The Mum Who Got Her Life Back Read online

  ‘Of course it is,’ Brendan says mildly.

  ‘And basically, that means using animals as a commodity,’ my son remarks.

  ‘Alfie, this isn’t the time,’ I say firmly, catching Molly’s exasperated look.

  ‘I’m just saying,’ he starts.

  ‘Alfie!’

  He blinks at me, and I sip more water, wishing we could browse through Pauline’s drawings again, and that Alfie would drift away from this group and perhaps offer to help, the way Lori is, touring the garden with her spray-tanned friend, offering platters of sandwiches and cake.

  ‘Look,’ Brendan says, rather wearily, ‘farms are always going to exist as long as people eat meat …’

  Yes,’ he concedes, ‘but if we all adopted a plant-based diet—’

  ‘Alfie, please,’ I start.

  ‘I don’t think that’s going to happen,’ Brendan says, shaking his head.

  ‘Why not?’ Alfie crows, seemingly impervious now to my interjections, or my hand clamped on his arm.

  He shakes me off, and I catch a hazy look in his eyes. Christ, he must have knocked back even more wine than I realised. He looks pretty drunk, at four in the afternoon. How have I allowed this to happen?

  ‘That’s not the way the world works,’ Brendan says firmly, glowering at Alfie now.

  ‘Couldn’t you have an arable farm?’ Alfie counters, at which Brendan actually splutters, which seems to incense my son even further.

  ‘Right, so we ditch our sixty-strong dairy herd and, what … plant a few carrots? Or a couple of rows of rocket?’

  ‘You said you grow vegetables!’

  ‘Alfie!’ I snap. ‘Please, stop this now. It’s not your place to—’

  ‘We do grow veg,’ Pauline cuts in, throwing her husband a worried glance, ‘but they’re just for the kitchen …’

  ‘Well, do it on a bigger scale, then,’ Alfie barks.

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ Brendan groans, and I’m aware now of the various aunts and uncles melting away from our group, and Jack landing beside me.

  ‘Hey, Alfie,’ he says with a tight smile. ‘Everything okay here?’

  Molly looks at him, and then me, and slopes off towards the table to refill her glass. ‘No, it’s not,’ I say coldly. ‘I’m so sorry. I think we’d better go …’

  ‘Oh, really?’ he asks, looking crestfallen.

  ‘No need to do that,’ Pauline adds.

  ‘Alf,’ I murmur, touching his arm again, ‘can you just drop this subject?’

  He frowns at his empty glass. To their credit, Brendan and Pauline have stuck with us, and seem to be waiting patiently to see what will happen next. ‘All I was trying to say,’ he starts – is that a glimmer of humility I detect now? – ‘is that veganism is the only way to go if you care about animals, and view them as being equal to human beings, instead of just existing for our convenience …’

  ‘We all care about animals,’ I say firmly. ‘Look at how we spent hours the other evening, looking for Pancake …’

  ‘Pancake?’ Pauline asks, brightening now.

  ‘A volunteer’s dog,’ Jack says. ‘He escaped, took off in shock when—’

  ‘But we don’t respect them,’ Alfie thunders, for some reason directing this at Pauline now. ‘If we farm them, we don’t. If a child dies, then it’s terrible – but why is it so different for animals? I mean, why are they regarded as lesser species just because—’

  ‘Alfie!’ Brendan cuts in sharply.

  ‘If a kid is killed by a car,’ my son rants on, ‘then it’s a huge tragedy, isn’t it? But if it’s a bird or a badger it’s just left lying in the road as if it never mattered at all …’ Alfie gazes around at his stunned audience. A few moments ago, I’d started to think we could stay for a while, if I banished him to the bottom of the garden where Molly is chatting to Lori and the spray-tanned girl. But now, with a sickening dread, I realise that won’t happen. Pauline is staring at Alfie, with her mouth open and tears rolling down her cheeks, and Brendan and Jack are comforting her. I try to apologise, but Jack silences me with a wave of his hand before turning back to his mother.

  ‘It’s okay, Jack,’ Pauline says, choking back sobs.

  ‘Mum, shhh, please …’ He turns to look at me, and I see something in those blue eyes, something I have never seen before: a kind of hurt that I’d do anything to heal.

  ‘Jack,’ I start. ‘I’m so sorry. Maybe we’d better leave …’

  ‘Yes, I think you should go now,’ he says, with a calmness that crushes my heart. ‘Please, Nadia. Please just take your kids and go.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Jack

  Mum is crying, just like she was crying back then, all those years ago. A tough, no-nonsense farmer’s wife in tears. The very sound fills me with dread and memories.

  ‘Have you heard from Sandy?’ Mum had managed to choke out when she’d called. ‘Have you any idea where he could be, Jack? You must know. He talks to you. He never talks to us anymore …’

  ‘Mum, I don’t know what you mean,’ I said blearily, clutching the phone and surveying the cans, bottles and ashtrays all dumped haphazardly on my kitchen table. I was twenty-nine years old, but still capable of acting like a teenager myself. We’d gone to a party last night, my flatmate Nick and I, and that girl had been there – the one who worked in the Spanish restaurant, who I had the hots for. For a while I’d thought she might have been interested in me. She’d quizzed me about Gander Books, where I worked, and was telling me about the poetry she wrote and did I think they’d be interested?

  ‘It’s worth a try,’ I told her. ‘Send it to me and I’ll make sure someone reads it.’ In truth, I had no influence whatsoever and actually, Gander rarely published poetry. But Christ, I was a bit drunk and eager to impress.

  I went to the loo at the party, and when I came back, she and some six-foot-five giant with a bushy red ponytail were locked in a snog, his hands clamped firmly on her bum.

  So that was that. Announcing to Nick that the party was ‘crap’, I suggested that a few of us should debunk to our place, and that’s what we did. We sat up drinking and smoking and talking rubbish until dawn crept into the kitchen.

  ‘He set off yesterday afternoon,’ Mum was telling me now, ‘and he promised to phone me when he arrived in Glasgow. Haven’t you heard anything at all?’

  ‘Mum, I didn’t even know he was coming!’ I exclaimed. ‘He wanted to, but I said he couldn’t. Not this weekend …’

  ‘But he told me you said it was fine!’ I could sense the panic rising in her voice.

  ‘He was lying then,’ I said, wondering if it was my hangover that was making me feel jittery now, or a growing fear that something bad had happened to him. Of course it hadn’t, I told myself. Sandy was sixteen and sharp as anything. ‘I told him it wasn’t the best time,’ I added, aware of another sensation washing over me now: shame, that’s what it was. ‘I’ve, um, had loads of stuff on …’

  ‘Well, I tried to call you last night,’ Mum went on, ‘but you didn’t answer. I left you a message on that machine …’

  The answerphone, she meant, and I knew she hated ‘talking into it’ as she always put it – so she must have been pretty het up to leave a message. Back then, I hardly knew anyone who had a mobile.

  I glanced across the debris on the table to where the phone cradle sat; the red light was blinking. Nick and I were terrible for picking up our messages, and Mum was now saying, ‘I left a couple, actually, and another this morning.’

  ‘Sorry, I’ve only just got up,’ I muttered.

  ‘I thought you’d think I was being silly and that the two of you had probably gone out somewhere—’

  ‘Mum, he’ll be fine,’ I cut in. ‘You know what he’s like. He might have set off to see me, but he probably ran into some mates, and they all decided to go off somewhere else instead.’

  ‘But where?’ she asked. ‘We’ve called everyone we can think of. No one’s seen him. I think he must have ta
ken a bag – I can’t find that khaki rucksack of his …’ She started crying again. ‘And Craig’s been all over the place this morning, driving around looking for him, checking all the fields, the woods, everywhere …’

  ‘Mum, it’s okay,’ I murmured, aware of a tightening in my throat. We hung on in silence for a few minutes. The kitchen smelt disgusting, of stale smoke and beer and something burnt. I remembered then that Nick had decided to make cheese on toast, and I’d spotted it under the grill, its edges blackened, the cheese blistering, and we’d turfed it into the bin.

  ‘Shall we phone the police, or what?’ she asked, and I heard Dad’s voice, deep and powerful, always seemingly in control, in the background. I grabbed a dented lager can, took a swig and nearly choked. It had a cigarette butt in it.

  ‘Jack?’ Mum prompted me. ‘What d’you think we can do, love? I’m frantic here. I just want to know he’s safe …’

  ‘Let me see if he’s left me a message, Mum,’ I said. ‘I’ll call you right back.’

  Chapter Thirty

  Nadia

  ‘It’s good that they’re not afraid to speak up,’ Danny had declared once, after we’d been told at parents’ evening that both of our children were prone to shouting out in class. ‘Who wants biddable kids who accept everything at face value? Wouldn’t you rather they were bold and outspoken, and had the courage to stand up for their beliefs?’

  Actually, no, I wouldn’t! Not if it means Alfie coming out with a torrent to an elderly couple whom we’d never met before, at a gathering hosted by my boyfriend (or is he my ex-boyfriend now?). In fact, I’d rather they were biddable. Terrible word, admittedly – it sounds namby-pamby and spineless – but how about we substitute it for ‘polite’, or maybe ‘sensitive to other people’s feelings’?

  ‘Mum?’

  This time, as we drive home, Molly is installed in the back seat, and Alfie is hunched sullenly beside me.

  ‘Mum!’ she repeats, more sharply this time.

  ‘Yes?’ I snap, which is unfair of me, as she wasn’t the one to make Pauline cry.

  ‘You’re driving a bit … erratically.’

  ‘Oh, am I?’ No bloody wonder. I’m having to muster every ounce of willpower not to stamp down on the accelerator really hard.

  ‘You’re going round corners a bit too fast …’

  ‘Molly, I do know how to drive, thank you!’ I shout. Again, utterly unfair.

  ‘All right, all right,’ she murmurs. ‘Never mind me. Just crash the car then. Write it off and kill us all …’

  Oh to have biddable young offspring, perhaps from the Victorian era, who’d be so happy to spend time with Mama – having been raised by nannies – that they’d simply sit quietly and beam at me in delight.

  I glance at Alfie who is studiously picking at his fingernails. He apologised, but too late, and to the wrong people. ‘Sorry, Mum,’ he muttered under his breath as we left Jack’s flat – but what good was that? I ushered him out quickly as if he were a confused person who’d wandered into a ladies’ knitting evening and started shouting sexually inappropriate comments. Molly followed closely behind.

  ‘I really am sorry,’ Alfie adds now.

  ‘I told you, it’s Jack’s parents – and Jack – who you should be apologising to.’ He flinches as I clip our wing mirror by careering too closely to a parked car.

  ‘Well, I will, then. I’ll do it as soon as I can.’

  I flick him a quick sideways look. ‘How are you going to do that?’

  ‘Uh … I don’t know.’ He pauses. ‘I could write them a letter …’

  ‘I thought sending a letter was a logistical nightmare?’ I remark tartly.

  ‘No, I could probably manage it,’ he says, as if we are talking about white water rafting in Nepal.

  I jam my back teeth together, unable to trust myself to continue any kind of conversation with Alfie without braining him. And now, as we drive towards home, my anger morphs into something more akin to … desolation. I’m picturing Jack’s face, and his wide, bright smile as we arrived with our flowers and wine, and how welcoming everyone was, and how much I was enjoying browsing through Pauline’s sketchbook and sampling the cheeses, just being part of Jack’s world.

  I’d felt honoured that he’d asked not just me, but my kids, too, because he is a kind and generous man, and – I like to think – he wanted us to be there together, as a couple. I’d never imagined we’d leave, the three of us, amidst expressions of shock and disapproval, or that I’d be wiping tears from my face as we pull up in our street.

  I let us into the flat. Molly disappears into her room, and Alfie to his. Thankfully, there is wine in the fridge; half a bottle of cheap Pinot that’s being lying open for God knows how long. I pour the lot into a huge glass, noting that it tastes slightly off – but what the hell. I’d guzzle anything right now.

  My mobile rings, and I snatch it from my bag, praying that it’s Jack to say it’s okay, don’t worry – they were a bit shaken up but everyone’s fine now.

  It’s Danny. I let it ring out and stuff it back into my bag. A text follows: Kiki says she has a cancellation for Mon, that facial thing at 12. Fancy it?

  ‘Oh, fuck off,’ I mutter, taking a big swig from my glass. So I really ‘need’ one, do I? She’s probably right. But I suspect it would only help if she could actually get into my brain, and work her pokey fingers around in there – and somehow, miraculously, erase my shame.

  *

  Despite my tentative texts and call next day, it seems that things are far from okay with Jack and me. Yes, he said, his parents headed off for their flight to Southampton.

  ‘Alfie knows he was out of order,’ I told him, aware of concerned looks from Corinne and Gus in the studio. I’ve been trying to throw myself into my latest commissions, but am aware that my work isn’t quite right. There’s a flatness about it, mirroring the way I feel inside.

  ‘There’s no point in going over it now,’ Jack said. ‘Look – I’d better go. I’m in the shop …’

  ‘Don’t suppose Pancake’s turned up?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, yeah. He was found late last night.’

  ‘Really?’ I exclaimed. ‘You didn’t let me know!’

  ‘Um, I didn’t think to …’ he said, and I was shocked. The kids and I had been involved in the search! Couldn’t he have texted the good news? ‘Someone found him,’ Jack added, ‘wandering around their garden just across from Kelvingrove. Looked like he’d been hiding out in their shed.’

  ‘Well, that’s good,’ I said, trying not to sound put out.

  ‘Yeah. Anyway, sorry. Mags is just asking me to price up some stuff …’

  I wanted to add, ‘We are still okay, aren’t we? We’re still going away together?’ But he’d gone. Clearly, stock pricing was far more urgent than talking to me.

  And now, on this rainy Monday afternoon in the studio, I figure that of course we’ll be okay, once the dust has settled. I’m truly sorry for Alfie’s bolshiness, but it’s happened; I’ve learned from it. I won’t take him to any social gathering until he’s at least forty years old, and even then I’ll gaffer tape his mouth shut. Hopefully, Alfie has learned from it too. He mooched around the flat last night, applying for casual work: bar shifts at a racecourse, flogging pies at a football match. Pies, stuffed with meat?

  ‘I really need a job,’ he said, tapping away at his laptop.

  ‘I guess you could wear industrial gloves,’ I remarked, ‘for handling them.’

  ‘Mmm. Yeah.’ He thought I was serious, and I was startled by a sudden wave of sympathy for him – over his broken relationship, his uncertain future and the fact that he hasn’t yet fathomed out who he is.

  ‘But, if you do find yourself working in that kind of environment,’ I added, ‘you can’t start haranguing strangers.’

  ‘No, I realise that,’ he says, gaze downcast.

  ‘You can’t shout at some massive Celtic supporter for eating the meat pies you’ve just sold him.’
>
  ‘I know that, Mum!’

  ‘Do you, though, Alfie?’ I asked, really worrying for him now. ‘You did go to a party for dairy farmers and shout about lactation.’

  He looked up at me, his eyes filled with sudden tears. ‘Oh, Mum. I’m sorry …’

  I put down my paintbrush now, not caring that I’ve splashed paint where it shouldn’t be.

  ‘Nads?’ Gus calls across the studio. He and Corinne don’t know about yesterday’s disaster. They’ve been immersed in their work, and I haven’t been able to face going into it anyway. At least, not yet.

  ‘You okay?’ Corinne asks, frowning as she looks round from her desk.

  ‘Oh, I’m fine,’ I say briskly, but of course it all tumbles out.

  ‘Silly bugger,’ Corinne says, handing me a mug of tea.

  ‘I know …’

  ‘Oh, sod it,’ Gus says, draping an arm around my shoulders now. ‘It’s not that bad. He’s nineteen, and if you can’t act like an opinionated git at that age, then when can you?’

  I can’t help smiling at that, and thinking yes, he’s probably right. Alfie’s still a kid, really, seemingly incapable of flushing the loo or making a sandwich without carpeting the kitchen in crumbs. However badly he’s behaved, he didn’t mean to upset anyone. He’s my son and I love him to pieces. And nothing will ever change that.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Jack

  Nadia wasn’t to know why Mum was so upset – and neither was Alfie. However, pretty much everyone else knew, so last night I found myself in the weird posi-tion of defending Alfie when he’d been a sanctimonious goat.

  Is it okay to feel that way about the son of the woman I love? Fuck it – I do feel that way. I might be of the opinion that his mother is the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever met, but that doesn’t mean I have to be friends with her son.

  After Nadia and her kids left last night, the do was pretty much over. Mum gathered herself together, but everyone kept fussing around her and the atmosphere was hardly celebratory. ‘That was pretty insensitive,’ Drew remarked later, when we’d all drifted inside and my parents had retired to bed.