Chapter 2
TWO
‘Denise. Denise! Have you seen the electric carving knife?’
‘It’s in the cupboard behind the spiralizer,’ said my mam from the sofa, where she was cosied under a blanket. Despite the electric fire being on, she still felt the cold.
‘Which cupboard is the spiralizer in then?’
‘The one next to the cooker hood.’
‘Right or left?’
Mam sighed and tried to get up. ‘Hang on – I’m coming.’
I pushed her gently back into her seat. ‘No, Mam, I’ll go. But is it right or left?’
‘Thank you, darl. It’s the left one.’
But as I got up, the whirr of the electric knife came from beyond the kitchen door, along with the grating sound of it being dragged across the edge of a plate. My mam shuddered.
‘Bless him – at least he’s trying!’ she said.
I sat back down on the sofa, folding my feet under my legs and snuggling closer to her. My childhood living room had barely changed since I’d moved out – it was small but cosy, with my parents’ decorative taste stamped all over it: swirly carpet, a feature wall with bird-print wallpaper, the mantelpiece decked out with quirky vintage-shop finds interspersed with craft projects that I’d brought home from school. There was a photo frame I’d made out of balsa wood flanked by a figurine of a Roman soldier and one of those bottles with a ship inside. Being an only child meant that my childhood efforts were given pride of place.
‘Now, what are we going to do with you, eh?’ she said warmly. Despite being in an MS flare, she was still cheerful and had her make-up on, complete with trademark red lipstick. Thankfully, her relapses were usually short-lived, and she was on the way out of this one, but they took it out of her.
I gave her a rueful smile. ‘I know. Another job bites the dust.’
‘You’ll figure it out. I have no doubt you’ll find your niche soon.’
‘I will,’ I said decisively, and I meant it. ‘And on the bright side, I have twelve years of “wide-ranging experience” under my belt. It has to pay off soon.’
‘I’m only sorry we can’t have you back home right now. Not until we shift all that rubbish in your old room anyway.’
‘Don’t worry, Mam – I can take care of myself. Plus Neo’s being really decent about it.’
‘Good.’
Then the kitchen door opened and my dad bustled through with two plates in hand.
‘Get it while it’s hot, ladies.’ He set the plates on the dining table in the back of the living room, and I helped my mam up to go and eat.
‘This looks smashing, Keith,’ she said. ‘I like what you’ve done with the mash.’
Since Dad had started taking over some of the cooking, some of his dishes were what you might call ‘experimental’. Sitting in amongst the rest of the Sunday roast, mine minus the meat, was a pile of mash that was flecked with little red and yellow bits. On sampling, I discovered these were chilli flakes.
‘Delicious,’ I said, almost choking, and took a slug of orange squash.
‘Bon appétit,’ he said with a flourish, looking so chuffed with himself I couldn’t help but smile.
He tucked in enthusiastically, wincing as he tried the mash, his tongue running around under his lips, but then shrugged and took another big forkful. Where my mam was slight and small, my dad was built like a tank. Tall and broad, even in his fifties he was fit and strong – when he wasn’t at work on the building site, he was in the gym lifting weights.
‘Now then,’ he said. ‘Am I going to have to find you a job on the site, or have you got any better ideas?’ He slathered mint sauce over his roast beef and gave me a look that was a mixture of amusement and patience. Thank God my parents were so bloody nice.
‘I’m in pretty good shape, Dad, but I’m not sure I can see myself lugging bags of cement around.’
‘I’ve told you, if you put your mind to it, you can do anything.’
‘I think I’d draw the line at slipping a disc though. And you’ve always said that, but when I’ve tried everything , where do I go from there?’
My mam gasped. ‘I completely forgot! Your cousin’s looking for someone.’
‘Kieran? Mam, he’s a physiotherapist. I don’t think you can just learn that on the job.’
‘Very funny. No, they’re after a new receptionist. You could apply for that.’
I chewed a piece of carrot that tasted suspiciously of curry powder.
‘Yeah, maybe…’
I hadn’t seen Kieran for a few years and there was good reason for that. I’d seen him in town with a woman who was definitely not his wife and who definitely had Kieran’s hand placed squarely on her backside, so he’d avoided me like the plague ever since. I was pretty sure he would burn my CV before I even got an interview.
‘I’ll have a look online after lunch. See if I can get fixed up.’
‘Atta girl,’ said Dad. ‘Now, eat up. I’ve made sticky toffee pudding with those dates in the back of the cupboard.’
Mam blinked. ‘We haven’t got any dates, Keith.’
He frowned and went to the kitchen, coming back with an empty jar.
‘Sun-dried tomatoes. I’m sure it’ll taste fine.’
After lunch, we sat and watched old episodes of Cheers , me and Mam tucked under her blanket and Dad in his armchair. I scrolled intermittently through job websites, shortlisting things that seemed okay, like waitressing or admin. I would update my CV that night and start sending it out.
‘Annie, pet. You wouldn’t pop upstairs and get my readers, would you?’ asked Mam. ‘I can’t make out a thing on this crossword.’
‘Yep, no problem.’
Before going to her bedroom, I stopped to look into my old room. In the years since I’d moved out, it had been gradually filled with the remains of my mother’s various business ventures. She was a sucker for a home business and had tried her hand at all sorts, mostly through legit multi-level-marketing although some of them seemed suspiciously like pyramid schemes. The room was piled high with boxes containing the most random selection of products, and ‘piled high’ wasn’t an exaggeration. I could barely see the walls for cardboard containers, and the narrow path to the bed would require a contortionist to fit through. Not that the bed was useful, as it was covered with a plethora of promotional materials – posters, leaflets and banners extolling the virtues of an eclectic range of products.
I lifted the flap of one box – inside were dozens of plastic food containers, still wrapped in protective packaging. The next contained herbal remedies for all manner of minor ailments. Another was filled with lipsticks, bronzers and mascaras – all victims of Mam’s tendency to flit from one thing to the next. I suspected this was the genetic cause of my similar disposition.
I remembered, when she was well, helping her lug the boxes to and from the car so she could head out to living rooms across the North East. There, she would host parties, selling her wide-ranging wares and getting more and more client recommendations. But illness got in the way, and even though she’d optimistically continued to order the latest products, she’d gradually become less able to sell them. Hence the Aladdin’s cave continued to grow, and although she’d insisted she was going to flog it all on eBay, the hoarded goods dropped under the radar.
I retrieved Mam’s glasses from her bedside table, but then something caught my eye. An envelope was on Dad’s side, the tear at the top revealing a wide red banner across the upper edge of the letter. I felt guilty, but my interest was piqued. Peeling the paper back just enough, I saw their latest mortgage statement. It was in arrears. My stomach clenched; I knew they often found money tight, but I hadn’t realised how bad it had got.
Dad was a very experienced builder, and had worked on some big commercial and domestic contracts in recent years, garnering a great local reputation. But business had slowed, and more competition had crept in, and I’d noticed he’d been gradually spending more and more time at home. I thought that might also be partly down to him caring for Mam when she needed him to.
Calming myself, and deciding to say nothing until I’d absorbed what I now knew, I went downstairs and handed over her glasses.
‘Where’s Dad?’ I asked, seeing his chair was empty.
‘He’s gone through to the garage. He’s working off his sticky tomato pudding. You should go and see what he’s done with the place – he’s calling it his man-cave now.’
On entering the garage, I could see what she meant. In the centre was a slightly tired-looking weights bench, and to the side was a running machine. Next to the pots of paint and gardening tools on the shelves was a selection of protein powders. This was all amongst his collection of guitars, which was his other obsession – electric, acoustic, you name it, he had it. When he had spare time, he liked to have jam sessions with some of his building-site mates; they’d named themselves The Brick Roses and still enjoyed reminiscing about their single pub gig three years ago.
He got up from his weights bench and gestured grandly to his gym set-up.
‘Good, eh?’ he said. He tapped the bench. ‘I got this off Paul down at the site. And the running machine off Facebook Marketplace.’
‘Amazing! Dad, this looks great. But why do you need all this as well as going down the gym?’
He shrugged. ‘Ah, I gave that up. Money for old rope.’
I knew this wasn’t true. He had a few mates at his gym and it had always been a bit of a social occasion too. My heart sank; it was the money, of course. If they couldn’t keep up with the mortgage, then my dad would never be selfish enough to keep his gym membership.
‘Well, give us a go then,’ I said, wanting to keep myself from blurting out my worries.
So he spent twenty minutes putting me through my paces on the equipment. The radio was on in the background, blaring a Sunday oldies playlist. I was starting to flag under the weight of the dumbbells when Blondie came on – ‘One Way or Another’. Suddenly I found a new burst of energy – if there was ever a title that could be construed different ways, it was that one. It might be a slightly concerning song about a stalker, but the beat and the chanting of the song’s title was spurring me on. One way or another, I was going to sort this whole mess out. I pumped the weights until my biceps and wrists burned.
Exhausted, I sat up on the edge of the bench, and Dad came and joined me, squishing me a bit with his massive frame. He put an arm around me and squeezed, and it was like I was ten again. No matter how challenging life was, I always felt bulletproof when I was home with my family.
‘Listen, Annie. Me and your mam have been talking. We don’t feel right about you struggling to pay your rent, especially as we can’t offer you anything here except a sofa. So we want to give you some money to tide you over. Just until you get fixed up with a new job.’
If a person could be warm and cold at the same time, this would be how to best describe my reaction. They couldn’t afford this, not at all.
‘Dad, I can’t accept your money. I’ll be fine, honestly.’
‘Annie… We want to. You’re our daughter, and we won’t see you struggle.’
‘And I won’t see you two struggle either.’ I pinched my lips together, realising I’d said the wrong thing. My dad was a proud man.
He looked down at his knees and sighed. ‘We won’t take no for an answer. And we’ve already sent the money to your account, so you can’t refuse now.’
‘Dad, you shouldn’t…’
He stood up and ruffled my hair. ‘Nonsense. That’s what families do. We take care of each other.’
I swallowed, feeling my throat grow thick. ‘Thanks, Dad,’ I managed. I’d send it back at my first opportunity.
‘Now, come on,’ he said. ‘There’s a packet of chocolate digestives in the cupboard with our names on.’
Settled back on the sofa, biscuit in hand, I redoubled my efforts on the job search, scrolling through the recruitment apps. Human Resources Assistant for a Global Hiring Platform – that sounded interesting. I opened the ad. Must have working knowledge of Japanese. Sighing, I opened the next one – Production Line Operative – Whitley Fisheries. In spite of my great need for employment, I drew the line at handling raw cod all day long.
I flicked over to Facebook, partly to see if anything was advertised there, partly to torture myself with friends showing off their airbrushed lives. There were a few opportunities for seasonal work with it being late October; Christmas was on the horizon, and there were a few places advertising casual jobs. I added them to my list.
I scrolled on until something else caught my eye. Above some pictures of an empty room with two large windows at the front was a caption: Pop-up shop space available. Central Newcastle location, established premises with excellent customer footfall and competitive rates. For enquiries please call Mike on this number.
I sat looking at it for a while, my thoughts racing. Was I on the brink of something that would solve all of our problems, or was I teetering on the edge of being certifiable?
‘Mam, you know all that stuff in my bedroom upstairs?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘I think I might have an idea.’