By the Time You Read This Page 9

  “See, she loves her big sister, don’t you my sweet little darlin?” Lately, Mom’s voice could switch from “mildly intelligent woman” to “squeaky children’s television presenter” in seconds. I gazed down at the child, complete with counterfeit smile, wondering just how long was appropriate to stand cocooned between a wall and your mother. As a small cry escaped the baby’s mouth, I sensed it was time to hand her back.

  But when the crying continued an hour later, as I attempted to scan the job papers, things became a little clearer for me. And when the crying woke me up at around two a.m. and then again at six, I knew what had to happen around here. So I waited another three hours before lifting my tired body out of the house and went straight into the Job Center, where I located a full-time job, applied and was told I could start right away. As unsuitable as the job was (stacking shelves in a huge superstore during “twilight” hours but paying much more than the daytime wage), it eventually allowed me to gather a deposit and two months’ rent on a two-bedroom apartment with Carla—who’d been itching to move ever since her parents had divorced and her father had moved to Barcelona.

  During my last night at home, I peered into the Sprog’s cot, watching her chest move up and down, her tiny eyes closed to the world around her. By now she was cute(ish), large curls dominating the Winnie pillowcase found in Mothercare as Carla and I shopped for our new home. And not for the first time, I tried so hard to feel “it” this unconditional love Dad had written about in The Manual. This feeling you were supposed to feel toward small babies related to you by way of genetic accident. As always, nothing came. No swishes of love. She was just a kid. Just like I’d been to Granny Bates, Auntie Philomena and Auntie Ina. Being tied to someone by blood didn’t guarantee anything. I gently placed a finger on the Sprog’s forehead. “Goodnight,” I whispered gently, knowing she could be anyone’s kid lying in that cot.

  Anyone’s.

  Carla and I settled into our two-bedroom apartment overlooking a mangy, often noisy old park, home to twice-weekly unauthorized bonfires and a rainbow of graffiti. Still, it was in Greenwich, almost kissing the border of Blackheath. Far enough away from Mom (a short bus ride away) but still close enough to roots planted by my dad. And I needed that familiarity.

  Along with the less than flash scenery, the dreary inside walls of our apartment sometimes reeked of damp, but none of this mattered. Carla and I were two young women armed with the freedom to do what we liked, when we liked. New Jersey—or at least the experience—was still reverberating through my body like aftershocks of an earthquake and I couldn’t wait to replicate my experiences. All change. Time to start handling my own life. Which unfortunately meant managing bills, home cooking and lugging bags of laundry two streets away to the launderette.

  At first I loved living with Carla. But after a while, say, like a WEEK, some of her attributes began to grate on me. For instance, her general laziness in regards to hygiene, an inability to pick up after herself and her constant bitching about my choice of television program. The most exasperating had to be the sound of her and Fred (new, rocker boyfriend) having sex in the room next door while I attempted something resembling sleep after a long overnight shift at the superstore. A pattern I’d hoped had been left at Mom’s, thanks to a screaming baby. Still, every now and then I pinched myself, just to remind me that I was away from the chaos and unwanted family portrait scenes of my previous life, which had to be a good thing.

  Of course, I’d visit Mom’s for some Sunday dinner (often armed with a bag of washing). Aghast at how the once spotless house I grew up in had become increasingly untidy, with toys and diapers strewn about and all to the soundtrack of a crying baby. I’d load the washing machine as Mom or the Bingo Caller cradled the Sprog while whistling the theme tune to Coronation Street (which, apparently, she loved). Then I’d disappear next door to Carla’s mom, returning just in time for the final spin. One Sunday, Carla’s mom was out so I had to stay at Mom’s and sit through the Bingo Caller playing “daddy,” watching his daughter intently as if trying to sink into those tiny little eyeballs, his face lovingly contorted into something I would never again see in my own dad’s eyes. This made me sad.

  “Are you all right, Lois?” asked Mom, making me jump. I pulled out the last of my underwear.

  “Why shouldn’t I be?”

  “You were looking at your sister and—”

  “No I wasn’t!” I snapped. Horrified to feel a tiny stream of water trickle from my left eye, I quickly removed it with my fist.

  “Love, I know we haven’t had a chance to have a chat since you moved out. Or even about America. So much has happened…” said Mom, now at the table, watching me with that same “Do you have something you want to tell me, young lady?” look I hadn’t seen in years.

  “Yes, I know, Mom.”

  “Go on then,” she urged.

  I smiled. “I’ll start with Carla, shall I?”

  “Uh oh. What’s it really like living with your best friend?”

  “She CAN be a bit messy at times.”

  Mom scurried around for the biscuit tin and dipped in with a silent invitation for me to join her. As I hadn’t much planned until evening shift, I sat on the chair opposite, my bum immediately squashing a rubber duck.

  “Your sister, she loves that thing.”

  “Really,” I said dryly.

  “Tell me about America.”

  “That was an age ago, Mom.” A time I replayed in my mind nightly. A time permanently etched into my psyche, my being, my everything. “I can hardly remember much about it.”

  A flicker of my own guilt surfaced as her expression switched to that of expectation. It wouldn’t hurt to tell her something, however small.

  “Okay, if we want to get all dramatic about things, it was the summer I finally came of age, if you like.”

  Mom threw me a look that said, “I’m not sure what you’re on about but because it sounds mildly important I’ll at least try to understand.” So I began. The Empire State Building. The bratty children. Erin. Greg (censored, obviously). The director’s knobbly knees. Learning to survive on my own. The s’mores. The housekeeping. The lovely weather. The brown bear droppings outside my dorm window. Dancing around a campfire.

  “It sounds lovely.”

  “It was.”

  “Did you meet a young man?”

  “No,” I said quickly. Mom narrowed her eyes in mock disbelief and I burst into uncontrolled fits of giggles. I felt myself relax as the powerful but steadied patter of tiny feet entered the kitchen.

  “Ohmigosh!” screamed Mom, standing abruptly as her biscuit toppled to the ground. The Sprog teetered forward and then backward like a malfunctioning Duracell bunny, finally landing bum first onto the feet of the Bingo Caller (who’d suddenly appeared from nowhere).

  “My baby just walked! Ohmigosh, I can’t believe it!” she screamed again, flapping around like a chicken on E.

  “Get the camera!” she shrieked.

  “She’d done the odd step a minute ago, love. So I brought her in to show Mommy!” sang the Bingo Caller. I smiled obligingly as the Sprog flatly refused to perform any more, judging by the sudden downward turn of her lips and scrunched forehead.

  “Come on, Flower!” said her father, blowing a huge raspberry into her stomach and whisking her into the air, much to Mom’s horror AND delight.

  The Sprog struggled in her father’s arms.

  “I can’t believe it!” reiterated Mom, trembling hand to her mouth.

  “That’s my girl!” added the Bingo Caller.

  “Say hello to your big sister Lois,” said Mom, calming down slightly.

  “Hi there…” I offered uncomfortably. She gazed toward me blankly, before burying a head of curls into her father’s chest.

  “She’s just shy around you, that’s all. Needs to get to know her big sister, don’t you Pooky Poo?” The sight of my mother ruffling the Sprog’s hair was enough to make me heave and leave.

  �
��I’d better be off, Mom. Leave you…guys to it.”

  “Why not stay for dinner? She might do a few more steps!” said Mom hopefully.

  “I’ve loads to do. Maybe next week?”

  Once outside, I was able to breathe evenly as I spotted Carla’s mom walking through her front door. Three-inch red heels and a skirt to match.

  “Hiya!” I sang.

  “Great to see you, darlin.” My own girl seems to have forgotten where I live. Come on in!” she beckoned.

  Inside, she attempted to fix her already neat hair. “I’ll get us both a stiff drink and you can meet Calvin!” she enthused. How sweet, I thought, a dog for company.

  “Nothing too strong for me,” I said.

  She placed the drinks onto the coffee table. Three drinks.

  “Calvin!” she called, just as one of the best-looking, tallest men I had ever had the good fortune to rest my eyes on strutted into the living room dressed in tracksuit bottoms, a white T-shirt clinging to an abundance of hard body. Admittedly, it took a while for my jaw to ascend into its rightful place.

  “Lois, this is Calvin.”

  “Hello.”

  “Hi.” He extended a large hand with neat nails.

  “My boyfriend.”

  Did I mention he had to be about my age?

  “Nice to meet you…erm…Calvin…” I stuttered. His hand felt cold to the touch, but as we shook, his eyes remained transfixed on Carla’s mom.

  She smiled shyly. “We met at the gym.”

  Thankfully, my look of surprise was taken the wrong way. “Hey, at my age it isn’t easy staying this trim!”

  Calvin turned to her. “You don’t need much help, babe. You’re perfect.”

  “Thank you, darlin,” she responded with a wink, as something told me that new drug Viagra wouldn’t be needed any time soon.

  Over a few glasses of fizzy wine, Corey was mentioned—due back for a holiday next week and flourishing in France—along with a brief innuendo about how much he’d love to see me. But after about thirty minutes of gate-crashing this two-person orgy, a hasty maneuver toward the door was imminent, and I was sure I could hear the pinging of a bra strap as soon as the door shut behind me.

  My little girl’s twenty-one.

  Twenty-one!

  I can’t quite believe it. Also, it feels so strange because, well, I’m only thirty, so to have a daughter of your age feels quite overwhelming. I often wonder what you look like now. Long or short hair? Would you like soccer or prefer tennis? Back in a minute, sweetie, just need a second.

  Sorry about that. Just went and had a manly…soak of the handkerchief. I think I got a bit emotional there. Now where was I?

  Yes.

  Believe the hype. Twenty-one is a definite coming-of-age thing. It finally seems acceptable—at least by society’s standards—to leave childhood behind (but you try telling that to me and Charlie. I think we remained twenty-one—at least I did, right up until I said “I do” to your mom. But, from what I’ve seen, men take a lot longer to mature than women anyway). Anyway, enough of the boring stuff, you go out and have a drink, party all night, be young, but at the same time don’t forget to put on your sensible hat ready for Monday morning…

  Happy twenty-first birthday, my love.

  Actually, my twenty-first birthday was spent at Mom’s, watching her coo over the Sprog as she attempted to dish up a collapsed birthday cake in the shape of the number twenty-one. Carla’s mom, Calvin and Carla popped round, but mainly, it seemed, to also coo at the Sprog. I was surprised but pleased with the arrival of a card from Carla’s dad, via Spain, but shocked (and pleased) when Carla arrived with a huge bunch of flowers and a tiny pink message that simply read: “Happy Birthday Lo Bag x.”

  “All I got was a crummy key thing for my twenty-first. He obviously lurrrves you!” she mocked as I feigned indifference while the inside of my tummy did back flips. I guess I really didn’t have time to process Corey’s gift, because just as I was making to leave Mom’s, Auntie Philomena showed up, again totally unexpectedly, just as she had at Mom’s wedding nine years ago.

  The years had been kind to her, but perhaps the Caribbean sun had more to do with that than anything else, as she had moved to Carriacou with her family almost two years ago.

  “Happy birthday, Lois!” she said as we embraced. She handed Mom a package as we congregated in the kitchen. “Nutmeg bread,” she said.

  Mom smiled a stiff thanks. “I’ll make some tea, shall I?”

  “Thanks, Auntie Philomena. But you could have sent the bread and card through the post!” Wouldn’t be the first time, I thought.

  “Haven’t been much of an auntie, have I? It was important I did this.”

  Mom cleared her throat (in sarcasm, I think) as she busied herself with the cups.

  “I owed it to Kevin to come and see you on your twenty-first.”

  To hear my dad actually mentioned by anyone was a shock. It was as if, for a few short seconds, he was alive. Perhaps sitting in a café in Catford or something.

  “Have you seen Gran?” I asked, remembering the last time I’d spoken to Granny Bates. A strained phone conversation.

  “Yes, I stayed with Mom for a couple of days. You are my last stop before going back home.”

  Mom placed two cups of tea on the table. “I’ll leave you two alone…go and see to Abbi.”

  I suspected Auntie Philomena would be okay with this.

  “So, Lois, it’s your birthday. Twenty-one. So, first off…happy birthday!”

  “Thank you,” I replied. No hugs or stuff—because it wasn’t like that between us. However, Dad had loved her, even trusted her to give me The Manual, and this knowledge was enough for me.

  Her smile straightened. “I have something for you, Lois.”

  I held my breath, remembering the last time she’d said that to me.

  “A twenty-first birthday present.”

  She reached into her bag and retrieved a tiny package wrapped in colorful paper.

  “Open it up then,” she said, surprisingly more excited than I was. I unwrapped the package carefully as bits of color soiled my fingers. The paper seemed old. “What is it?” she asked impatiently. Inside, was an oblong-shaped camera.

  “Kodak Tele Ektra,” I read from the side. I opened it up.

  “A camera. That’s nice,” said Auntie Philomena, shaking her head slowly and smiling. It was then, I knew.

  “Is it from…?”

  “Kevin, yes. Made me promise to give it to you on your twenty-first.”

  My heart rate accelerated. “He never mentioned it in The Manual.” I thought back to the way I’d carelessly unwrapped the paper. My dad had wrapped this with his bare hands, and if I’d known I’d have unfurled it in private. Savoring every moment. Searching the two strips of film for any signs of my dad: stray hair, the smell of his favorite aftershave, any trace of DNA I could find to link us together.

  Having Auntie Philomena round on my birthday was great. Receiving the camera, wonderful. But finding a ream of 110 film still inside was a breathtaking, scary and absolutely, without a doubt, exciting surprise.

  Of course, I rushed to the drug store and paid extra to get the film developed that day. I stood outside the drug store a few hours later and opened up the rectangular package. Twelve snaps. Five of me as a young child, in dresses I could barely remember. Hair in tiny, fluffy pigtails. Sitting on the floor, twirling like a ballerina, standing by the bathroom sink. Some of the furniture I recognized as still in Mom’s house today but unfortunately now occupied mostly by people my dad wouldn’t even recognize.

  But it was the remaining seven pictures that would render me catatonic for hours. Eyes almost stapled to a set of prints taken just months before my daddy died.

  Me sitting on my dad’s knee, cupping his face with my little hands. Me, Mom and Dad sitting on the settee. Mom pretending to look annoyed as Dad and I giggled at something I have no way of remembering. Other pictures in similar guises, but,
basically, Dad and me together. However, it was the last picture on the film that finally made me cry: it was of Dad, only half his face visible, the remainder obscured by a thumb. My thumb. I could tell by the amused yet forgiving look on his face. His little daughter attempting to take a picture, not knowing it would be the last one she’d ever take of him.

  I cried. I cried. I cried.

  I placed the picture of me and my dad under my pillow and kissed it before I went to sleep. Like The Manual, I found a way for the camera and the pictures to fit neatly into my life, finally framing the distorted picture of Dad and placing it on my television, pride of place where I could glimpse it every day. Ready to share that moment with the world. Of course Carla did question its artistic credibility, especially as there were a lot more clearer shots of Dad. But in all honesty I didn’t care what anyone thought—I knew what that photo represented to me.

  I returned home from another night shift at work to find Carla sprawled on the floor of our apartment, eating a bag of chips on the carpet, face transfixed by the television. Dad’s incomplete photo intact.

  “What are you watching?” I asked with zero interest.

  “I taped that show Sex and the City last night. It’s so dirty and it’s great. Wanna chip?”

  “No thanks, it’s eight o’clock in the morning!” I replied, the vinegary aroma colliding happily with my taste buds.

  “I was out with Fred all last night at a gig. I just got in an hour ago myself. Don’t feel like sleeping yet.”

  I moved into the kitchen as her voice followed.

  “I’ve got some news, Lois! I’ll tell you after the show,” sang Carla.

  The sink was full of dishes and I wondered what she did all day to warrant such mess and why she never felt the urge to just…clean up? I sighed heavily as I hunched over the sink.

  “You don’t have to worry any more,” said Carla, emptying the contents of her plate into the bin. A solitary chip traveled down the side of the bin and onto the floor and I waited to see if she’d pick it up.