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‘Except it won’t be like old times, will it?’
‘No, of course. Still, you like a roast. What about now? Shall I make you an omelette?’
‘I’m all right.’
‘Right, well, I’d better go and iron my dress for tomorrow. I don’t want to look like a wrung-out dishcloth.’
I laughed, I winked, I smiled, I patted Jo maternally.
I decided to go out into the garden and talk to the plants, reassure them that I cared and would soon be pulling out all those intrusive weeds which were strangling them and blocking the light. But perhaps I should have been saying the same things to Jo.
I listened at the lounge door but heard Eliza still chatting excitedly on the phone, underlining key words as she spoke.
‘It’s going to be wicked. You should see what I’m wearing. I’m on the stage practically all the time. And right at the front.’
Back in the kitchen, I thought about Jo again, although, looking back, I never stopped thinking about Jo. It was continuous. She had her own place in the worry zone of my brain, and I knew with intuitive certainty that there was something wrong, very wrong, with her. Of course she didn’t tell me everything, she was a teenager and was still adjusting to her parents’ separation, that was normal. But it was more than that. There was something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Out in the world she was often so different, speaking out eloquently, standing tall and proud and looking at her life ahead with some optimism. Was it this house that was stifling her, gagging her so that only a few words could be spluttered out of her mouth at one time? Or was it me?
I stared out of the window at the overgrown garden. It had begun to rain heavily so I put off my idea of going out and chatting to my neglected plants. I wondered if it would be all right to just shout out a few words of encouragement through the window, and immediately wondered what Roger would think. What he would think of my piles of stuff scattered across the floor like lilies; what he would make of me shouting out of the window at the plants…Would he despair of me phoning up the emergency gas line because I couldn’t work the timer on the central-heating system? I could taste his disapproval as if he were there in the room with me, and yet I knew that if only I let it, that very thought could set me free because I no longer needed anyone’s approval, except my own. But that was the most difficult approval to get.
I opened the window.
‘Hi, plants, how are you doing?’ I almost whispered—I wasn’t quite ready for this.
‘Hello, plants and trees.’A loud voice from behind me shouted over my shoulder. It was Eliza. We fell about like drunk chimpanzees and then I realised that the rain was slanting in and I shut the window. There was never any need to explain with Eliza.
‘Just getting a yoghurt,’ she said, and skipped out of the kitchen again.
My mind turned back to Jo as I tried to remember her preadolescent years. It had all been so different then. She had spent so many hours with Roger, talking about exams and how to invest her pocket money and planning her future. Now she was changed, and by more than adolescence. I knew then that I had to talk to someone about her, about me even, before we drowned in the sea of silence we found ourselves in. I picked up the phone and pressed out a number.
‘Hi, Trish. Just called to say thanks for doing my shift tomorrow. Gina should be there about nine.’
‘That’s great. You have a wonderful day, Lizzie. Enjoy the wedding.’
‘We certainly will. It’ll seem funny without…on my own.’
‘You won’t be on your own. You’ll have the girls with you.’
‘Of course I will. They’re really looking forward to it.’ ‘I bet they are.’
‘Trish?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ll bring you back a piece of cake.’
So, I’d got it all off my chest, then. For someone who found it so easy to talk, the words crashing out of my mouth like coins from a slot machine, I found it very difficult to actually say anything. Later I learnt that there are other powerful ways to communicate, but back then, on the eve of my niece’s wedding, I did at least manage to laugh at myself. You have to laugh, otherwise you end up crying, I thought. It was only after Lily came into our lives that I realised you sometimes have to cry as well. It took an enigmatic, mysterious stranger to teach me that, a stranger called Lily Finnegan.
TWO (#ulink_e22d7707-d622-53f5-8869-4d4874031727)
BEFORE I started to write it all down, I wrote ‘Lily Finnegan’ at the top of the page. Then I found out Mum had done the same thing. Like this is all about Lily or something. Well, maybe it is. I’m not writing my life story—nothing like that. How can I? I’m still a teenager and everything stretches out before me. But I had to write about this slice of my life be-cause Lily told me to. And because it changed things. For ever.
Did I have a happy childhood? Kind of. My parents divorced. Shit time but a lot of kids go through it. It was easier for my sister, Eliza. She thinks she’s in a play or a film. That’s why she’s happier than me.
I was happy being me once. It was when I stopped being me that it went wrong. I couldn’t put a date on it—‘I got screwed up on 20th April 2001’—nothing like that. I just remember that I had to perform, so I started to pretend. And I guess the performance gradually took over from reality. I knew how to make other people happy—you just pretend to be who they want you to be. Act your knickers off. Smile on top, cry underneath. I can see all that now, but there was no set plan at the time. It just happened. I totally lost control of me.
One of my biggest performances was at my cousin Victoria’s wedding when I played the part of the perfect daughter. Oscar-winning stuff, but my mask slipped off. I went out of character. I let the real me show through, and raw emotions frighten people. I wasn’t the only one playing a part. I had a talented supporting cast. Mum was acting out the role of the perfect mother of a jolly happy Sunday roast family. Me? I was eager to please, but at that time I didn’t understand why.
When I got up that day and saw the dress hanging there, it looked boring and ordinary. It was suitable—for the weather, for the occasion, for someone who was frightened of standing out in the crowd yet who wanted to. The part of me that wanted to stand out felt a sort of regret. I draped the dress onto me and looked in the mirror. It looked better than it had in the shop. There would be boys at the wedding and I looked good. I had lost some weight for the event and the dress hung off me as if it were on a coat hanger. Perfect. Victoria would be the one in the wedding dress. I knew I would be envious. She was the one with the boyfriend, soon to be husband, but I was slim and very nearly elegant. And he might go off her.
Sixteen and no boyfriend. Sad or what?
Eliza came in.
‘Where’s your dress?’ I asked.
‘Oh, I’m wearing this,’ she explained casually, fiddling with the make-up on my table.
I was stunned. It hadn’t occurred to me that you could do that. Ignore the dress put out by your mother.
Eliza started to sing.
‘Get out, Eliza, there’s no singing in here.’
Eliza made me feel like a blob.
‘Hello, I’m Jo, Lizzie’s eldest daughter,’ I practised.
Mum came in and sighed. She was relieved to see the version of the daughter she wanted.
‘Do I look fat in this?’ I asked.
She laughed. People don’t always pick up their cues in this pantomime we call life. I told Mum I was excited about the wedding. I told Eliza it would be fun. Sometimes saying it can even make it happen and I think I was excited, but my feelings were damp that day. Ever since getting my GCSE results, it felt as if the only emotion that dared speak its mind was anger.
I remember sitting upright in the car when we drove up to the school on results day.
‘You’ll be fine,’ Mum had said. It was expected. By the school, by Mum, by me. Expectation had its own pressure. Failure would be a steep fall, and I was nervous when I glanced at the piece of paper in my sweaty palm. Eight A* grades, four A grades. Best results in the school. Nearly perfect. I felt relief and pride and ecstatic joy. For about four minutes, before a feeling of disappointment and then indifference misted up my mind and dampened the positive stuff. I felt like screaming out, ‘So what!’ I phoned up friends and relatives, hoping their pleasure and excitement would transfer to me. Like catching chickenpox. But I was immune. A blob.
Still, I think I really did feel excited about the wedding. Underneath. Perhaps I had just forgotten how to let my emotions show, like a Coke bottle with the cap stuck on. Even shaking it up wouldn’t help get the fizz out.
Mum sorted out the seating arrangements in the car. She organised who could choose the radio stations. She controlled the steering-wheel and the conversation. We sang and laughed and it sounded like happiness. Or something…We had to drive all the way to the end of Norfolk, miles and miles and miles. The end of the world.
Mum drove in trainers. She had gone on and on about her new shoes. Mostly she goes on and on about my exams, on and on about Eliza’s talents, on and on about the food she sells at work and on and on about how you have to laugh. No option—you have to laugh. These are permanent ramblings, they never change and she recycles them on a daily basis, like the repeats on TV—you know what’s coming but there’s nothing else to tune in to. Then there are the new episodes. Like the shoes.
When we arrived, Eliza leant over the back of the seat and retrieved the shoes. Giggling, we hid them behind our backs and waited for Mum to open the boot and think she’d forgotten them.
We often played jokes on Mum. And on Dad. Mum and I often played jokes on Eliza. But nobody ever played a joke on me. People were too careful with me. As if I had a ‘Handle with Care’ sticker across my soul. Was I really that fragile, even then?
The church was beautiful, with flowers and everyone dressed up and the choir and the organ. It was so traditional and sort of old-fashioned. And everyone was looking warmly at Victoria, pleased she was so happy. I wanted to be pleased for her, but jealousy is in my blood. I could feel it then, pumping around my arteries, and nothing could stop the flow. Jealousy is hot. It makes blood simmer, gently at first, then violently. You cannot see, hear, feel, taste or touch anything. Not in your own skin. Not if you want to be in someone else’s skin. Feel what they’re feeling, see what they’re seeing.
‘Very young, but in the circumstances…’
I could sense my mother’s thoughts, smug judgements as she perched between the daughters she thought she knew well. I thought about my life, I thought about love, I thought about meaning. Big thoughts. Scary thoughts. And then we laughed at a fat woman’s hat.
Outside Mum pushed me into talking to old ladies. I must impress them, make my mum look good—by proxy. I hated it. Didn’t they see my unease? Sense my reluctance? But maternal eyes were on me and I wanted to please. Why? I wanted to please and I wanted to rebel. The definition of unhappiness: wanting two opposite actions at the same time. Can’t choose. Can’t decide. Makes you feel like shit. I talked pleasantly. Kind of.
‘How’s your budgie doing?’ I asked sarcastically. I’d guessed correctly that the lavendered aunt kept a budgie. She was the sort. Liked garibaldi biscuits, crocheted cardigans, watched Countdown, supported animal charities, never said ‘vagina’ out loud.
We went to Uncle George’s house for the reception. Mum made the same joke to everyone about what a nice tent it was. Eliza escaped into her own world, I was stuck in this one. I was still on display. Here we have Lizzie’s fabulous daughter. How clever. How bright. How charming. How tall. What big hips. I stuck to the script—exams, hockey, university, violin lessons, youth hostelling. Don’t mention Dad—Mum’s unspoken law.
‘I haven’t decided yet but I’m thinking about medicine or maybe pharmacy…Yes, Eliza was brilliant in Annie… She’s got another show coming up…Maybe Cambridge. The school think I’ve got a chance…Not much time for boyfriends. I did have one but I’ve been really busy…That’s right, Eliza’s my sister. Yes, very talented…Duke of Edinburgh, yes—I’m doing my silver…Yes, Eliza is quite a character.’
Yes, I hate Eliza sometimes. Yes, I get fed up talking about her. Yes, I wish my whole existence wasn’t chained to exams. Yes, I do want to scream out loud. Yes, I do need to punch someone full on in the face. You and you and you. But mainly me. Don’t worry, I won’t. Mum can rely on me.
I was introduced to Stephen and Ben. Ben was just about to start sixth form like me. Stephen was younger.
‘They could do with some decent music in here later,’ suggested Ben. ‘Screamhead are local to these parts. They should have booked them.’
‘That would be totally awesome,’ I replied.
‘You like them?’
‘Yeah, I’ve got their CD—All Quiet.’ Well, I was thinking of getting it.
‘A girl of good taste as well as good looks.’
I looked in his eyes for a flicker of sarcasm, but he meant it. My diet had paid off. Nearly an hour with the hair straighteners had been worth it.
‘See you later, Jo, I’ve got to do the relative thing, yawn, yawn.’
‘Tell me about it, puke, puke.’
I found Eliza behind the marquee with another little girl.
‘Hey, I like your routine, that’s wicked.’
I loved my sister—at that moment.
I wandered around the garden. I was happy to be with my own thoughts, now that my thoughts were good ones. Amazing gardens. Uncle George and Auntie Sue are rich. I could be rich if I wanted. But I could end up poor. I didn’t want to think about the future. I didn’t want the future to happen. I was sixteen. That’s old enough. Listening to Screamhead is better than having a mortgage. The now that I know is better than the then that I don’t.
I saw Ben again on his mobile. He waved. I went over.
‘My girlfriend checking up on me,’ he said with a grin.
Victoria and her new husband were coming towards us. We watched them gliding along the lawn. It took a long time. We waited. Then we talked about weddings. Eventually I excused myself. I said I had to find my mother. As if. I walked around the outside of the marquee. The canvas rippled in the breeze and looked vulnerable. Surely torrential rain could get through the thin material. Surely a raging storm could blow it clean away. But storms and torrential rain rarely happen. Life is full of showers and brief interludes of sunny spells. Or so it seemed.
I slid into the marquee. A big cluster of guests was gathered at one end as if the ground had been tipped up and everyone had fallen together. A solitary figure stood staring at the food. My mother.
She loved food. All her plans were about food. Her plans for the day always included mealtimes, her plans for the future involved a restaurant. When I was little, there was always a picnic. A trip to the beach plus picnic. An outing to the zoo plus picnic. A tedious journey to a forgotten relative—plus a break for a picnic. Before we left, the kitchen would smell of picnics. A mixture of mayonnaise, coffee and plastic. The basket was like Little Red Riding Hood’s. Food bulging out like buttocks under a red and white checked cloth. Gross.
There was an excitement about a picnic—my mother would whisk off the tablecloth with a flick of her wrist, like a magician—but there was no surprise. It was always the same. Soggy egg sandwiches. Lemonade. A flask of coffee. Ginger cake. Bruised apples.
‘Eat up, eat up,’ my mother would trill, like the repetitive cry of a seagull.
And there she was, smiling at the wedding food. Then she turned around and smiled at me. I think she smiled—there was some distance between us. I heard Ben’s voice behind me, talking about football. Boys always talk about football at a wedding. My father tells a story about a wedding he went to on cup final day. All the men in front of the telly, missing the speeches.
Suddenly I knew that I didn’t want to eat the food. I felt sick. I needed some air.
Uncle George was on the bench. I sat down next to him.
‘Enjoying yourself?’
‘I’m feeling a bit sick.’
‘The car journey?’
‘Probably.’
‘Seen Victoria?’
‘Yeah. She looks great.’
‘Yes.’
‘You proud?’
‘Yes. After everything.’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s hard growing up.’
‘Yes.’
‘These days.’
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t do drugs, do you, Jo?’
‘No, nothing like that.’
‘I’m proud of you, Jo. Are you happy?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘That’s all you can expect. Sometimes. Don’t expect too much, that’s the secret Jo. Don’t expect too much of people.’
‘I won’t.’
