Passion Flower

“She’s an old cow,” said the Afterthought.

Mum and the Afterthought were finding it really difficult to get along; they rowed even worse than Mum and me. The Afterthought wanted a kitten. A girl in her class had a cat that was going to have some, and the Afterthought had conceived this passion.

(Conceived! Ha! What would Mum say to that!) Every day the Afterthought nagged and begged and howled and pleaded; and every day Mum very firmly said no. She said she was sorry, but she had quite enough to cope with without having an animal to look after.

“Kittens grow into cats, and cats need feeding, cats need injections, cats cost money …I’m sorry, Sam! It’s just not the right moment. Maybe in a few months.”

“That’ll be too late!” wailed the Afterthought. “All the kittens will be gone!”

“There’ll be more,” said Mum.

“Not from Sukey. They won’t be Sukey’s kittens. I want one of Sukey’s! She’s so sweet. Dad would let me!” roared the Afterthought.

“Very possibly, but your dad doesn’t happen to be here,” said Mum.

“No! Because you got rid of him! I want my kitten!” bellowed the Afterthought.

It ended up, as it always did, with Mum losing patience and the Afterthought going off into one of her tantrums. I told Vix that life at home had become impossible. Vix said, “Yes, for me, too! Specially after your mum talked to my mum about teenage filth and now my mum says I’m not to buy that sort of thing any more!” I stared at her, appalled.

“What right have they got,” I said, “to talk about us behind our backs?”

The weeks dragged on, with things just going from bad to worse. Mum got crabbier and crabbier. She got specially crabby on days when we had telephone calls from Dad. He rang us, like, about once every two weeks, and the Afterthought always snatched up the phone and grizzled into it.

“Dad, it’s horrible here! When are you going to get settled?”

I tried to be a little bit more discreet, because I could see that probably it was a bit irritating for Mum. I mean, she was doing her best. Dad was now living down south, in Brighton. He said that he missed us and would love to have us with him, but he wasn’t quite settled enough; not just yet.

“Soon, I hope!”

Triumphantly, the Afterthought relayed this to Mum. “Soon Dad’s going to be settled, and then we can go and live with him!”

I knew that Mum would never let us, and in any case I wasn’t really sure that I’d want to. Not permanently, I mean. I loved Dad to bits, because he wasn’t ever crabby like Mum, I couldn’t remember Dad telling us off for anything, ever; but I couldn’t imagine actually leaving Mum, no matter how impossible she was being. And she was being. Running off to Vix’s mum like that! Interfering with Vix’s life, as well as mine. I didn’t think she ought to have done that; it could have caused great problems between me and Vix. Fortunately Vix understood that it wasn’t my fault. As she said, “You can’t control how your mum behaves.” But Vix’s mum had been quite put out to discover that her angelic daughter was reading about s.e.x. and gazing at pictures of male bums. It’s what comes of living in a grungy old place way out in the sticks where nothing ever happens and s.e.x. is something you are not supposed to have heard of, let alone think about. Vix agreed with me that in Brighton people probably thought about it all the time, even thirteen-year-old girls, and no one turned a hair.

I said to Mum, “When I am fourteen,” (which I was going to be quite soon), “can I think about it then?”

“You can think about it all you like,” said Mum. “I just don’t want you reading about it in trashy magazines. That’s all!”

It was shortly after my fourteenth birthday that Mum finally went and flipped. I’d been trying ever so hard to make allowances for her. I’d discussed it with Vix and we had agreed that it was probably something to do with her age. Vix said, “Women get really odd when they reach a certain age. How old is your mum?”

I said, “She’s only thirty-six.” I mean, pretty old, but not actually decrepit.

“Old enough,” said Vix. “She’s probably getting broody.”

I said, “Getting what?”

“Broody. You know?”

“I thought that was something to do with chickens,” I said.

“Chickens and women… it makes them desperate.”

“Desperate for what?”

“Having babies while they still can.”

“But she’s had babies!” I said.

“Doesn’t make any difference,” said Vix. “Don’t worry! She’ll grow out of it.”

“Yes, but when?’ I wailed.

“Dunno.” Vix wrinkled her nose. “When she’s about… fifty, maybe?”

I thought that fifty was a long time to wait for Mum to stop being desperate, but in the meanwhile, in the interests of peaceful living, I would do my best to humour her. I would no longer read nasty magazines full of s.e.x., at any rate, not while I was indoors, and I would no longer nag her for new clothes except when I really, really needed them, and I would make my bed and I would tidy my bedroom and I would help with the washing up, and do all those things that she was always on at me to do. So I did. For an entire whole week. And then she went and flipped! All because I’d been to a party and got home about two seconds later than she’d said. Plus I’d just happened to be brought back by this boy that for some reason she’d taken exception to and told me not to see any more, only I hadn’t realised that she meant it. I mean, how was I to know that she’d meant it?

“What did you think I meant?” said Mum, all cold and brittle, like an icicle. “I told you I didn’t want you seeing him any more!”

“But why not?” I said. “What’s the matter with him?”

“Stephanie, we have already been through all this,” said Mum.

“But it doesn’t make any sense! He’s just a boy, the same as any other boy. It’s not like he’s on drugs, or anything.”

Well, he wasn’t; not as far as I knew. It’s stupid to think that just because someone has a nose stud and tattoos he’s doing drugs. Mum was just so prejudiced! But I suppose I shouldn’t have tried arguing with her; I can see, now, that that was a bit ill-judged. Mum went up like a light. She went incandescent. Fire practically spurted out of her nostrils. I couldn’t ever remember seeing her that mad. And at me! Who’d tried her best to make allowances! It didn’t help that the Afterthought was there, leaning over the banisters. The Afterthought never can manage to keep her mouth shut. She had to go starting on about kittens again.

“Dad would have let me have one! You never let us have anything! You’re just a misery! You aren’t any fun!”

She said afterwards that she thought she was coming to my aid. She thought she was being supportive.

“Showing that I was on your side!”

All it did, of course, was make matters worse. Mum just suddenly snapped. She raised two clenched fists to heaven and demanded to know what she had done to get lumbered with two such beastly brats.

“Thoroughly unpleasant! Totally ungrateful! Utterly selfish! Well, that’s it. I’ve had it! I’m sick to death of the pair of you! As far as I’m concerned, your father can have you, and welcome. I’ve done my stint. From now on, you can be his responsibility!”

Wow. I think even the Afterthought was a bit taken aback.

“I HAVE SPENT sixteen years of my life,” said Mum, “coping with your dad. Sixteen years of clearing up his messes, getting us out of the trouble that he’s got us into. If it weren’t for me, God alone knows where this family would be! Out on the streets, with a begging bowl. Well, I’ve had it, do you hear? I have had it. I cannot take any more! Do I make myself plain?”

Me and the Afterthought, shocked into silence, just stared woodenly.

“Do I make myself plain?” bellowed Mum.

“Y-yes!” I snapped to attention. “Absolutely!”

“Good. Then you will understand why it is that I am relinquishing all responsibility. Because if I am asked to cope just one minute longer — ” Mum’s voice rose to a piercing shriek “ — with your tempers and your tantrums and your utter – your utter —”

We waited.

“Your utter selfishness,” screamed Mum, “I shall end up in a lunatic asylum! Have you got that?”

I nodded.

“I said, have you got that?” bawled Mum.

“Got it,” I said.

“Got it,” muttered the Afterthought.

“Right! Just so long as you have. I want there to be no misunderstandings. Now, get off to bed, the pair of you!”

Me and the Afterthought both scuttled into our bedrooms and stayed there. I wondered gloomily if Mum was having a nervous breakdown, and if so, whether it was my fault. All I’d done was just go to a party! I lay awake the rest of the night thinking that if Mum ended up in a lunatic asylum, I would be the one that put her there, but when I told Vix about it next day Vix said that me going to the party was probably just the last straw. She said that her mum had said that my mum had been under pressure for far too long.

“She’s probably cracking up,” said Vix.

Honestly! Vix may be my best and oldest friend, but I can’t help feeling she doesn’t always stop and think before she opens her mouth. Cracking up. What a thing to say! It worried me almost sick. I crept round Mum like a little mouse, hardly daring even to breathe for fear of upsetting her. I had these visions of her suddenly tearing off all her clothes and running naked into the street and having to be locked up. The Afterthought, being almost totally insensitive where other people’s feelings are concerned, just carried on the same as usual, except that she didn’t actually whinge quite as much. Instead of whining about cornflakes for breakfast instead of sugar puffs, for instance, she simply rolled her eyes and made huffing sounds; instead of screaming that “Dad would let me!” when Mum refused to let her sit up till midnight watching telly, she just did this angry scoffing thing, like “Khuurgh!” and walloped out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

I, in the meantime, was on eggshells, waiting for Mum to tear her clothes off. In fact she didn’t. After her one manic outburst, she became deadly cool and calm, which was quite frightening in itself as I felt that underneath things were bubbling. Like it would take just one little incident and that would be it: clothes off, running naked. Or, alternatively, tearing out her hair in great chunks, which is what I’d read somewhere that people did when they were having breakdowns.

I told the Afterthought to stop being so horrible. “You don’t want Mum to end up in a lunatic asylum, do you?” The Afterthought just tossed her head and said she couldn’t care less.

“I hate her! I’ll always hate her! She sent my dad away!”

“Your dad? He’s my dad, too!” I said.

“I’m the one that loves him best! You can have her” said the Afterthought. “She’s your favourite!”

One week later, term came to an end. The very next day, Mum got rid of us. Well, that was what it seemed like. Like she just couldn’t wait to be free. She’d made us pack all our stuff the night before, but she couldn’t actually ship us off until after lunch as Dad said he had to work. Mum said, “On a Saturday?” She was fuming! Now she’d made up her mind to dump us, she wanted us to go now, at once, immediately. The Afterthought would have liked to go now, at once, immediately, too. She was jigging with impatience the whole morning. I sort of wanted to go – I mean, I was really looking forward to seeing Dad again – but I still couldn’t quite believe that Mum was doing this to us.

As we piled into the car with all our gear, I said, “It’s just for the summer holidays, right?”

Well, it had to be! I mean, what about clothes? What about school?

“I wouldn’t want to miss any school,” I said.

“Really?” said Mum. “I never heard that one before!”

OK, I knew she was still mad at us, but I didn’t see there was any need for sarcasm. I said, “Well, but anyway, you’ll be back long before then!”

Mum had announced that she was flying off to Spain to stay with an old school friend who owned a nightclub. She’d said she was going to “live it up” It worried me because I didn’t think of Mum as a living-it-up kind of person. I couldn’t imagine her drinking and dancing and lying about on the beach.

How would she cope? It just wasn’t Mum.

“You’ll have to be back,” I said. ‘Will I?” said Mum. “Why?”

Why? What kind of a question was that?

“You have to work,” I said.

Mum had this job in the customer service department of one of the big stores in the centre of Nottingham. She had responsibilities. She couldn’t just disappear for months!

“Actually,” said Mum, “I don’t have to work… I jacked it in. I’ve left.”

I said, “What?”

“I’ve left,” said Mum. “I gave in my notice.”

“Gave in your notice?” I was aghast. Mum couldn’t do that!

“You can’t!” I bleated.

“I have,” said Mum. “I gave it in last week… I’m unemployed!”

I shrieked, “Mum!”

“What’s the problem?” said Mum. “It never seemed to bother you when your dad was unemployed.”

“That was because he couldn’t be tied down,” said the Afterthought, in angry tones.

“Well, I’ve decided… neither can I!” Mum giggled. I don’t think I’d ever heard Mum giggle before. “Two can play at being free spirits.”

“But what will we live on?” I wailed.

“Ah!” said Mum. “That’s the question… what will we live on? Worrying, isn’t it? Maybe your dad will provide.”

I glanced at the Afterthought. Her lip was quivering. She wanted to be with Dad OK, but only so long as Mum was still there, in the background, like a kind of safety net. We couldn’t have two parents being free spirits!

“As a matter of fact,” said Mum, “I’m thinking of going in with Romy.”

I said, “Romy?”

“Yes!” said Mum. “Why not? Do you have some objection?”

“You’re not going to marry him?” I said.

“Did I say I was going to marry him?”

I said, “N-no. But —”

“She couldn’t, anyway!” shrilled the Afterthought. “She’s still married to Dad!”

Yes, I thought, but for how long? I remembered when Vix’s mum and dad split up. Vix had been so sure they would never get divorced, but now her dad was married to someone else and had a new baby. I didn’t want that happening with my mum and dad! And the thought of having Jerome as a stepfather… yeeurgh! He has ginger hairs up his nose.

“Don’t get yourselves in a lather,” said Mum. “It’s purely a business arrangement.” Dreamily, she added, “I’ve always been interested in antiques.”

“Romy doesn’t sell antiques!” said the Afterthought, scornfully. “He sells junk. Dad says so!”

I said, “Shut up, you idiot!” But the damage had been done. We drove the rest of the way to the station in a very frosty silence. Mum parked the car in frosty silence. We marched across the forecourt with our bags and our backpacks in the same frosty silence. I thought, this is horrible! We weren’t going to see Mum again for weeks and weeks. I didn’t want to leave her all hurt and angry. Mum obviously felt the same, for she suddenly hugged me and said, “Look after yourself! Take care of your sister.”

I promised that I would. The prospect didn’t exactly thrill me, since quite honestly the Afterthought, in those days, was nothing but one big pain. She really was a beastly brat. But Mum was going off to Spain, and I was starting to miss her already, and I desperately, desperately didn’t want us to part on bad terms. So I said, “I’ll take care of her, Mum!” and Mum gave me a quick smile and a kiss and I felt better than I had in a long time. She then turned to the Afterthought and said, “Sam?” in this pleading kind of voice, which personally I didn’t think she should have used. I mean, the Afterthought was behaving like total scum. For a moment I thought the horrible brat was going to stalk off without saying goodbye, but then, in grumpy fashion, she offered her cheek for a kiss.

We settled ourselves on the train, with various magazines that Mum had bought for us (Babe, unfortunately, not being one of them).

“Mum,” I said, “you will be all right, won’t you?”

“I’ll be fine,” said Mum. “Don’t you worry about me! You just concentrate on having a good time, because that’s what I’m going to do. And you, Sam, I want you to behave yourself! Do what your sister tells you and don’t give her any trouble.”

I smirked: the Afterthought pulled a face. As the train pulled out, Mum called after us: “Enjoy yourselves! Have fun. I’m sure you will!”

“I’m going to have lots of fun,” boasted the Afterthought. “It’s always fun with Dad!” She then added, “And you needn’t think you’re going to boss me around!”

“You’ve got to do what I tell you,” I said. “Mum said so.

“Mum won’t be there! So sah sah sah!”

The Afterthought pulled a face and stuck out her tongue. So childish. I turned to look out of the window. Why was it, I thought, that our family always seemed to be at war? Mum and Dad, me and the Afterthought…

“It’s like the Wars of the Roses,” I said.

“What is?” said the Afterthought.

“Us! Fighting! The Wars of the Roses.” Personally I thought this was rather clever, but the Afterthought didn’t seem to get it. She just scowled and said, “It’s Mum’s fault.”

She really had it in for Mum. She wouldn’t hear a word against Dad, but everything that Mum did was wrong. Even now, when we weren’t going to be seeing her for months. Poor old Mum!

Actually I couldn’t help feeling that Mum and the Afterthought were quite alike. Neither of them ever did anything by halves. They were both so extreme. I like to think I am a bit more flexible, like Dad. Only more organised, naturally!

I tried to organise the Afterthought, on our trip down to London. It was quite a long journey, nearly two hours, so Mum had given us food packs in case we got hungry. I told the Afterthought she wasn’t to start eating until we were halfway there, but she said she would eat when she wanted, and she broke open her pack right there and then and had scoffed the lot by the time we reached Bedford.

“You’re not going to have any of mine,” I said.

“Don’t want any of yours,” said the Afterthought. “We’ll be in London soon and Dad will take us for tea.”

This was what he had promised. He was going to be there at St Pancras station to meet us, and we were all going to go and have tea before we got on the train to Brighton. I had never made such a long train journey all by myself before. It was quite a responsibility, what with having to keep an eye on the Afterthought and make sure she didn’t wander off and get lost, or lock herself in the toilet, or something equally stupid. But I didn’t really mind. Now that we were on our way, I found I was quite excited at the prospect of staying with Dad. I’d never been to Brighton. I’d only been to London once, and that was a school trip, when, we went to visit a museum. School trips are fun, and better than being in school, but you are still watched all the time and never allowed to go off and do your own thing, in case, I suppose, you get abducted or find a boy and run away with him. I wish!

I didn’t think that Dad would watch us; he is not at all a mother hen type. And Brighton sounded like a really wild and wicked kind of place! Vix had informed me excitedly that “things happen in Brighton” When I asked her what things, she didn’t seem too sure, but she said that it was “a hub” Nottingham isn’t a hub; well, I don’t think it is. And outside of Nottingham is like living in limbo. Just nothing ever happens at all. Vix had made me promise to send her postcards every week and to email her if I met any boys. I intended to! Meet boys, that is. Mum, meanwhile, said that Brighton was “just the sort of place I would expect your dad to end up in.” She said that it was cheap, squalid and tacky. Sounded good to me!

Just after we left Bedford (and the Afterthought finished off her supply of food) my mobile rang. It was Mum, checking that we were still on the train and hadn’t got off at the wrong station or fallen out of the window, though as a matter of fact the windows were sealed, so that even the Afterthought couldn’t have fallen out.

“Stephie?” said Mum. “Everything OK?” I said, “Yes, fine, Mum. The Afterthought’s eaten all her food.”

“Well, that’s all right,” said Mum. “I’m sure your dad will get her some more. Don’t forget to give him the cheque. Tell him it’s got to last you.”

I said, “Yes, Mum.”

“Tell him it’s for you and Sam. For your personal spending.”

“Yes, Mum.”

“I don’t want him using it for himself.”

‘No, Mum.” We had already been through all this! Plus I had heard Mum telling Dad on the phone.

“Oh, and Stephanie,” she said.

“Yes, Mum?”

“I want you to ring me when you’ve arrived.”

“What, in London?” I said.

“No! In Brighton. When you get to your dad’s place. All right?”

I said, “Yes, Mum.” I thought, “Mum’s getting cold feet!” She’d gone and packed us off and now she was starting to do her mumsy thing, worrying in case something happened. I said, “We’re only going to Brighton, Mum! Not Siberia.”

“Yes, well, just look after your sister,” said Mum.

“I’ve got to look after you” I said to the Afterthought.

“I don’t want to be looked after,” said the Afterthought.

We reached London nearly ten minutes late, so I expected Dad to already be there, waiting for us. But he wasn’t! We stood at the barrier, looking all around, and he just wasn’t there.

“Maybe he’s gone to the loo,” said the Afterthought, doing her best to sound brave.

“Mm,” I said. “Maybe.”

Or maybe we were looking in the wrong place. Maybe when Dad had said he’d meet us at St Pancras, he’d meant… outside. So we went and looked outside, but he wasn’t there, either, so then we went back to where the train had come in. Still no sign of Dad.

“He must have been held up,” I said. “We’d better just wait.”

“Ring him!” said the Afterthought. “Ring him, Stephie, now!”

“Oh! Yes, I could, couldn’t I?” I said. I called up Dad’s number, but nothing happened. “He must have switched his phone off,” I said.

“Why would he do that?” said the Afterthought, fretfully.

“I don’t know! Maybe he’s… in a tunnel, or something, and it’s not working.”