The Mum Who Got Her Life Back. Fiona Gibson
with that?
‘I’ve told you about this before,’ she adds, frowning, although she hasn’t; last time it appeared to be overflowing, she insisted it was ‘mainly olive oil bottles and pickle jars’ (Christ, it sounds as if I’ve created a hobby of monitoring the fullness of Elaine’s bin!).
‘Maybe you should put a lock on it?’ I suggest, at which she regards me coolly.
‘Jack, what are you trying to say exactly?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Obviously you are. Why not just come out with it—’
‘No need to be so defensive,’ I say lightly. ‘It’s Christmas Eve, let’s not start bickering now …’
‘If I’m defensive,’ she shoots back, ‘it’s because you’re bloody sanctimonious!’
Hell, why did I touch on the matter of her drinking now? I should have known better – it achieves nothing – and if we were going to talk about it properly, then it wouldn’t be in her front garden with Lori just a few feet away, inside the house. ‘I don’t mean to be,’ I say levelly. ‘I know I’m not perfect, and I’m not trying to judge—’
‘Not trying to judge?’ she splutters. ‘Well, you are judging. You always have and you’re even worse now, with your running … ’
‘What? I jog up and down the river about three times a week …’
‘… with your personal bests and your fancy sports watch …’
‘Can we leave it please, Elaine?’
She glares at me. ‘Or we could empty the bin if you like, and count the bottles?’
Oh, for crying out loud, why did I let us get into this? ‘Jesus, just forget it okay?’ She blinks at me and, alarmingly, her eyes have filled with angry tears. ‘Are you okay?’ I ask, stepping towards her.
‘I’m fine, thank you,’ she mutters, and I glimpse Lori, briefly, at the living room window before she disappears again.
‘But you don’t seem—’
‘Just go, Jack,’ Elaine adds, turning away, ‘and enjoy your Christmas. Have a fantastic time, tanking into your dad’s Italian wines with your brother …’
‘Elaine …’
‘But that doesn’t count as drinking, does it?’ she snaps. ‘Not when it’s good stuff. It never does.’
That went well, I reflect bleakly as I drive home, hoping that Lori didn’t overhear any of it, and reminding myself that Elaine is an adult woman of forty-five, who can make her own choices in life – and is a pretty good mother by all accounts. Lori is apparently well cared for, adequately fed and sent off to school on time. She never has any untoward stories to tell. I’ve tried to quiz her – gently – about whether everything’s okay with her mum, but Lori just snaps, ‘She’s fine, Dad. Why’re you asking?’ I’ve even made it clear that, if my daughter ever wanted to live with me full-time, that would fine with me, we could make it work – but she’s dismissed it. ‘Mum’s just been a bit unlucky,’ she admitted recently, and maybe it’s true.
When Elaine recently lost her administrative job at a community project, it was apparently due to cuts, and not the copious sick days she always claimed were due to her asthma, and never hangovers. When she fell downstairs and broke her arm last summer, it was apparently due to her tripping over the laundry basket on the landing. Lori backed up her mum’s explanation, and I didn’t want to go on about it. Anyway, without installing CCTV in Elaine’s house, it’s impossible to know exactly what goes on.
Back home now, I let myself into my tenement flat in the part of town that’s being flaunted as ‘the new West End’, which just means cheaper than the West End, and less desirable. I like it though, with its muddle of individual shops with their mysterious vegetables piled up in boxes outside.
In my living room, I open a couple of Christmas cards from cousins down south and place them on the mantelpiece with the others. I, too, have a Christmas tree; Lori would be appalled if I didn’t. And while I can’t claim to have had ‘tons’ of festive nights out, there was a jovial pub gathering with a few of us who’ve knocked around together since I was nineteen, when I first moved here from out in the sticks, up in Perthshire. And now – Mr Popular! – my phone pings; a text from my mate Fergus, reminding me that a bunch of them are meeting for drinks in town. It’s tempting to join them right now but, with the drive up to Mum and Dad’s tomorrow morning, I decide to delay the pleasure of a few beers by going for a run first.
A short while later I’m pounding along beside the river. The Clyde shimmers beneath the dark sky, and traffic nudges slowly over the bridge. I keep close to the railings, wondering now about Mags and Iain, and how they’ll fill their days until the shop opens up again after New Year.
I had considered opening up for those in-between days so they’d have somewhere to go. ‘That’s a bit bonkers, Jack – you need a break too,’ Dinah the area manager had said, and she was probably right. Now it’s Elaine who’s snuck back into my thoughts. Will she remember to defrost her turkey and not try to nuke it in the microwave as she did a couple of years ago? Of course she’s capable of cooking a bird, I tell myself, annoyed with my inability to switch off and ‘get in the zone’, as proper runners are supposed to do. I jog on, all of this stuff whirling in my head like a gigantic stew, and then it all stops – suddenly – when I see her in the distance.
I’m sure it’s her – the woman who helped me in Lush. Yes, it’s definitely her. With her creamy skin and abundant dark brown hair, there’s something incredibly striking about her. She is strolling towards me, head slightly dipped. I slow my pace, wondering if she’ll recognise me and thinking perhaps it’s best if she doesn’t, given I’m wearing my ratty old running gear and slathered in sweat. Of course she won’t; she’s on her phone, seemingly deep in conversation. She stops and rakes a hand through her hair. I stop too, and pretend to check the sports watch I bought in the hope that it would turn me into a bona fide athlete, but which serves only to plague me with its mysterious vibrations and bleeps.
We’re closer now – close enough for me to catch her conversation. ‘Are you sure this is what you want?’ she exclaims, phone clutched to her ear. ‘It sounds like you’re being pressurised, love …’ I fiddle with my watch, wondering why a picture of a weight lifter has appeared on the screen. ‘For God’s sake, Alfie,’ she blurts out, ‘what about the nut roast?’
There’s more muttering, and just as I’m thinking, What d’you think you’re doing, eavesdropping on a stranger’s personal conversation? she finishes the call and shoves her phone into her bag. She stands there for a moment, staring out over the river as if trying to gather herself together, then strides on.
My watch bleeps again. I look down, still catching my breath but cooling rapidly now. Inexplicably, the word ‘Move!’ is flashing on the screen. It’s so bossy, this hideously expensive gadget. I couldn’t make head nor tail of its functions as I squinted at the instructions with the ant-sized print. But now I’m thinking: perhaps it is useful after all? Maybe, on top of monitoring my pulse rate and pace, it can sense my indecision and give me some indication of what to do next?
‘Move! Move!’ my watch commands me.
I move.
Well, that’s just great. Alfie, who has already delayed his homecoming by some days, isn’t spending Christmas Day with me after all. ‘You don’t mind if I spend it at Cam’s, do you?’ he just asked me, when I was expecting