My dad insisted on picking me up from our Kit’s this morning. I can’t tell you how excited I am about the fact that it’s Sunday, and I’m home; my mum will be cooking a roast.
‘Alright, Tilly Mint,’ he sings through the open window of his taxi.
‘Not working today?’ I ask, bending down to give him a kiss before hurling my suitcase into the boot. To avoid paying someone else double time, my dad always likes to work Sundays.
‘I started early. You’re me last pick-up of the day.’
‘Well, I hope you’re not charging me, Dad.’
‘Never in a million years, my love. Your mum’s booked a table at The Pheasant.’
‘Who for?’ I ask, pulling the seatbelt across me.
‘Who’d you think? Us.’
No. I’m not going to The Pheasant. It’s one of those pubs owned by a brewery chain, does a carvery, that sort of thing. Me and Beth used to work there at weekends during sixth form, and no. Not today. I’m going home, having a long bath and watching Netflix on my laptop in bed. My dad can grab me something from the chippy if my mum won’t cook.
‘Kit never mentioned anything about going for a meal,’ I say.
‘Kit’s not coming,’ my dad says.
‘Neither am I.’
‘You have to, my love. Your mum’s invited your nan.’
We pull up outside the house I grew up in. There’s a single balloon on the front door, a plain blue one, visible behind the glass porch. The big glass porch. Back in the eighties, lots of families on our street got a porch built. The houses are all identical three-bedroom semis, a little lawn in the front and a nice square garden in the back. We live on the corner, meaning once my dad’s taxi business started doing alright, instead of moving to a slightly bigger house, my mum and dad just kept building on the one they already had. We’ve had the kitchen extended and a roof conversion, too, but it was the porch that came first. It resembles a conservatory, although don’t get me started on the actual conservatory. It almost caused a divorce. Bird-poo-gate is still a touchy subject to this day.
‘Welcome home!’ my mum shouts from the porch.
Inside the hall, a piece of paper stuck to the banister with Sellotape has Welcome Home Chloe written in felt-tip pen. Mum probably found the pen in a cupboard in my old room. This confirms that the single blue balloon isn’t left over from a party, but is, in fact, for me.
‘I didn’t wanna make a big fuss,’ my mum says.
‘You didn’t need to make any fuss, Mum.’
‘Now, go on. Up the stairs, get ready, love. We’re leaving in an hour and they don’t wait for latecomers in The Pheasant, you know. We’ll lose the table if we don’t get there on time,’ my mum says. This is a fabrication conceived entirely in her own head.
‘I’m not coming.’
‘You bloody well are.’
‘Kit’s not.’
‘Kit’s busy.’
‘No, he’s not. He’s eating pizza in bed with Gareth.’
‘He’s got a wedding to plan.’
‘It’s all planned.’
‘Are you going to be this difficult every day, Chloe, or just today?’
My dad comes in and shuts the door. He does a stupid dance in the hall and sings about Tilly Mint coming home to the tune of the ‘Three Lions’ song. My nan appears from the living room, all five foot nothing of her, seething. She’s had her hair set this morning, I can tell from the waft of lacquer.
‘Less of the singing, Bernie,’ she says. ‘If anyone’s gonna sing around here, it’s Chloe.’
My nan thinks I’m a brilliant singer, although she hasn’t heard me sing anything since I was eight. Every year, she tells me to go on X Factor. Every year, I have to come up with a fresh excuse as to why this will never, ever, ever happen. I get a flash of singing in Hoi An, Justin on the guitar. No. Go away.
‘Chloe’s not coming The Pheasant with us,’ my mum says slowly, as if I’m a toddler and she’s attempting reverse psychology.
‘The Pheasant? What we going all the way there for?’ my nan asks.
‘Family meal,’ my mum protests. ‘It’s Sunday.’
‘Just go to Tesco and get a cooked chicken,’ my nan suggests.
‘We’re going The Pheasant.’
‘Well, Chloe’s not.’
‘She is.’
‘I don’t wanna go The Pheasant,’ my nan states, hands on hips. ‘Bernie, go and get a cooked chicken.’
‘From Tesco?’ my dad asks.
My mum unsticks my welcome home banner and starts fanning herself with it.
‘I’ve told Carol we’d meet her there,’ she says.
‘Carol’s not family,’ I remind her.
‘She’s been a fabulous support since … you know.’
‘No, Mum. Since what?’
‘Since Jack died,’ my mum whispers.
I roll my eyes, start heading up the stairs.
‘I thought we weren’t mentioning Jack?’ my nan asks.
‘Everyone! Ready to leave in an hour!’ my mum shouts, then takes a breath, lowering her voice in fear of the neighbours hearing. ‘I won’t say it again.’
My dad tells her he’s ready, but she tells him to change his jeans. My nan asks him to put the Corrie omnibus on for her and my mum tells him to do that first and change his jeans straight after. I drop down onto my old bed, head-first into an explosion of gingham. Any second now, my mum will barge in and tell me to get my shoes off the duvet, it’s not a door mat. And I’ll give her the finger as she walks away.
I feel like the old me. Well, the seventeen-year-old me anyway.
*
The Pheasant is on the outskirts of town, close to the motorway. If you get a seat by the right window, you get a view of nice green fields with the odd horse, otherwise, it’s a grey mass of traffic around Junction 7.
‘I haven’t been here since dropping you off for work all those years ago,’ my dad says, turning into a free parking space.
‘Such a liar, Bernie,’ my mum accuses. ‘We came here for our Val’s fortieth.’
‘Mum, I was the waitress that served you,’ I say. ‘And you never tipped me.’
‘Bloody hell,’ my mum ponders. ‘Where does the time go?’
The brewery chain has changed since I worked here, no doubt more than once, but walking through the entrance doors really does drive home my mum’s words. Where does the time go? Yeah, the decor’s been updated, cool greys having replaced the nineties pink and turquoise, but it’s the same. I feel as though I could charge straight through the swinging door into the kitchen, hang up my jacket and apologise for running late, hoping the chef on starters winks at me. I always fancied him, even though he had a kid with another waitress.
I message Beth.
I’m at The Pheasant!
We’re taken to our reserved table, where there are fields in view, but Tesco is also clear in the distance. Carol’s already waiting for us in another of her sequin tops. I can tell my mum disapproves, thinks it’s too much for a Sunday afternoon – unlike my jeggings and t-shirt, which isn’t enough. Carol breaks the news to us all that The Pheasant carvery no longer exists, but that the menu is extensive, with gluten-free options. My nan reminds us that we should’ve got a cooked chicken from Tesco.
‘Oh, Chloe,’ Carol says, coughing, clearing her throat. She holds out her arms and my mum pushes me into them. ‘Come here. That’s it, that’s it. I’m so sorry about your fella, what an absolute tragedy. Taken too soon.’
‘We’re not mentioning Jack,’ my nan says, shaking off her teal mac and handing it to my dad.
‘Carol,’ my mum says. ‘I did tell you who Jack’s mum is, didn’t I?’
‘Yeah, the one who went in the jungle last year?’
My dad corrects her. ‘No. Not her. The other one.’
‘Oh! I thought she was the one who went in the jungle.’
A waitress rescues my dad from hovering with my nan’s coat, offering to hang it up, and he calls her a cracker. She brings over huge menus, two-foot tall and double sided. My nan says ‘bloody hell’ rather than thanks. A long conversation follows about what everybody’s going to order. Carol could easily eat four, maybe five things off the menu; my mum’s disgusted at the price of the Sunday roasts. My nan mentions chicken again, from Tesco, and my dad says he’s going to the bar to order a pint. My mum tells him to sit down, he’s driving, but I offer to drive home and my mum tells him to order her and Carol a double gin and tonic each.
‘Is everybody getting a starter?’ Carol asks.
‘No,’ my nan answers for us all.
As it turns out, we all order the fish and chips.
‘You can’t go wrong with fish and chips, can you, my love?’ my dad tells the waitress.
Carol nips out for a ciggie.
‘So are you gonna get one of those flats – sorry, apartments – in town again, like you had before you moved to London?’ my dad asks.
‘She can live with us as long as she likes, Bernie,’ my mum snaps.
‘Oh, I know that love. Goes without saying.’
‘I mean, I’ve never known a thirty-six-year-old woman to still live at home, but hey-ho.’
‘I have,’ my nan says. ‘Marjorie Hughes. You know, helps in the church. Never married until she was fifty-two. You’ve got plenty of time, Chloe.’
‘Thanks, Nan.’
‘You gonna contact the local schools?’ my mum asks me, clearly itching for one of Carol’s ciggies. ‘For work?’
‘Not sure yet.’
‘Bernie. Speak to her.’
My dad shifts in his seat. ‘Listen here, Tilly Mint. Your mum’s only trying to help.’
I know what would’ve helped. A home-cooked roast; proper roasties, cauliflower cheese, stuffing, the lot. Even frozen Yorkshires. I could’ve eaten it in my pyjamas, in silence. My body aches for my bed – my bed – the one where I can hide and be stroppy and only nip downstairs for peanut butter on toast. Maybe even get the peanut butter on toast made for me and brought up on a tray with a glass of fresh orange and a KitKat.
‘I might quit teaching,’ I throw out there.
‘WHY?’ my mum shouts, then remembers herself and hisses. ‘Why?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say. Because I don’t.
Part of me wants as little responsibility as possible – my first step to feeling free from the hell I’m in. I’d mentioned this last night to our Kit and Gareth. At first, they both told me I was going through a process and I told them to go fuck themselves. I asked Kit what he’d do if Gareth died and he said he’d kill himself. Obviously this answer wasn’t very helpful, but it shut them up; and they’re now both supporting my decisions. Whatever they may be.
‘You should go on that X Factor,’ my nan suggests.
Carol returns and the food arrives. We’re all overwhelmed by the size of the battered fish on each plate and my nan says she’ll never eat all that, she could’ve done with half. I wish I hadn’t offered to drive; the gin and tonics look so appealing right now, in ice-cold goldfish bowls on glass sticks. But my phone lights up and Beth has replied.
The Pheasant?! What the hell you doin there? xxx
Mum forced me.
Ah. xxx
My mum tells me to put my phone away and my dad tells her to leave me alone. I’m really enjoying the fish and chips, actually, and squeeze an extra dollop of tartare sauce onto my plate. My dad’s just realised he knows the fella on the next table. They used to work on the taxis years ago, before my dad got his own business. We all say hello to him and his family, ooh and ahh at his grandson in the highchair making a right mess of a bowl of chips. For some reason, my mum thinks she needs to explain the state of me and tells this family I’m usually more chirpy, more well-dressed, but I’m grieving my boyfriend. They’re extremely sympathetic and say God bless. I know this pleases my mum. A lot.
‘I don’t think I look that bad, Mum,’ I say. ‘If anything, I’m just hungover.’
‘Oh, Chloe, don’t be so childish.’
‘It’s the truth. And you can blame our Kit for that.’
‘Where is your Kit?’ Carol asks.
‘Eating pizza in bed with Gareth,’ my nan tells her.
I excuse myself to the loo, but walk past it and out into the beer garden. The tyre swing is still in the play area, although the springy safe floor is a recent addition. I sit down, grateful to be alone, not a single kid in sight. The motorway can’t be seen from here, but I can hear the constant hum of cars not too far away. I swing, gently.
‘I came here to forget about you,’ I whisper. ‘But even the people who never met you can’t stop bringing up your bloody name.’
I stretch my legs forward and back, swinging higher.
‘If you were here, this’d be more fun. Actually, it would be fun.’
If Jack was alive, my mum would never have brought him here. She’d be showing off, insisting we ate out in town with a view of the Liver Birds or right on the waterfront. She wouldn’t be quizzing me about my future because she’d see it so clearly, like a well-constructed PowerPoint presentation. Jack would do most of the talking, which would please my dad. He’s such a good listener, my dad; loves an anecdote, a childhood memory. Jack’s hand would be on my back as he’d confidently spill the beans on his public-school life, his parents, his gap year. My mum would gloat at how posh all that sounded. He’d give excellent eye contact, too: engage directly with my mum, my dad and my nan, never forgetting about me either. My nan would be a bit wary of him, but that’s okay. I’d be concerned if she wasn’t wary about him …
Wait.
Jack never put his hand on my back; that wasn’t one of his things. I don’t think.
I let my toes touch the ground, do a little pitter-patter to bring the swing to a stop.
Oh God.
I can’t remember.
Would Jack have told those stories? Would he be the life and soul around his girlfriend’s family? Honestly, I don’t know. Best qualities don’t always shine around parents, no matter how old you are. I’m a brilliant example of that, turning into a people-pleasing mush around Patricia Carmichael and into a hormonal teenager around my own.
‘Your brother, Freddie …’ I think.
I met him with Jack at a pub on The Strand. Freddie didn’t stay long, he had other plans. Jack was questioning him; who was he meeting, where was he going, did he need to lend any money. I stood there with a glass of house white and ate the entire packet of Scampi Fries that Freddie had opened out onto the bar for us to share. There was no three-way conversation. I’d been disappointed that my introduction wasn’t more specific than, ‘This is Chloe,’ but Jack was anxious. He brushed it off once Freddie left, saying, ‘Just like to look out for him.’
Was Jack anxious around his whole family? Or just his little brother?
How well did I really know my boyfriend? It’s only been – what – seven weeks, and I’m starting to forget. And yet, that car park, right there, reminds me of taxis picking me and Beth up after a Friday night shift, taking us straight into town. We’d get changed in The Pheasant’s loos, slap on metallic eyeshadow and wear anything with a Lipsy label, leaving our uniforms behind in the wholesale condiments cupboard. Crystal-clear memories. I can almost smell the original Jean Paul Gaultier that Beth would drown us in.
‘My shoulder!’ I say.
And I close my eyes, imagine Jack’s fingers stroking my shoulder, lightly. That’s what he did. That’s what he always did. When we watched the telly. In the pub. During pillow talk.
And I’m talking to myself again, thinking of him, imagining him …
STOP.
My sanity is saved by a dad approaching the play area, one little girl holding his hand and a smaller one on his shoulders. I better clear away before I look like the weirdo who hangs around swings. I’m far too old to act the moody adolescent, although my mum’d probably disagree.
When I rejoin my family, they’re in the depths of desserts.
‘I can’t say no to a sticky toffee pudding,’ my dad says, tucking in.
‘This tiramisu tastes nothing like tiramisu,’ my nan says.
The family on the next table have gone, mashed food embossed on the carpet beneath where they’d sat, a dollop of chocolate ice cream melting on a place mat. I’m sure they only had one child with them. Carol and my mum have moved on to cocktails. I had no idea The Pheasant served cocktails, but hey, stranger things have happened.
‘Where’ve you been?’ my mum demands.
‘Sue …’ my dad tries, but she shoots him a look.
‘I hope you didn’t sneak off to pay the bill,’ my nan says. ‘I’m getting this.’
My mum’s hand darts across the table. ‘No, me and Bernie are getting this.’
‘No, Sue. It’s my treat.’
‘But you don’t even like the tiramisu!’
‘Doesn’t mean I’m incapable of paying.’
‘Mother, put your purse away now.’
And so they go on, arguing. A standard occurrence at these occasions.
Although it’s familiar, it belongs to a Chloe Roscoe who I can’t be any more. It’s when I was seven, when I was thirteen, when I was twenty-two, it was just over a year ago when we came to a similar restaurant (one with a carvery still in operation) for what would’ve been my nan’s sixtieth wedding anniversary with my grandad. I want to get involved, tell my mum and my nan to shut up, have a sneaky laugh with my dad. I want them to get a move on so I can go and meet my friends … or phone the boy from school I fancy … or hit the pub … or just get back to my own place and watch the telly with that massive Dairy Milk sat in my fridge. But I’m changed. I don’t want to be. But I am.
Something stronger than a lime and soda in my hand would be much appreciated right now. I check my phone mindlessly, something to do. There’s a notification; a message request.
It’s from Justin.
No. No … I don’t want to remember. I want to peel my skin off.
My dad does a little drum roll on the table with his hands. ‘Who wants another bevvie?’
‘In The Pheasant?’ my nan asks, as if ‘pheasant’ is a swear word.
‘Can we just go home?’ I plead.
Problem is, I don’t even know where home is any more.