over, that I was never likely to see him again. I knew he had our Honeysuckle Cottage address and I began to suspect that Mum had intercepted a present from him – I even scrabbled frenziedly through all the bins one day. But when I thought about it rationally I knew Mum couldn’t be hiding anything from me – the postman didn’t usually come until long after she’d left for work. The truth was that Dad hadn’t called me when I came out of hospital, so why should he get in contact just because I was turning sixteen? It was clear that as payback for taking Mum’s side and choosing to live with her and not him, he’d consigned me to the rubbish bin, that he’d choked off all the affection he used to lavish on me like turning off a tap.
My birthday, April the eleventh, fell on a Tuesday that year. The night before, Mum rang around six to say she’d be home late – she’d been caught by Blakely, who’d asked her to see a client who could only come in after normal hours ( you’re such a soft touch, Elizabeth! ).
I’d finished my homework early and had been drawing at the dining-room table, but instead of going back to it I decided to make myself useful and prepare dinner. I still hated lighting the gas after what had happened to me at school, but if I kept it down low I sometimes managed not to scream when I put the match to the burner. I cooked a spaghetti bolognese, which turned out really well and was just about ready to serve up when Mum put her key in the door.
‘What’s all this?’ She smiled as she came into the kitchen. ‘I thought it was your birthday tomorrow, not mine.’ She kissed me and her nose was cold on my warm cheek.
‘You’re freezing,’ I said, putting my hand up to the cold spot on my face.
‘Yes, it’s turning cold out there. It’s starting to rain.’
I put on La Bohème while Mum got changed, set two places at the kitchen table, and lit some scented candles. I opened a bottle of red wine and poured out two glasses, then recorked the bottle and put it back in the rack in the pantry. I’d learned my lesson after the first time – one glass was quite enough.
Mum came down in her tracksuit bottoms and her comfiest polo neck jumper just as I finished dishing up. We toasted my ‘nearly birthday’ and tucked in. We played our usual game of highs and lows. Mum had won a case against a local bus company that she’d never expected to win; Blakely had shouted at her in front of Brenda and Sally because she’d brought the wrong file to him at the magistrates’ court that morning (Mum said she’d brought the file he’d asked for ). I’d struggled with the equations Mrs Harris had set me that afternoon, only getting three out of ten right; I’d taken down our book on Goya and copied one of his pictures called The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters , and although I’d made the legs of the man who’d fallen asleep at his desk a little too short, I was really happy with the owls and bats and cats, the monsters , that were creeping menacingly up on him.
During the meal, I became aware of Mum’s gaze lingering on my face.
‘What?’ I asked. Since my face had been scarred, I’d become sensitive to being looked at too closely.
‘Nothing,’ she replied dreamily. ‘I just can’t believe that my little girl is going to be sixteen tomorrow. Sixteen! It seems like only yesterday that I was breastfeeding you.’
‘Please, Mum, I’m eating !’
‘The time goes by so quickly.’ She sighed, slowly shaking her head. ‘You always had a good appetite, you never said no to the breast.’
‘Mum, you’re not going to go off down memory lane again, are you?’
‘No, no, not if it embarrasses you – I promise I won’t go down mammary lane . . .’
I was in the middle of swallowing a mouthful of wine, and nearly choked laughing. When I’d recovered, she still had that dreamy look in her eye.
‘We’ll have a proper celebration tomorrow, Shelley. We’ll go out somewhere
My birthday, April the eleventh, fell on a Tuesday that year. The night before, Mum rang around six to say she’d be home late – she’d been caught by Blakely, who’d asked her to see a client who could only come in after normal hours ( you’re such a soft touch, Elizabeth! ).
I’d finished my homework early and had been drawing at the dining-room table, but instead of going back to it I decided to make myself useful and prepare dinner. I still hated lighting the gas after what had happened to me at school, but if I kept it down low I sometimes managed not to scream when I put the match to the burner. I cooked a spaghetti bolognese, which turned out really well and was just about ready to serve up when Mum put her key in the door.
‘What’s all this?’ She smiled as she came into the kitchen. ‘I thought it was your birthday tomorrow, not mine.’ She kissed me and her nose was cold on my warm cheek.
‘You’re freezing,’ I said, putting my hand up to the cold spot on my face.
‘Yes, it’s turning cold out there. It’s starting to rain.’
I put on La Bohème while Mum got changed, set two places at the kitchen table, and lit some scented candles. I opened a bottle of red wine and poured out two glasses, then recorked the bottle and put it back in the rack in the pantry. I’d learned my lesson after the first time – one glass was quite enough.
Mum came down in her tracksuit bottoms and her comfiest polo neck jumper just as I finished dishing up. We toasted my ‘nearly birthday’ and tucked in. We played our usual game of highs and lows. Mum had won a case against a local bus company that she’d never expected to win; Blakely had shouted at her in front of Brenda and Sally because she’d brought the wrong file to him at the magistrates’ court that morning (Mum said she’d brought the file he’d asked for ). I’d struggled with the equations Mrs Harris had set me that afternoon, only getting three out of ten right; I’d taken down our book on Goya and copied one of his pictures called The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters , and although I’d made the legs of the man who’d fallen asleep at his desk a little too short, I was really happy with the owls and bats and cats, the monsters , that were creeping menacingly up on him.
During the meal, I became aware of Mum’s gaze lingering on my face.
‘What?’ I asked. Since my face had been scarred, I’d become sensitive to being looked at too closely.
‘Nothing,’ she replied dreamily. ‘I just can’t believe that my little girl is going to be sixteen tomorrow. Sixteen! It seems like only yesterday that I was breastfeeding you.’
‘Please, Mum, I’m eating !’
‘The time goes by so quickly.’ She sighed, slowly shaking her head. ‘You always had a good appetite, you never said no to the breast.’
‘Mum, you’re not going to go off down memory lane again, are you?’
‘No, no, not if it embarrasses you – I promise I won’t go down mammary lane . . .’
I was in the middle of swallowing a mouthful of wine, and nearly choked laughing. When I’d recovered, she still had that dreamy look in her eye.
‘We’ll have a proper celebration tomorrow, Shelley. We’ll go out somewhere
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