Part II : Chapter 8
Two Years Later...
Dad left me. Left us.
Two years later and I still had not received any news or word of him at all. Nothing.
I was going to be in Year Nine tomorrow – today was the last day of the summer holidays – and Dad still wasn't back. I remembered the time he promised that he'd never leave me – that he could never stay away for long. Well, I knew it sounded crazy, but I was still desperately clinging onto that promise for dear life, clutching it with both hands, because I needed hope, and I needed somehow to believe that he would be back. He will be back, I thought. Sometimes I acted like a complete lunatic, opening my diary and scribbling in my unruly handwriting over the many untouched pages, "He'll be back he'll be back he'll be back", until the letters go over each other so the words change, reading something like, "Hell black."
True. Hell is black. I knew.
Of course the last time I saw him was fading as fast as the memory of raindrops after a summer storm. I frantically tried to memorize his face from old photos, tracing his smile lines with my fingers and trying to compress my emotions. I wished that I knew him. I wish he knew me.
And so many times I’ve seen him in the street. Or thought I saw him. A counterfeit father, walking along in a buzzing crowd or a quiet street. Or along Drayton Road, making the wind chimes whistle. It was always a pathetic sham.
Mum...Mum was still lost to me, in more ways than one. She was meant to have improved her motor skills in the convalescent ward but she was still very weak. I suppose she had improved slightly – she could brush her teeth and hair, but needed help in the bathroom. She could not dress herself, cook or clean or reach for things in cupboards, remember when to take her medicine, and many other things. I know I could never have dealt with all these things by myself, and what would have happened if I’d gone to school and left Mum? Luckily, this was one question I didn’t have to answer.
Dad had obviously planned his runner early, as the first day after he’d left, Miss Alcock appeared on our doorstep. He’d arranged for a support worker from the district nurse office to come and stay with us to look after Mum, to act as both a housekeeper and carer. Dad hadn't really paid attention to suitability, however, and had probably employed the first person available that he could get hold of. She was middle-aged, bad-tempered and lazy, had hair sprouting out of a large purple spot on her chin.
She disliked me, and I hated her. She took up Dad's armchair all weekend, sprawled across it with the remote control in one hand, flipping from channel to channel. She slept in the converted study, right next to my room, and snored and belched the whole night long. She was nevertheless experienced.
She would know what do if Mum's condition worsened or if there was a medical emergency. Dad must have been sending her money or had already paid her in advance, because I'd certainly never given her salary the whole two years she'd been staying here and she hadn't complained. In a way, she was a blessing in disguise, though I didn’t notice it then. I was too bitter and self-absorbed to appreciate Miss Alcock anymore than I appreciated Kirsty’s taunts.
Then there was Kirsty. During Year 8, all the teasing continued. I remembered the day when she came up to me and said, "You know something, Amelia? You really, really stink."
"Bet she hasn't washed in ages," said Eileen, and there were snorts heard from different areas of the corridor. "Nah, don't laugh at Amelia," said Kirsty. "She don't have time to wash, ennit? She looks after her Mum, dressing her, brushing her teeth...taking her to the loo!"
"That’s sick!" said another Mini-K. I think it was Rhiannon, but I tried to block these things out.
"Hey Amelia," said Lucy. "We heard your best friend is some loopy old woman with issues."
"Yeah, but they'd suit each other, wouldn't they?" sniggered Martine.
I was as sensitive as ever, and could feel the tears stinging my eyeballs. I was well used to them putting me down, but they couldn’t ridicule Mrs Brown.
“Shut up about Mrs Brown,” I muttered.
“What was that, Melie-Sweet?” shot out Kirsty, a cruel smile playing on her lips, daring me to go further.
“Shut up…about…Mrs Brown,” I repeated, a bit louder, and slower, as if she was an idiot. Kirsty leant in towards me, and her voice became low and threatening. “Did you just tell me to shut up, Harper?”
I just turned round and walked away. What was the point? I was never going to win.
I went to check the oven, to check the fairy cakes I’d made for Mrs Brown. I'd visited her a few times when I was still in Year 7, though in Year Eight we didn't speak much, and she practically spent her life at the hospital that year, visiting Mr Brown.
The fairy cakes were ready, burnt slightly at the edge. Once I'd taken them out of the oven, I spread buttercream over the tops and arranged tiny fairy wings - made from sponge - with strawberry slices, perching them in the buttercream topping. I lined them up in a tray and pinched a leftover strawberry for myself. Then, I went to Mum's bedroom and said, "Mum, I'm going to Mrs Brown's house to take her these. Would you like one?" She said nothing, looking blank and tired. I put a fairy cake in her lap and went into the living-room.
"Mrs Alcock?" I said. There was a grunt from a nearby armchair and she straightened up slightly from her slouching position, her head popping up over the top.
"I need to dash out, be back in a few minutes," I said. "Is it time for Mum's medicine yet?" "In a few minutes. I'll deal with it. There's some lasagne from Tesco's in the microwave oven for lunch, it'll be warmed up once you're back."
I kicked the door open with my foot and gingerly carried the tray down several flights of stairs till I came to the bottom. Then, I knocked on Mrs Brown's door. She came to it after about five minutes, and tutted. "What are you doing here then, disturbing the peace?" She sighed. "Well, well, you'd better come in."
I turned very red indeed. "Oh, no, Mrs Brown. Um...I came to take you these," and I held out the tray bashfully, feeling very silly.
"What are these for?" she asked, looking slightly fazed. Well, we hadn't talked to each other for ages since Year Seven, we were just on nodding terms. It had been a silly idea to come knocking at her door giving her cakes. What had I been thinking of?
“Well, I just baked these, and, uh, I thought...you might like some?"
"Oh," she said, and didn't say a word for a moment. I was starting to slowly back away, when she said, "Well, you'd better come into the kitchen then."
It was the same size as ours, though a lot, lot neater. There were polished pine units, just the sort Mum would have loved to have, and a small round coffee-coloured table in the middle. Mrs Brown sat down on one of the wooden chairs at each side of it.
"Well," she said, in a sort of surrendering voice, "I suppose you'll be clamouring for tea then. Humph!"
"Oh, would you like some tea, Mrs Brown?" I said, with this great ape grin pasted on my face. "I'll get it for you."
"Humph!" she repeated, but I could tell she wasn't cross. "The sugar pot and tea's on the shelf, milk in the fridge. The kettle's in the corner there," - at this point I put it on to boil -,"Cups and saucers in that oak cupboard over the counter."
I opened it and she eyed me suspiciously. "Don't you be taking any of my good china sets. China is for guests. Get out one of the mugs – not the fancy ones, mind, and..." Her voice carried on, and I blurred her out of my head for a second. I got the feeling she was really bitter inside. I knew this was her way of being nice, but what was she hiding? Whatever was the matter? I'd got a bit peeved with her grumpiness. If not a guest, what was I? An unidentified flying object? My frustrated thoughts carried on until I breathed in sharply.
My eyes had just come across a beautiful pair of quaint, old-fashioned kid gloves, pale and smooth, with lace sweeping lightly round the wrists. They were gently laid across a small silk fan, slightly opened, the frail handle made of glowing rosewood. The fan was not patterned, but was covered in airy swirls of indigo-blue, silver and green. They both had such an untouched, lonely feel about them that tears came to my eyes. Suddenly I knew that I was not going to give up on Mrs Brown, no matter what, because of the little melancholy, abandoned gloves and fan sitting at the back of the cupboard.
