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‘Will the pair of you…?’ Mum raises her arms and bangs them down on the chair.
‘Mum, I’m not here to argue,’ Sonya says. ‘If you can have the kids one more night…?’
I pull myself out of the sleeping bag, Sonya screwing her nose at my crumpled combats and T shirt. Give her the finger as I stumble to the kitchen.
I clear a space among the toast crumbs and piles of bills. Grab an old saucer for an ashtray and light up. Sun pouring through the French windows. Shut my eyes against the brightness. Green shapes of the diamond windowpanes dancing. Flash of an image of Ken zipped up in the black bag over the stretcher when they came to take him to the morgue. Standing him on end to get him out of the door. Think of him lying on a cold slab on his own.
I lean my head on my hand, feel the sun hot on my hair. I want to be left alone, or maybe just with Mum. Zero chance of that.
I raise my head to flick my ash. Things could have been a right lot worse. Like being brought up by Ken with his nasty proper kids as siblings. Will they turn up now, have a sniff around, organise a funeral or something? Can’t even think about it. Just want to be back fixing Ken whisky ice cubes while he mithers at me.
Jump as my phone beeps. Reach into my bag and open the text.
Hi Jez, so sorry to hear Ken passed last night. Hope you OK, I been to house but you not there. Ken give me letter for you. Can we meet up? God Bless, Sandy x
I stub out my fag, walk over and open the French windows as Mum comes in. I lean against the frame, the air soft and warm on my face. She puts her hand on my arm.
‘Why don’t you go and lie down. Sonya’s gone and I thought I’d take the kids to the park. We can have a good chat later.’
‘I’ve got to go out now.’
‘But you need to rest.’ Her face close up looks totally shagged. All under-eye bags and deep frown lines.
‘You’re one to talk,’ I can’t help laughing. ‘When did you ever rest?’
‘I’m used to it. And I haven’t been through what you have.’
‘I have to sort stuff out at Ken’s before the Council come to clear it.’
‘Can’t that wait a couple of days? I could help you while Joey’s at school.’
She steps down into the garden. Sits on the old bench that Martin and I rescued from a skip years ago. Pats the seat beside her.
‘Let me get my fags.’
I go back to the table and look at my phone. If I leave in fifteen, I’ll be in Accrington for elevenish. I send a quick text to Sandy and go back out to Mum.
‘I’ll go after I’ve had this,’ I say, lighting a cigarette.
Mum sighs. ‘Martin’s up from Birmingham this week. You could pop and see him, perhaps.’
Am I tempted by a ride out on Martin’s bike? Not right now. ‘Maybe later.’ I shrug.
‘Hasn’t Ken got his own kids?’
‘Yes,’ I glare at her. ‘He called them the proper kids.’
Mum drops her head, reaches out as I pull away.
‘I’m not a proper kid? Never was, was I?’ I take a deep drag and exhale it fast.
‘You’re upset, love. But you must know you were always a proper kid to us?’ Mum says slowly, leaning forward to grab my hand. I tense against her touch. ‘In some ways you were never a child at all,’ she adds.
‘Maybe I didn’t get a chance?’ I catch the sulk in my voice.
She strokes between my knuckles. Her fingers dry and rough, raised veins and liver spots on the back of her hands.
‘Of all the children I’ve fostered, and my own, which includes you, of course, you were the one to bring yourself up.’
