Read Online September Starlings by Ruth Hamilton - Free Book Online Page B

the last of his small powers, the final shreds of his ragged dignity. He never went abroad again, seldom groomed himself, needed to be prompted to eat, tosleep, to put on the right clothes. He needed to be taught how to pretend to be alive.
    The phone rings, startles me. Like a frightened rabbit, I am bolt upright, listening to the instrument’s shrill cry. There’s an extra edge to it, an urgency. It’s my mother. Even from the bottom of the garden, or from the shore, I imagine that I can identify my mother’s demanding ring.
    ‘Laura?’ Annoyed, lively. God help me. Ben just sleeps on, has reached a place where she can no longer find him.
    ‘Hello, Mother.’
    A sniff, deep and meaningful. An iciness seems to travel along the wire and into my hand. Sometimes, my imagination plays tricks with me. ‘You’ve not been to see me,’ she whines. ‘It’s Monday and you’ve not been.’ She would have made a fabulous diva had she been able to sing.
    I will be patient. ‘I told you last week. It’s a holiday, so I’m keeping Ben for a bit longer.’
    ‘What for? What bloody good will that be to him? He’s only tenpence in the bob, so it doesn’t matter where he is.’ The Bolton accent is stronger of late, as if she needs to be markedly different while living here among the Scousers. When I was a child, she was sometimes – not always – quite the lady. ‘Oh, my husband has a chemist’s shop on Blackburn Road, he’s a qualified dispenser, you know.’ And she deteriorated even further, became a total embarrassment when he made his fortune in McNally’s Cooling Tea. ‘He’s a genius, my husband, on a par with Einstein for brains.’ All her life, she’s been trying to prove something. To me, to my poor old dad, to anyone else who stood still long enough to be judged a captive audience. She certainly never told her husband that he was clever, never praised any soul who was actually within earshot.
    I try to relax. This is the woman who gave birth to me, clothed me, fed me, ruined my life, drove my father to a premature grave. ‘I’ll come tomorrow.’
    ‘I’ve no cigarettes,’ she screams.
    With the receiver held at a decent interval from anaching ear, I wait while she wades through the compulsory lecture on my selfishness, my lack of consideration for a good mother, my unfeeling attitude towards a sick old woman.
    I suck a mint while lending half an ear to what looks like becoming yet another revised version of the statutory sermon. Her monologue is a well-rehearsed one, contains all the familiar words, though not necessarily in the same order as last time. At last, a gap between words. ‘Smoking is bad for you, Mother,’ I manage. ‘You know what the doctor said to you last month—’
    ‘Don’t you tell me how to live my life!’ The blast of her temper cuts through my slow, careful speech. ‘All those holidays you’ve had lately without a thought for me. Remember, I can change my will any time, and that’ll be you in rags. I want my bloody fags and you’d best go and get me some.’
    It’s no use. It’s no use telling her that my ‘holidays’ were spent in hospital. That would just give her pleasure, would allow her to gloat about being in better condition than a woman who is thirty years her junior. And I need her money like a fish needs a bicycle. The writing has made me comfortable, while Ben has signed a small fortune to my name. Still, there’s no point in telling her that she’s completely useless. The last will and testament of Liza McNally is her only weapon, and she wields it like a sabre. Her sole pleasure in life is gleaned from the suffering of others.
    ‘Well?’ she yells. ‘Lost your tongue?’
    ‘Mother, I can’t leave Ben till Les comes at six o’clock. If he’ll stay for a while, I’ll nip down to the Ten Till Ten.’ The Ten Till Ten opens every day, makes its money from forgetful people like me who make lists and leave them in a safe place, too safe to be