It takes me another two days to ring my mum.
‘Did the parcel arrive?’ she asks, screeching panic.
‘It did. Thanks Mum.’
‘I’m not cramping your style, am I?’
‘No, Mum. I’m not fourteen.’
I’m waiting for the bus home from school after staying behind with Si to compare audition notes from Monday. A handful of pupils meander to the bus stop, either from detention or athletics training. Traffic is bumper-to-bumper on this road, horns honking up by the William Hill. It’s either a seven-minute bus ride (without traffic) or a twenty-five-minute walk. I know, I got lucky landing a job in Lewisham so close to Jack’s flat, relieving me of the dreaded commute.
Lucky.
I think I’ll walk.
‘Been busy then? How’s the new job going?’
‘Yeah, it’s okay.’
‘You don’t like it, do you?’
‘It’s fine.’
‘I’ve never liked my job, Chloe. But that’s life. You just get on with it.’
She works for the Inland Revenue and loves it. Always taking charge of the collection for office birthdays.
‘Chloe, I just saw Pam Gillespie in Matalan. She hasn’t half aged, my God. Told me about how her Jason’s living in Canada now. Remember him? From school? Wouldn’t say boo to a goose, would he? And now he’s living in Canada. God knows what he’s doing there – I didn’t pry. Told her you’re a fully qualified teacher and she thinks that’s marvellous. Told her how you’re living down in London now and she said, “Oh isn’t that fantastic!” She wondered if you’ve been to see The Lion King yet? I told her I wasn’t sure. Have you?’
I take a short cut through a residential street, although it’s not quiet. A woman pushing a pram is dragging a screaming toddler along and a group of workmen are taking a raucous cigarette break outside a grand terraced house top-to-toe in scaffolding.
‘Mum, I need to tell you something,’ I say. ‘Something … sad.’
‘Oh no,’ she starts, and I know she’s taken the landline phone in her hands to sit down on the bottom stair, bracing herself. ‘Oh, God. Please, don’t tell me. Oh no. What is it?’
‘Jack.’ I clear my throat. ‘Died.’
‘What?’ she asks, as if she’s part deaf.
‘Don’t make me say it again, Mum.’
‘He died?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Ah,’ she sighs. Then she repeats this sound in various tones and pitches.
‘Mum? Are you okay?’
‘Ah, love. Ah, I can’t believe it. I’m shocked, I’m really, really shocked. I mean, I thought you were going to say that he left you, or that you had cancer or something. I never expected this, Chloe love. Ah. What was it? Was it suicide?’
‘No, Mum – I’d rather not discuss the det—’
‘Drink driving? Did he have a problem that you weren’t aware of, you know, because let’s face it, you hardly knew the lad, did you?’
‘Mum!’
‘Or was he ill? Oh, God. Had he been ill this whole time and not told you?’
‘Mum, it was an accident. Simple as that.’
‘Oh, love. Oh, Chloe love. My heart breaks for you, it does. It really does.’ She sounds like she’s in pain, her voice thin, sliding along ice. ‘Just devastating, isn’t it? His poor mother, oh she must be in pieces. And you thought this was it, didn’t you? Our Kit said as much, said you thought you’d found The One. And after all these years, there’s me thinking you never believed in The One—’
‘Mum, please don’t cry.’
‘We never even met him, Chloe.’
‘I know.’
‘Oh, my God, who will you bring to our Kit’s wedding now? You can’t come on your own.’
‘Yeah. God forbid.’
‘I mean, you’re thirty-six, Chloe. I thought you’d—’
‘Mum, I know what you thought.’
‘Don’t snap at me, love. I’m very upset for you, I am. I really am.’
‘I’m gonna be fine,’ I say, convincingly, although not at all convinced.
She sighs loudly down the phone. I come to the end of the residential street and walk along the main road, passing a pub, a pharmacy, a florist, another pub. She’s still sighing, I think; a fire engine’s siren is drowning her out.
Once it passes, I realise she’s talking to someone, not me, relaying this new information about Jack in a loud whisper, as if I can’t hear her.
‘Is Dad home from work?’ I ask.
‘What’s that, Chloe love?’
‘I can hear you talking to Dad.’
‘Oh, no. Your dad’s still out; had to take someone all the way to Manchester today. Carol’s here. Her daughter’s pregnant again, you know. What’s that, Carol? Oh, a girl? She’s having a girl, is she? Ah, one of each. Oh, isn’t that just perfect. I bet you’re over the moon, Carol. Did you hear that, Chloe?’
‘That’s nice, Mum.’
‘Yeah. It’s nice to hear nice things at a time like this …’
I can picture her sitting on the stairs, catching a glimpse of herself in the hall mirror and using her fingertips to create a temporary facelift.
‘You sure you’re alright, Mum?’
‘I’m fine, love. I am. I just thank God that you barely knew the lad. Thank. God. He really does work in mysterious ways, doesn’t He?’
‘This wasn’t an act of God, Mum.’
‘Oh, Chloe. Imagine if you’d been with Jack for years. Imagine if you were married, had children. This would be an absolute tragedy. Christmas doesn’t seem like five minutes ago and you didn’t even know he was walking on God’s green earth. You were still knocking about with that fella you went to youth theatre with.’
‘Mum, this is a tragedy.’
‘Yes. I know. It is for all who knew him, but Chloe my love, you didn’t. I mean, you never really know someone until you’ve lived with them.’
‘I DO live with Jack. DID live with him.’
‘Oh, love. Your suitcase isn’t even unpacked yet.’
‘How do you know?!’
‘Because I know you!’
I want to hang up, but I know better than to hang up on my mum. I did that once. Twenty years ago, from a phone box outside Central Station in Liverpool. I can’t even begin to explain the guilt ingrained within me that’s lingered ever since, all stemming from her deep hurt at being hung up on by her own flesh and blood. For a whole week, she laid the table for three instead of four, refusing to feed me. My dad took pity once and saved me half of his cottage pie, but I survived the rest of the week on cereal, going to the chippy on my way home from sixth form or eating at Beth’s, although her family was experimenting with vegetarianism in the nineties. My taste buds weren’t accustomed to couscous and hummus back then.
‘Hold on a sec, Chloe … What was that, Carol?’
I hear Carol’s raspy rattle in the background. She’s still on forty a day.
‘Chloe,’ my mum comes back to me. ‘Carol’s asking when you’re coming home.’
‘Dunno.’
‘What do you mean, you “dunno”?’
‘I haven’t made any plans.’
‘Well, you better hurry up.’
‘Why?’
I’m walking through a park now, along the footpath, dodging small kids on scooters. All hints of sadness have evaporated from my mum’s voice and she’s annoyed. Plain annoyed.
‘Chloe, I’ve got a wedding to organise,’ she reminds me.
‘Well, Kit has a wedding to—’
‘Don’t talk about something you don’t know anything about, love. You’ve never come close to organising a wedding in your life. There’s so much to do, and I’m gonna need to know when you’re coming home so I can get your room ready.’
‘I’m not coming home.’
‘What?!’ my Mum shrieks, then lowers her voice for Carol. ‘She says she’s not coming home.’
‘Mum, I live in London now. I’ve got a job, a flat—’
‘Oh, you can’t be serious?’
‘Why is that so hard to believe?’
‘Because you’ve only been there two minutes. You’ve got to come home.’
‘I haven’t got to do anything.’
‘But it’s too busy down there; it’s too bloody expensive.’
‘Well, Pam Gillespie seems to think it’s fantastic.’
‘Oh, get your head out the clouds, love. You can’t survive down there on your own.’
I think of all the gingham disguising what used to be my childhood bedroom.
‘Doubt I’d survive much better at home with you.’
She gasps.
‘Where’s the Chloe I know, eh? That London’s gone to your head.’
‘Look, I’m sorry, Mum. I just haven’t had time to process everything yet.’
‘You will,’ she says, softer now. ‘It’ll all come clear, love.’
‘I know.’
‘Everything happens for a reason. You mark my words. You’ll look back on today soon enough and think, wow, this all happened for a reason.’
Okay, it’s time to wrap things up.
‘Please don’t worry about me, Mum,’ I say, honestly not wanting her to hang up and start fretting. You see, she’ll be fine while Carol’s there – she’ll nick one of Carol’s ciggies (even though she ‘quit’ in 1988) and together they can chew the fat – but once she’s on her own she’ll overthink my whole situation and get herself into a right state. ‘I’m fine.’
‘But you’re all on your own, love.’
‘That’s not the tragedy here, Mum.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Never mind. Besides, I’m not on me own, I’ve got Beth … work … you know.’
‘You’re single, though,’ she says, sobbing.
I hear Carol ask if she’d like a gin and tonic.
‘Slimline tonic,’ my mum tells her. ‘Open a new one. On the left in the pantry.’
‘Mum, I’ve got to go. I’ve got a hairdresser’s appointment soon.’
‘Oh, no love. How do you know you can trust this hairdresser?’
I’m losing the will. Let’s be honest, unless she’s referring to Sweeney Todd, I’m not sure anyone’d be able to give a logical response. My brain hurts and I grind my teeth.
‘Are you still there, love?’
‘Yes, Mum. Still here.’
‘Chloe, wouldn’t you rather wait ’til you’re home, go to the place you like in town? The one with the purple chaise longue in the window?’
‘I can’t go the funeral with these roots, Mum.’
I can hear Carol suggesting I wear a hat.
‘Did you hear that, love? Carol said—’
‘I heard her.’
‘You don’t half suit hats.’
She’s genuinely concerned about this. I know she’ll play with her tea tonight now, unable to focus on Corrie, worrying how my hair will turn out. She’s never forgiven me for going full-on bleached blonde, forever suggesting I grow it out to my mousey brown and get some highlights with the cap. The cap!
‘I’ll speak to you soon, Mum. Love you millions.’
‘Love you more.’