swilling in the bottle's base. I lashed out with the heel of my shoe, knocked the bottle to the other side of the room.
My mother was drunk as twelve monkeys. I realised at once I'd have to get her walking, talking. I needed to pour some coffee into her. 'Come on, Mam, let's get you on your feet.'
A groan. 'What … What's going on?'
'We're going to get you up and about.' I raised her; her head lolled from side to side. Her face looked pale, almost grey. I'd heard the expression close to the grave before but I'd never actually witnessed it in a loved one at such close quarters. The sight of my mother provoked shame in me, deep shame for what she'd become. But, also, I felt a new responsibility grip me: this was the woman who had raised me; now the world had turned and I was going to be the one who had to look after her.
My mother seemed suddenly electrified with an energy, a rage: 'What the hell's going on?'
'Mam, we're going to get some coffee into you.'
'I don't want coffee!'
I had to struggle to keep my grip on her. She pushed me away. Her strength surprised me. Her frame was so thin, wiry. 'Mam, now c'mon …'
She cursed at me. I loosed my grip on her. 'Just leave me. Leave me. Get out of my house.'
I watched her press her shoulder to the wall, manage two or three steps before she slumped against the plaster and let herself slide onto the carpet once more. She curled over and seemed to pass instantly into deep, heavy sleep. I picked her up, she was so light. Nothing of her, that's what people would say. I returned her to her bed. I pulled the duvet over and made sure she was comfortable, sound. She looked lost to the world. Deep in dreams. I wondered what they were about.
For a moment I stood, just watching, but the sight was too painful. I moved away, closed the window a little, drew the curtains and placed a glass of water by the bedside. I left her to sleep it off.
Downstairs, I brought the dog in. Cleaned up the mess in the kitchen. I was opening a new packet of Marlboro, sparking up, when my phone started to ring in my pocket.
It was Claire. The sight of her name in the caller ID made my pulse race with anger. I knew she wasn't to blame, but I knew that's how siblings operated. The weight of family grief was a load to be shared.
'You got my message.' I was brusque.
'I did, yeah …'
There didn't seem any point in pleasantries now. 'Then maybe you can tell me what the hell is going on with our mother?'
Chapter 15
There didn ' t seem any point in keeping things from her. At least, that ' s what I ' d decided at this moment. I knew, full well, that I might feel differently after revealing what I ' d uncovered. I waited for Lyn in the drawing room of my Queens Terrace guest house with a shot of Talisker in hand, the ice clinking every so often on the side of the glass. It was too cold for the ice to thaw. I didn ' t mind, it kept an edge on the whisky.
The radio seemed to be stuck on WestFM, playing some Human League from the 1980s. I felt strangely transported back to more innocent times; could see the blonde girl singing about working as a waitress in a cocktail bar. Music was so much better then. Maybe it was just because it was my music. My era. My youth. It seemed to have more heart. Everything looked too slick, too manufactured to me now.
Lyn appeared, seemed to tap into my reverie. ' Don ' t you want me, baby? '
I smiled. ' They don ' t write them like that anymore. '
Lyn took the strap from her shoulder, placed her bag on the ground next to her chair. ' Oh come on, it wasn ' t all great. '
' Two words: Ultravox, Vienna. '
A laugh. She tipped her head back. ' Kept off number one by Shuddap You Face, I seem to remember. '
She had me. 'I think that's check-mate.'
A smile. She raised a finger in the air, hissed through her teeth. 'No kidding it is.'
I got out of my seat, went to the bar to collect a drink for Lyn. Diet Coke and ice — the ice crackled as it hit the fizzy liquid. My
My mother was drunk as twelve monkeys. I realised at once I'd have to get her walking, talking. I needed to pour some coffee into her. 'Come on, Mam, let's get you on your feet.'
A groan. 'What … What's going on?'
'We're going to get you up and about.' I raised her; her head lolled from side to side. Her face looked pale, almost grey. I'd heard the expression close to the grave before but I'd never actually witnessed it in a loved one at such close quarters. The sight of my mother provoked shame in me, deep shame for what she'd become. But, also, I felt a new responsibility grip me: this was the woman who had raised me; now the world had turned and I was going to be the one who had to look after her.
My mother seemed suddenly electrified with an energy, a rage: 'What the hell's going on?'
'Mam, we're going to get some coffee into you.'
'I don't want coffee!'
I had to struggle to keep my grip on her. She pushed me away. Her strength surprised me. Her frame was so thin, wiry. 'Mam, now c'mon …'
She cursed at me. I loosed my grip on her. 'Just leave me. Leave me. Get out of my house.'
I watched her press her shoulder to the wall, manage two or three steps before she slumped against the plaster and let herself slide onto the carpet once more. She curled over and seemed to pass instantly into deep, heavy sleep. I picked her up, she was so light. Nothing of her, that's what people would say. I returned her to her bed. I pulled the duvet over and made sure she was comfortable, sound. She looked lost to the world. Deep in dreams. I wondered what they were about.
For a moment I stood, just watching, but the sight was too painful. I moved away, closed the window a little, drew the curtains and placed a glass of water by the bedside. I left her to sleep it off.
Downstairs, I brought the dog in. Cleaned up the mess in the kitchen. I was opening a new packet of Marlboro, sparking up, when my phone started to ring in my pocket.
It was Claire. The sight of her name in the caller ID made my pulse race with anger. I knew she wasn't to blame, but I knew that's how siblings operated. The weight of family grief was a load to be shared.
'You got my message.' I was brusque.
'I did, yeah …'
There didn't seem any point in pleasantries now. 'Then maybe you can tell me what the hell is going on with our mother?'
Chapter 15
There didn ' t seem any point in keeping things from her. At least, that ' s what I ' d decided at this moment. I knew, full well, that I might feel differently after revealing what I ' d uncovered. I waited for Lyn in the drawing room of my Queens Terrace guest house with a shot of Talisker in hand, the ice clinking every so often on the side of the glass. It was too cold for the ice to thaw. I didn ' t mind, it kept an edge on the whisky.
The radio seemed to be stuck on WestFM, playing some Human League from the 1980s. I felt strangely transported back to more innocent times; could see the blonde girl singing about working as a waitress in a cocktail bar. Music was so much better then. Maybe it was just because it was my music. My era. My youth. It seemed to have more heart. Everything looked too slick, too manufactured to me now.
Lyn appeared, seemed to tap into my reverie. ' Don ' t you want me, baby? '
I smiled. ' They don ' t write them like that anymore. '
Lyn took the strap from her shoulder, placed her bag on the ground next to her chair. ' Oh come on, it wasn ' t all great. '
' Two words: Ultravox, Vienna. '
A laugh. She tipped her head back. ' Kept off number one by Shuddap You Face, I seem to remember. '
She had me. 'I think that's check-mate.'
A smile. She raised a finger in the air, hissed through her teeth. 'No kidding it is.'
I got out of my seat, went to the bar to collect a drink for Lyn. Diet Coke and ice — the ice crackled as it hit the fizzy liquid. My
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