very least you should be outside, getting some fresh air!’
‘I was out late. I’ve got a lot on my mind. I don’t want any fresh air, I just want to get some rest.’
My mum can barely control her indignation. ‘Rest? What do you want rest for? You haven’t even got a job to make you tired in the first place! Don’t you think I wanted a rest when I was working all hours as a nurse and then coming home to look after a house, a husband and four children? I would’ve loved to have had a rest, believe you me!’
Over the eighteen or so years that I was resident at 88 Hampton Street I had heard this speech in all its forms and the result is always the same: her point gets made and I accept defeat.
‘You win, OK?’ I say, desperate for the emotional blackmail to stop. ‘I’ll come!’
‘Good,’ she says firmly. ‘I’ve made you a fried breakfast – it’s plated up and in the microwave – your father and I are just nipping up the high street to get some bits to take with us. When we come back we’ll go, so be ready.’
As my mother leaves the kitchen virtually strutting like an on-his-game Muhammad Ali victoriously exiting a boxing ring following a knockout, I abandon my cereal and move over to the microwave. How little time has it taken her to move on from her softly, softly approach and start kicking me up the backside? Three days. To be fair, I’m sure that if I had a thirty-nine-year-old son who had invited himself to stay indefinitely and looked like he was about to make sleeping late and eating me out of house and home part of his daily pattern, I too would have taken off the kid gloves pretty sharpish.
Relieved to finally be left alone I stare vacantly at the microwave watching my food rotate. It’s a moment of pure bliss. I have no thoughts at all. My mind is completely empty.
Then my phone rings.
I check the screen. It’s Gershwin. I cross my fingers and hope he’s calling to let me know he’s changed his mind about his birthday. Right now I could do with a party, or indeed any excuse for a good time.
‘All right, mate?’
‘Not so bad.’
‘How’s Bristol?’
‘Wet. How’s Brum?’
‘Cold.’
There’s a long silence; even without him being physically present I can feel his tension. I guess he’s not calling about his birthday. Gershwin’s never been one to just check in without a reason and so I draw the only conclusion that makes sense: he’s dying of cancer. That’s why he seemed so quiet, left the pub early, and isn’t bothered about his fortieth. He’s only got a week left to live and he wants me to promise that I’ll keep an eye out for his kid.
‘Listen mate, about last night. I just wanted to say sorry again about, you know, Ginny.’
He’s called to talk about Ginny? This makes no sense at all. Why’s he bringing her up when he knows that all I want to do is forget about her? ‘You’ve got nothing to apologise for, mate. It’s not like I want to shoot the messenger.’
‘Yeah, well . . . cheers. Anyway listen, I could do with having a proper chat with you about something. Not right now, but soon.’
‘Not a problem,’ I reply. ‘When are you thinking?’
‘I’ll give you a shout, OK?’
‘And that’s it? That’s all you wanted to talk about?’
‘Why? What else is there?’
I breathe a sigh of relief. He’s not dying, he’s just being weird. ‘I was hoping you’d changed your mind about your birthday.’
‘Nah, mate, my mind’s made up on that one. Anyway, I’d better go. But listen, let’s talk soon.’
Determined to eat my breakfast before it goes cold I grab the ketchup from the fridge and a slice of white bread from the bread bin but as I reach for the margarine my phone rings again. Assuming it’s Gershwin I place the phone to my ear without checking. Only when I hear my estranged wife’s voice do I realise my mistake.
‘Lauren, how are you?’ I splutter, as I begin churning over potential reasons for her call.
‘I was out late. I’ve got a lot on my mind. I don’t want any fresh air, I just want to get some rest.’
My mum can barely control her indignation. ‘Rest? What do you want rest for? You haven’t even got a job to make you tired in the first place! Don’t you think I wanted a rest when I was working all hours as a nurse and then coming home to look after a house, a husband and four children? I would’ve loved to have had a rest, believe you me!’
Over the eighteen or so years that I was resident at 88 Hampton Street I had heard this speech in all its forms and the result is always the same: her point gets made and I accept defeat.
‘You win, OK?’ I say, desperate for the emotional blackmail to stop. ‘I’ll come!’
‘Good,’ she says firmly. ‘I’ve made you a fried breakfast – it’s plated up and in the microwave – your father and I are just nipping up the high street to get some bits to take with us. When we come back we’ll go, so be ready.’
As my mother leaves the kitchen virtually strutting like an on-his-game Muhammad Ali victoriously exiting a boxing ring following a knockout, I abandon my cereal and move over to the microwave. How little time has it taken her to move on from her softly, softly approach and start kicking me up the backside? Three days. To be fair, I’m sure that if I had a thirty-nine-year-old son who had invited himself to stay indefinitely and looked like he was about to make sleeping late and eating me out of house and home part of his daily pattern, I too would have taken off the kid gloves pretty sharpish.
Relieved to finally be left alone I stare vacantly at the microwave watching my food rotate. It’s a moment of pure bliss. I have no thoughts at all. My mind is completely empty.
Then my phone rings.
I check the screen. It’s Gershwin. I cross my fingers and hope he’s calling to let me know he’s changed his mind about his birthday. Right now I could do with a party, or indeed any excuse for a good time.
‘All right, mate?’
‘Not so bad.’
‘How’s Bristol?’
‘Wet. How’s Brum?’
‘Cold.’
There’s a long silence; even without him being physically present I can feel his tension. I guess he’s not calling about his birthday. Gershwin’s never been one to just check in without a reason and so I draw the only conclusion that makes sense: he’s dying of cancer. That’s why he seemed so quiet, left the pub early, and isn’t bothered about his fortieth. He’s only got a week left to live and he wants me to promise that I’ll keep an eye out for his kid.
‘Listen mate, about last night. I just wanted to say sorry again about, you know, Ginny.’
He’s called to talk about Ginny? This makes no sense at all. Why’s he bringing her up when he knows that all I want to do is forget about her? ‘You’ve got nothing to apologise for, mate. It’s not like I want to shoot the messenger.’
‘Yeah, well . . . cheers. Anyway listen, I could do with having a proper chat with you about something. Not right now, but soon.’
‘Not a problem,’ I reply. ‘When are you thinking?’
‘I’ll give you a shout, OK?’
‘And that’s it? That’s all you wanted to talk about?’
‘Why? What else is there?’
I breathe a sigh of relief. He’s not dying, he’s just being weird. ‘I was hoping you’d changed your mind about your birthday.’
‘Nah, mate, my mind’s made up on that one. Anyway, I’d better go. But listen, let’s talk soon.’
Determined to eat my breakfast before it goes cold I grab the ketchup from the fridge and a slice of white bread from the bread bin but as I reach for the margarine my phone rings again. Assuming it’s Gershwin I place the phone to my ear without checking. Only when I hear my estranged wife’s voice do I realise my mistake.
‘Lauren, how are you?’ I splutter, as I begin churning over potential reasons for her call.
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