a seat on a stool next to Roisin. I sip the stewed and now lukewarm liquid and grimace. I lean my head against my godmother's shoulder, sensing I'm not the only lost soul this morning.
“How are you?” I ask, and she chuckles, tilting so her head is pressed against mine.
“I am a lot older than you. I should ask you that.” She fakes a playful, formal voice. “Millie, how are you this morning?”
“I couldn't get out of bed. I just … I just don't know what to do with myself.”
I watch the boys and their cartoons, the images not registering as anything other than colourful flashes in my brain. They chuckle innocently, their world still moving as it has always done. I feel envious and angry as well as more than a little ridiculous.
“That's understandable. And it will probably take time, but …” She sighs. “I want to tell you the right thing, make you feel better, but nothing will feel right for a while. Maybe not for a very long time. “
“It's OK. It's just nice to say these things out loud. When they're just in my head … they make me feel like I'm losing it.” I chuckle and drink more bitter tea before admitting defeat and pushing it away.
“I'll make another pot.” Roisin stands up, walks over to the kettle and switches it on. “Your mum passed three weeks ago. If you weren't losing it a little, I'd be a lot more worried.”
She smiles sadly before turning away to focus on making the tea, needing a moment to herself. I don't begrudge her that, so I focus on watching the boys.
“Seriously though, how are you?”
“Oh, like I've lost a limb. I mean, I've known your mum since before I could talk. I knew her as well as I knew myself, I think. And today, for the first time, it feels real. Really real. I'm never gonna see her again. Never hear her laugh when I tell her one of my culinary disaster stories. She won't ring me up at some ridiculous hour to hum a song she can't remember the name of. Sorry …”
The tears flow, and I'm instantly off my stool to wrap my arms around her. The boys turn, hearing their mum's distress, their bottom lips jutting out in worry.
“Your mum's OK. But maybe she could do with a cuddle?” I dip my head, signalling for them to come over.
The boys don't hesitate. They get up and are in the kitchen in a second. Wrapping their arms around their mum's legs, we're soon tangled in a knot of limbs and flannel PJs. I back away, giving Roisin space to sink to the floor so she can curl her arms around her sons, grounding herself in their love, faces sticky with marmalade and their eyes still soft from sleep. I smile at the sight, trying not to feel something like an intruder in their moment. I love Roisin. She's my family and a friend, but this isn't my home. I'm a guest. I'm here because I have no one else to call my own. No dad, no grandparents, barely any friends. Just Roisin.
Whilst the boys comfort their mum, I finish making a fresh pot of tea. I'm pouring the hot liquid into mugs when I hear the boys scuttle back to their spot in front of the TV. Roisin is sniffing and rubbing her eyes when I turn around and hand her the mug.
“Thank you, sweet.”
Taking my mug, I sit back down on the stool, with Roisin returning to the seat next to me. We watch the boys quietly for a moment. Everything for them has returned to normal. Life is easily fixed when you're seven.
“Oh, this came for you this morning.”
She pushes a heavy envelope towards me, and I feel a brief flash of purpose. My stomach lurches as I tear the brown paper, pulling out a thick, glossy booklet.
“Is this what I think it is?”
“Yup, your mum ordered it weeks ago. Here …” Roisin pushed another fat letter my way. “And this one.”
I stare at the shiny covers, trying to ignore the nausea rising in my gut. The unnatural slickness under my bone-dry fingertips. Everything feels too fast. The booklets are for two different art schools in the city. My childhood dream. A dream I hadn't thought about in a very long time. A dream from another life. I push them away, and Roisin purses her lips.
“I was thinking about getting a job.”
Roisin's mug clinks as it hits the table. Tea sloshes across the surface.
“You can get a job and go to art school.”
“A few shifts on the weekend won't cover rent. I need to contribute something. I need to pay my way …”
She shakes her head, raising her hand so her palm is facing me.
“Don't be ridiculous. I want you to go back to your studies, not get some crappy job that you'll be stuck doing forever just to pay me money I can manage without.”
“But … it's not right. I should pay something? I'm not a kid, Roisin.”
She exhales and looks down at the counter, running her finger through the brown liquid.
“Your mum left me some money in her will. If I'd known, I'd have told her to go out and spend every penny, hire a troop of male dancers for a night or something, but … if it makes you feel better, you're taken care of, Millie.”
I pick up one of the booklets and flick through its shiny pages casually, trying to pretend the golden-hued building of the Royal Academy, with its statues and columns, wasn't calling to me. Hadn't hooked its claws into something deep inside me and tugged intently. The idea of being back in a studio, the smell of oil paints, the hiss of charcoal across the paper, the acrid scent of the darkroom. All things I missed so much, their absence felt like a hollow ache.
“It was always your plan, wasn't it?” she says, smiling warmly at me in a way that made my throat tighten. “Finish school, and then art college? This was your dream, sweetheart.”
“That was before.”
I'd spent so much time caring for Mum that I'd barely got through school. I'd passed my exams, just. And for the past year after school finished, Mum had been my universe. I was her carer and her daughter, and I was proud to be.
“Your mum just wanted to make sure you had something to focus on after she was gone. Her disease took a piece of your life, too. You missed out on so many years …”
“This? This was something I wanted, but it was a long time ago.” The weighty book whacks against the counter when I drop it. “I'm not ready for anything like this. I'm not ready for college.”
“But you think you're ready for a job?” My godmother smiles gently. “It won't start till September. That's months away.”
“It's too soon.”
Roisin sighs and takes a deep sip of tea.
“Look, I know it's not my place, and I can't force you, but it was important to your mum that you got some normality back. Got back out into the world. People your age go to Uni, they have friends, they go out.”
“I have nothing in common with people my age. I haven't for a long time.”
Thinking of my past experiences in school makes me shudder. As Mum's illness took over both of our lives, mine became something completely different from that of my friends. They worried about wearing the right clothes and being seen in the right places and with the right people. Not helping their mum get to hospital appointments, keeping the house clean and cooking meals.
My priorities were a little different.
“I know that, but don't you want to see your old friends again? Like Chloe? Maybe get yourself a boyfriend?” Roisin adds the last bit in a sing-song voice.
“Mum's funeral was yesterday, and we're talking about me finding a boyfriend?”
She frowns and looks away, and I feel guilty for taking away the first gleam of joy I've seen in her since I walked into this kitchen.
“OK, OK, too soon. But just think about it, all right? Remember, this is what your mum wanted for you. For you to get your life back, there was nothing she wanted more. She wanted you to live, Mils.”
Roisin nudges me and drains the last of her tea. She then climbs off the stool and walks towards her sons.
“Come on, monsters! Time to get dressed.” The boys groan, but reluctantly, they drag themselves up and follow their mum up the stairs.
I look back down at the booklet and sigh. The truth was, I wasn't ready to move on, and I didn't want to. I didn't want a new life, just my old one.
I wanted Mum back.