Mum On The Run. Fiona Gibson
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her husband faint with desire. I look like a clappedout mother who buys her underwear two aisles along from the gherkins.
Gamely, I pull on the suspender belt – remembering too late that the knickers are supposed to go on top of it – then the stockings. The suspender belt’s clips are a devil to snap on. Every time I manage to get one done up, another pings off. It’s even more fiddly than Finn’s old Meccano set. Why didn’t I buy hold-up stockings? Because I planned to go for full-on foxery, haha.
I dart into Grace’s room, rummage in her craft box for scissors and snip the Hugga Bubba teddies off my underwear. As a joke, I place them on her pillow. I’m overcome by a surge of longing, wishing she were here, wishing all the children were here, and that this was an ordinary family evening with bedtime stories and tucking in and Jed and I watching a movie together. Our normal life isn’t so bad. I want too much, that’s the problem. My expectations have shot off the scale, like would-be Angelina Jolie’s at the salon. I should be content with the way things are. Look at Mum, with her art classes and volunteering, trying to fill the void where Dad used to be.
Why didn’t he tell anyone he was ill? Because he didn’t want to worry us, not even Mum. Then he had to tell her, of course, and then they told Kate because she’s eight years older than me and far more sensible and capable. It was Kate who called, when I was trying to coax Toby onto the potty, and said, ‘Laura, I’m sorry to tell you this, but I think you should know. Dad’s really ill.’
I’d known he’d been for tests, and Mum had implied that it was something to do with cholesterol or blood pressure and that a change of diet would fix everything. She didn’t mention the cancer that had spread to his spine. ‘It’s the shock,’ I told Jed, tears pouring down my cheeks. ‘If they’d warned me, I might have been ready. I might have been prepared.’ He’d kissed and held me and, for a moment, he was my boyfriend again, who always managed, somehow, to make things better. Jed knew how close I’d been to Dad.
In our bedroom, I hold up my new emerald dress. I don’t have the courage to carry it off – not with the shaving disaster lurking beneath. Instead, I pull on a more demure polka-dot sundress which used to be one of Jed’s favourites but is faded and must be at least five years old. It’s an improvement, though. I definitely look better clothed than naked. I dab on my new make-up and try to adopt an expression of hope.
Downstairs, Jed is engrossed in his book. In the kitchen, I set the pasta to boil and follow the recipe with the prawns, rocket and chilli. The chillies look so pretty, flecking the prawns with deep red, that I sling in a few extra. Maybe my culinary gene is reawakening. I’m actually enjoying myself, creating a meal from scratch that doesn’t involve sausages or the potato masher. I might not be able to make felt purses, or be half-French, but I can knock together a delicious supper and make myself look presentable (at least, half-presentable).
I carry our supper, cutlery and glasses of wine from the kitchen to the back garden. Our ancient iron table looks far too rusty and unhygienic to eat off, so I place everything on the garden wall while I hurry back in for a tablecloth. The only one I can find has an indelible orangey stain, but it’ll do. Grabbing a bunch of tea lights, I set the table, placing my plate over the stain. ‘Ready!’ I call from the back door.
Jed appears, still clutching his book. ‘We’re eating outside?’
‘Yes, why not? It’s a lovely evening.’ With a flourish, I light the tea lights and survey the scene.
‘Oh . . . okay. I’ll need a jacket though.’
‘Get one then,’ I say sweetly. It is a bit chilly, but I’m not going to spoil the effect of the dress with a jacket or even a cardi. I shall freeze my arse off instead.
Jed reappears in an Arctic-worthy jacket, thankfully devoid of book, and perches on a wobbly metal chair. I wait for him to register my new make-up and exclaim, ‘Wow, Laura, you look gorgeous tonight. Let me kiss you, irresistible wife!’ Nothing is forthcoming. Next time Jed and I have a hot date, I may wear a boiler suit.
I glance around our garden. The bleak rectangle is bordered by brick walls all shedding their white paint skins. The borders are already sprouting weeds. ‘You know,’ I murmur, ‘we really should do something with this place.’
‘Like what?’ Jed prods a pasta quill. He looks so good, so strong-jawed and handsome in the yellowy flicker of the tea lights, even with his big fat jacket on.
‘Get some pots,’ I suggest, ‘or hanging baskets. Maybe even some turf to make a proper lawn.’
‘Feel free,’ he says with a chuckle, ‘but I don’t imagine it’d stay perfect for long. The kids would soon mess it up.’
‘It wouldn’t have to be perfect,’ I insist. ‘It could be wild, full of colour like, like—’
‘Like . . . your dad’s garden?’ he says gently.
I nod. Dad lived for his garden. Finn would help him to plant things, when he was still eager to please. He even had a notebook in which he’d document what he’d planted and when the first shoots appeared. ‘My cornflowers came up!’ Finn wrote carefully, and Mum let us cut some to bring home. As Dad grew sicker, the borders ran wild. ‘He’ll knock it back into shape when he’s better,’ Mum would say as the exuberant colours blurred beneath a blanket of weeds. I could have helped, if I’d known. After Dad had gone, Mum had the whole garden turfed over.
‘You okay, love?’ Jed asks.
‘I’m fine.’ I muster a smile. ‘I just think the kids would enjoy the garden more if we spruced it up.’
‘There’s the park, though, isn’t there?’ He forks in some pasta and splutters dramatically. ‘God, Laura! How much chilli did you put in this?’
‘Just what the recipe said,’ I say curtly.
‘Oh, wow . . . this is bloody hot.’ He slugs his wine and starts blowing out air.
I take a tentative nibble. It tastes fine at first, if a little fiery. Then the heat builds up until an inferno tears at my throat. ‘There’s nothing wrong with it,’ I croak, my eyes streaming as I fork in an enormous mouthful to prove just how bloody fine and delicious it is.
‘I can’t eat this,’ Jed announces, lurching inside to the kitchen. I hear the tap being turned on full blast. My entire digestive system is combusting. No amount of chilled white wine can cool my throat. I slam down my fork and march into the kitchen where Jed is bent under the kitchen tap with cold water gushing directly into his mouth.
‘It’s not that bad,’ I rasp, my mouth searing. ‘You’re acting like one of the kids.’
He straightens up and dabs his face with a tea towel. ‘Oh, isn’t it? So I suppose you don’t want some water?’
‘Um, yes please.’ He hands me a glassful, which I gulp down. ‘Sorry,’ I murmur. ‘I threw in a few extra chillies to make it look colourful.’
‘Right,’ he snorts. ‘Like a little garden or something?’
‘Something like that,’ I say as he fills a second glass for me. The back door is open, and the tea lights flicker feebly on the table.
‘Hey,’ Jed says gently, sliding his arms around me. ‘I’m sorry, love. I know you went to a lot of effort.’
‘It’s okay. It was my fault.’
‘Look,’ he adds hesitantly. ‘I . . . I know I’ve been . . . wrapped up in other things lately . . .’
Like Celeste? ‘I suppose we’re just not used to being together anymore,’ I cut in quickly. It feels so good, being held by him, that I don’t want to spoil it by saying her name.
‘Of course we are,’ Jed says. ‘We just don’t have the chance very often.’ He pulls back to study my face. ‘You smell good,’ he adds. ‘And you’re wearing make-up. It suits you.’
‘Oh,