and discover what transforms her into a hermit. Perhaps Ma’s sobriety is a lie and she spends three days as a dancer in a high-kicking line of women with frothy petticoats. Perhaps it is something for which I have no word.
I slip from my uncle’s lap. He does not stir. His breath wheezes in and out, halfway to a snore. I pour a cup of tea and stir in an extra spoonful of sugar. Nana is always praising its powers. By taking a cup to my slumbering mother I shall prove I care for her.
I tiptoe up the stairs with such a pounding of the heart, I think it will pop out of my mouth. The cup shivers on its saucer in a sympathetic rhythm. I pause at the stairhead. Ma’s door presents a blank face. I try the handle and nothing happens. I am surprised by how relieved I feel. I can slink downstairs, climb back on to my uncle’s knee and chide myself for disobedience. He can drink the tea.
But the catch is merely stiff. I twist it fully and the chamber releases with a clank. The door swings open, hinges shrieking. The curtains block out the sunlight but I can make out the mound of Ma’s body upon the bed, bundled up beneath the quilt. The noise is sure to have woken her. She does not move.
‘Ma?’ I whisper. ‘Here’s a lovely cup of tea.’ I hold my offering at arm’s length as if its perfume might steal into her nostrils and tempt her awake. ‘It’s nice and hot. Just as you like it.’
Nothing. My hand trembles. The china clinks.
‘Ma?’ I say, louder.
Outside, the rag and bone man yells rag a’ bo’aah! loud enough to rouse a bear from hibernation. Ma does not budge.
‘Ma!’ I cry.
I run to her bedside. There is not so much as the gentlest snore to be heard, not a breath. I’m seized with panic. Have women’s problems been the death of her? Hard on the heels of fear dawns the thought that if she is dead, Uncle Arthur can stay forever. I will be happy. I shove it away but it is too late: it is the worst thought I’ve ever had. Everything Ma says is true. She does know me better than I know myself. I am a horrible child.
‘Ma?’ I quaver. ‘Please don’t be dead. I love you.’ I try to sound sincere, but quail with the knowledge that she’ll know I’m lying. ‘I don’t want you to die!’ I wail.
She does not answer. I don’t deserve to have a mother. I don’t deserve anything. I reach out and grasp her shoulder. It is pliable to the touch. Hardly like bone.
‘Ma?’ I ask, withdrawing my hand.
There is no reply. I prod her with a timid finger. She gives way as though her body is the consistency of rag pudding. Some awful change has been wrought upon her. The ailments at which she hints so darkly are so ferocious they have rendered her boneless. Crazed with misery and terror, I shake her – hard. Something breaks off under the blankets. I freeze. The room is ghastly with silence.
‘Ma!’ I shriek. ‘I’ve killed you!’
I hurl myself on to her prone form, hugging her so fiercely the headboard rattles. The cup of tea spills across the eiderdown. I must clean it right away or it will stain. I tear away the covers, revealing Ma’s body. Except it is not Ma’s body. I blink. It has to be, I tell myself. But, however many times I squeeze my eyes shut and open them, the truth is incontrovertible. Laid along the length of the mattress is a line of cushions.
My mind reels. Where has she gone?
I race downstairs to tell Uncle Arthur the terrible news. He nods in the chair, blanketed in the scent of baking. If I wake him, this moment will shatter as surely as if I threw a bucket of stones upon it. I dread what he may say: that Ma is a dancer in the halls, does make a spectacle of herself in a skirt of feathers and nothing else.
But that’s not what I truly fear. I don’t know why, but somehow I’ll be the one to blame for Ma’s absence. After all, I’m the one Ma never kisses. I’m the one Ma won’t hug. If Ma goes away for three days, it’s bound to be because of me.
I can’t bear the thought of Uncle Arthur’s face changing from love to coldness; can’t bear the thought that today’s hug may be the last. I tiptoe to my room, and do not speak a word: not to him, not to Nana, not even to the picture of Papa. If I don’t tell, no one will know what I’ve discovered. If I pretend hard enough, maybe I can convince myself it didn’t happen. Even if it’s a lie, I’d rather have a happy lie than the agonising truth.
Two days later, Ma is in the kitchen when I come downstairs for breakfast. I run to her and bury my face into her apron.
‘Don’t cling,’ she snaps. ‘You’re not a baby. I can’t move for your mithering.’
‘Where’ve you been?’ I moan.
‘In bed.’
I squeeze harder. She walks peg-leg across the kitchen, dragging me with her. I’m so relieved to see her that any determination to keep my secret disappears into thin air.
‘No you weren’t.’
She grinds to a halt and grasps my shoulders. ‘What did you say?’
‘I brought you a cup of tea,’ I mumble. ‘You weren’t there.’
Her features twist. She looks like a dog backed into a corner. ‘I told you never to disturb me!’ she roars, giving me a furious shake. ‘Spying on me, were you?’
‘I was scared you’d gone forever!’
‘Scared?’ Her eyes shift from cornered to crafty. ‘Yes, of course I’d gone. I can’t stand being around you with your infernal snivelling and pawing.’
‘Ma!’ I wail.
‘Don’t you come crying to me. All you had to do was give me three days’ peace. You’ve brought this on yourself.’
This is the secret Ma and Nana argue about. I should have guessed it. I am so unlovable my own mother has to escape from me each month. This is why she is always angry. I deserve it. I must do. Ma would never lie. Of all the tasks I set myself, it was to make Ma love me. I have failed.
Every night it’s the same.
I come to, gasping, and I’m off that bed like it’s on fire. I squint at the mirror but won’t be convinced till I’ve run my hands the long and the short of what I see: head, fingers, knees and toes, ballocks and bumhole. It’s only then I can breathe easy. I’m in one piece, all twelve fine upstanding years of me.
It’s a crying shame to cover such a splendid specimen but I can’t go outdoors in my birthday suit and that’s a fact. Nor shall I wear out this night in self-admiration when there’s adventure to be had. The moon doth shine as bright as day, et cetera, and I have merriment to attend to. A lad of my mettle can perish of cloistering cling and playlessness.
I drag my britches from underneath the mattress where they’ve been pressed a treat and tuck my hair under my cap. With my shirt half-buttoned I’m
