Andrew is winding the pot up, poking a spoon in to mash the teabags. He’s using all his concentration and the hot mist ruffles through that fringe of his. I reckon he’d get a job with a haircut but you can’t say owt. Not because he’d bite my head off like Joanne would, but because he’s too sensitive. I’ve given up criticising Andrew. His face crumples up like a paper bag and he looks at you like you’ve just said the worst thing in the world. Like he can’t believe how cruel you are.
I think I’ve over-mothered him. I worry he’s not had a proper man’s influence over him. But if he had it would only have been some silly sod making him wear a tracksuit to play football and stuff when he didn’t want to. Who’s going to blame me when I say my heart goes out to sensitive boys? What’s wrong with it if I’ve said it’s alright if he never went out much to play? That he drew pictures or preferred to read? Or that now he watches kids’ TV instead of having a job?
“It’s a grunge thing,” Joanne said when I said maybe Andrew could get a job with a haircut. She was on her way out one night—dressed like something out of Bananarama, but I kept my trap shut. “And that’s why he cuts holes in his jeans.”
“He cuts holes in his jeans? I thought they were natural.”
“Mam, man,” she said, about to slam the kitchen door. “Sometimes you’re so naive.”
Ay, I reckon I am naive. Because Joanne’s definitely up to something these days. Something that’s not just going out with her mates of a night. She’s up to something with someone I don’t know and I haven’t a clue what it is. But I know there must be something wrong with it. Otherwise she’d say.
All the power’s with her now and she’s making me wait to find out. Only Joanne can make this storm break. And break it will, I reckon. Me and my family are in for a rough ride again. Joanne has a real tempestuous streak in her. She’s even more of a rebel than I was. She’s got my genes, only worse.
Well, we’ll see. She’ll tell me in her own sweet time. Or maybe I’ll get it out of Andrew in the meantime. I know the twins share everything and for some things they keep their mam out. That’s only natural. Children need their own spaces.
He’s poured the tea and he’s holding out my cup, giving me a look. That’s ’cause I’ve lit my second fag and I’m enjoying it even more than me first. Andrew doesn’t like me smoking. When he was five he said I should stop because otherwise I’d die. I think he’d seen summat on the telly. Joanne thought that was funny.
“When you die, do you want burying or cremating?”
She asked me this again and again. I didn’t want to say anything because I thought it was morbid and it would give them nightmares. Eventually, I was ironing, and she asked me once too often.
“Look, Joanne,” I snapped, “when I drop you can bloody well eat me if you like.”
Her jaw dropped in delight. But behind her, Andrew was horrified. Then he wailed and wailed and we couldn’t get him to stop for hours.
In those days Andrew would always be standing just behind Joanne. He shuffled round after her like she had him on a string. They were like that till she left school, at fifteen. She went to work, learned how to be a receptionist. She’s been in hotels, motels, the equestrian centre.
Andrew did O-levels and went on to do his As but he finished early and just stayed home. It wasn’t that he couldn’t do them. He’s got the brains. More brains than anyone I know. More than anyone round here. I reckon it was the competition that got to him. It was all competition and he’s not that that sort. He’s too good for that. He doesn’t have to compete, Andrew.
I take me tea and curl me fingers about the mug. It’s warming. April and it’s freezing out; still looking like snow.
Eric won’t turn the shop’s heating up beyond the legal requirement. Have it too warm, he says, and we’ll have every dosser, every scruffy old bastard in off the streets, keeping warm. He’s probably right but I still curse him when I’m freezin’ me tits off on me pins.
I blow on the tea and take another drag.
“I wish you’d try again, Mam,” says Andrew.
He’s got an almost girlish voice. A soothing sound, chalk drawing on soft stone. I can’t be angry or irritated with him. Not often, anyway. His voice broke early when he still looking like a little boy. One morning he came downstairs and said something and the sound shocked us both. We both thought it was his dad asking for clean socks, although I don’t suppose Andrew even remembers his dad. Since then, he’s changed that booming voice, made hisel’ softer, on purpose.
“Try again?” I asked. But I know what he’s on about.
“The patches.”
“Bugger them.”
“You could get used to them.”
“Oh, yeh.”
“They say they work.”
“So do fags. Those bloody things don’t cost any less and when you pull them off they hurt.”
“But I don’t want you to die, Mam.”
“I won’t die.”
“Yes, you will.”
“Look, man, Andrew, will you stop interfering? It was all right saying this when you were five, but you’re twentybloody-four now, pet! Look, I won’t die.”
He looks at me. We sip our tea for a bit. Then he starts up again, flinching as if he thinks I’m gonna smack him one.
“I don’t want you to die early. I don’t want you to die before you can say you’ve had a nice time. I don’t want you to die thinking it’s all been hard work. I want it to get better for you first.”
Sometimes...
Sometimes he can say the nicest things. And that’s
