Фиона Гибсон – The Mum Who’d Had Enough: A laugh out loud romantic comedy perfect for fans of Why Mummy Drinks (страница 15)

Mindful, too, of Sinead’s YOUR MOTHER!!! point, I also decided to tell Mum precisely what had happened as soon as she arrived, rather than staggering through some terrible, ‘Oh, Sinead’s just popped out’ kind of charade.

‘I have to say, you seem remarkably … calm,’ she acknowledges now.

‘Well, I can’t just fall to pieces,’ I say, as if I have been the epitome of composure since my wife left me.

‘This must be terribly tough for you, though. Humiliating, too …’ Mum perches on a kitchen chair, and I hand her a coffee. Sunshine streams in through the newly-cleaned kitchen window on this bright Sunday morning.

‘Hmmm,’ I reply non-committally.

She sips her coffee. ‘This is very milky, Nate.’

Yes, because I have sloshed in extra cold milk so it’s drinkable right away. ‘Is it? I’ll make you another …’

‘No, no, it’s fine.’ Her mouth curls into a frown, and I am aware of her gaze following me as I potter about the kitchen. ‘So, where is she then?’

‘Just staying at a friend’s for the moment.’

Mum sniffs. ‘So, she thinks that’s okay? To just leave Flynn, at this crucial stage—’

‘Please stop this,’ I cut in. ‘That’s not what this is about …’

‘Well, what am I supposed to say?’ she asks.

‘You’re not supposed to say anything, actually.’

‘But I think I’m entitled, when it affects my grandchild …’

‘Mum, Flynn’s fine,’ I say firmly. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t go into all the details about this now. I’m only just trying to figure out things for myself.’ I inhale deeply and lean against the fridge.

‘Is there someone else?’ she asks, arching a brow.

‘No, of course not.’ I stare at her, aghast.

A wash of sanctimoniousness settles over her face. ‘I don’t mean with you. God knows, Nate, with that job of yours and everything else you have on your plate, I can’t imagine you’d have the time …’

‘Mum, please—’

‘I’m only trying to help,’ she points out, as if she’s the one who’s been wronged. She pushes back her chair with a loud scrape, and makes a great show of searching around the kitchen for Bella’s feeding bowl, lead and plastic poo bag dispenser, sighing in irritation that I haven’t had everything packed and ready in her oilskin bag.

‘Okay, if you don’t want to talk about it,’ she remarks coolly. ‘So, any idea where Bella’s pigs’ ears might be?’

Ah, those gnarly treats – ‘They’re actual ears of pig!’ Flynn once announced with fascination – that Sinead always hides away at the bottom of our veg rack. I unearth the packet and hand them to Mum. ‘Here you go.’

‘Thank you.’ She packs them into the bag and makes a point of wiping out Bella’s bowl with a piece of kitchen roll. ‘So, where do you and Sinead go from here, if you don’t mind me asking?’

‘I really have no idea,’ I reply, even keener for her to leave, now that she’s raised the possibility of my wife seeing someone else. Could she have met someone? I’m wondering now. Have I been an idiot to not even consider that this is the real reason, as opposed to my apparent incompetence with a spirit level and drill?

Flynn appears in the doorway, rubbing at his face. ‘Hey, Grandma,’ he drawls with a bleary smile.

‘Oh, Flynn,’ she exclaims, instantly adopting a ‘darling baby, abandoned by his mother!’ voice. ‘How are you, love?’

‘I’m okay.’ He hugs her briefly before grabbing a loaf from the bread bin and shoving a slice into his mouth.

Mum peers at him and scowls in concern. ‘Couldn’t you toast that, darling?’ she suggests.

‘Nah, s’okay …’ He shrugs.

‘Or at least put butter or jam on it?’ I ask, trying to lighten the mood.

He grimaces at me. ‘Thanks, Dad. I’m aware of the options regarding toppings, but it’s fine.’ He crams another slice into his mouth, fills a half-pint glass to the brim with milk and takes a hearty swig.

‘Well, Flynn, Bella and I are off now,’ Mum announces.

‘Okay. See you soon, Grandma.’ He gives her a brief kiss on the cheek.

We leave him alternating between chomping on bread and swigging milk as I carry out Bella’s basket and see Mum to her car.

She frowns at me as Bella jumps obligingly into the boot. ‘Oh, Nate. That poor, poor boy, with a broken home now …’

‘He’s all right, Mum. Really …’

‘He didn’t look all right, stuffing dry bread into his mouth!’

Despite everything, I can’t help laughing. ‘That’s not because of Sinead leaving.’

‘How can you be so sure?’ She bangs the boot shut.

‘Because,’ I say, in an overly patient voice, ‘he has dry bread all the time. It’s not a broken-home thing – it’s a teenage thing. Toasting or buttering it is just too much effort—’

‘That’s because of his condition—’

‘No, it’s not,’ I exclaim. ‘You know Flynn, what he’s capable of. Of course he can make toast. He can cook an entire dinner, actually. Peel spuds, roast a chicken, make one of those terrible microwave cakes—’

‘If you say so …’

Christ, is she always as maddening as this? Probably, I decide as she climbs into her car. Until now, I’ve allowed her to breeze in and say pretty much whatever she likes without challenging her. On and on she went, about Sinead’s non-existent massage, and all I said in her defence was, ‘A massage isn’t that big a deal’, effectively putting my mother’s feelings before my wife’s. It wasn’t just that, either. There was the, ‘Your turkey’s always quite dry, isn’t it?’ comment last Christmas, when Sinead had been up at 6 a.m. to cram the damned bird into the oven, and then that remark about the shimmery red dress my wife chose – and looked sensational in – for Flynn’s solo guitar performance at the school concert. ‘It looks quite nice,’ Mum had remarked tersely, ‘from the back.’ Years and years of spiky comments, which Sinead has remarked upon now and again, only for me to try and placate her with an, Oh, you know what Mum’s like …

She winds down her driver’s side window and peers at me. ‘Well, you take care, Nate.’

‘Thanks, Mum. You too.’

She pauses, her lips set in a thin line, her hands gripping the steering wheel unnecessarily, seeing as she hasn’t even turned on the engine yet. And then out it comes: ‘You know, I don’t think Sinead has ever appreciated all you’ve done for this family.’

I gawp at her, unable to respond for a moment.

‘All those years,’ she continues, ‘not having to go out to work while you gave up your career in music—’

‘Career in music?’ I retort. ‘It was just a few crappy bands …’

‘… and went through that gruelling driving examiner training, just to ensure she had the lifestyle she wanted …’

‘Mum!’ I snap. ‘What on earth are you talking about? What “lifestyle”?’

She blinks at me, clearly startled by my response. ‘Well, Sinead’s never wanted for anything, as far as I can see.’

I look at my mother, fury rising in my chest now, but knowing there’s no point in explaining that Sinead buys most of her clothes from charity shops, drives a car that’s on its last legs and probably has her hair done around twice a year. There’s no point, because Mum would never listen. ‘I won’t have you running her down,’ is all I say, taken aback by the calm but firm voice that seems to be coming out of my mouth.

Mum’s eyes widen. ‘I’m only saying—’

‘Well, just don’t, okay? I mean that, Mum. That’s my wife you’re talking about. I know we’ve separated, but I won’t have it, all right? And I don’t want to hear anything like that again—’

‘Joe never speaks to me like this!’

Ah: the spectre of my perfect younger brother rears its head. We stare at each other, invisible horns locked. ‘No, well, you don’t have a go at his wife, do you?’

‘No, because Lorraine would never walk out on their kids …’

‘Stop this, Mum. Stop it right now—’

‘Stop what? I haven’t done anything!’ She looks aghast, then clamps her mouth shut and closes the window. With just a quick backwards glance towards Bella, who is sitting demurely in the rear – and who we look after every time Mum goes away – she switches on the engine.

There’s no goodbye, and no wave; just a jutted-out chin and her cool gaze fixed determinedly ahead. But I know she’s rattled as she pulls away, as her failure to mirror-signal-manoeuvre correctly causes an oncoming taxi driver to toot at her. Guilt snags at me as she gestures angrily, then disappears from sight.

*

Despite his Victorian-street-urchin diet, Flynn does seem okay as the day progresses. Max and Luke come over, and they all hang out in the living room, chatting away and playing guitars. Understanding that I am required to keep out of their way, I tackle the laundry, then head out to the back garden to mow the lawn and gouge out weeds from between the patio paving stones. Whilst not exactly joy-making, these tasks at least prove useful in stopping me pacing about, obsessively trying to work out who Sinead’s new boyfriend might be, not that I think for one second that she is sleeping with someone else. But then, even if she isn’t yet, at some point in the future she will be, unless I can make myself truly worthy of her.

As I empty the mower’s grass container, a particularly unsettling image forms in my brain: of some dashing bloke – Hugh Grant at his peak – sauntering into the gift shop and being overwhelmed by the confusing array of candles on offer. Gosh, he really can’t decide! He glances over at the woman sitting at the till, registers her gorgeousness and falls instantly in love.