Before She Was Mine
Read Before She Was Mine Online
Authors: Kate Long
Kate Long
is the author of
The Bad Mother’s Handbook
,
Swallowing Grandma
,
Queen Mum
,
The Daughter Game
and
Mothers & Daughters
. She was born and raised in Lancashire and lives with her husband and two sons in Shropshire. Visit her website
www.katelong.co.uk
.
ALSO BY KATE LONG
The Bad Mother’s Handbook
Swallowing Grandma
Queen Mum
The Daughter Game
Mothers & Daughters
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2011
A CBS COMPANY
This paperback edition first published 2012
Copyright © Kate Long, 2011
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.
The right of Kate Long to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
1st Floor
222 Gray’s Inn Road
London wc1x 8hb
Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney
Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 978-1-84739-896-3
EBOOK ISBN 978-1-84737-755-5
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Typeset by M Rules
Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, cr0 4yy
For baby Hope,
and for Julia
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to Alison Winward for allowing me to use her brilliant notes on life in Nablus; to Matt from Holly Farm Nursery, Whitchurch; to my dear friend Julia Black for
talking so frankly to me about her experience with cancer; to Jill Arnold and the fantastic team from Shrews bury Social Services, and Alison Millen from Adoption UK; to valleyforge, Fritillary,
The Woodman, Malcolm Banks, Phoebe, nakedgardener and Charles Halliday at Wild About Britain; to Nicky Hunter, Sandra Kinsey, Simon Williams, Simon Long, John Harding and Helen Day; to the team
at RCW, and to all at Simon & Schuster.
As we come out of the Arndale, Melody breaks into a run and we end up sprinting across the precinct, shopping bags swinging as we dodge leafleteers and
people with clipboards. I ask her why we’re running and she shouts back that she doesn’t know. Passers-by must assume we’re shoplifters, evading pursuit. I can see them checking
the crowds behind us for security guards. It’s a wonder no one tries to make a citizen’s arrest.
We stumble into the entrance of H&M and thank God it’s cool and calm in there, Mika playing cheerily over the loudspeaker. Melody takes a moment to adjust her little skirt where
it’s ridden up round her thighs, and I unzip my camouflage jacket. No one turns a hair.
First thing that draws me in is a stand loaded with plimsolls, because my last pair got ruined when I had to check the cattle after it had been raining all week and the nature reserve was like a
swamp. There are some navy trainers I think are smart, and I’m turning them over to see the size stickers on the soles when it occurs to me I ought to be keeping at least half an eye on
Melody. I look round and she’s in the far corner, trying on dark glasses and a beret and draping ten scarves round her neck and shoving twenty bracelets up her arm. As I watch, she prances
off round the store, still loaded with unpaid-for goods.
Well, so far, so good. She’s not upset anyone and the accessories I can strip off her before we pass through the security portal. Mika finishes, Take That comes on. Suddenly I can tell by
her body language she’s spotted something. She quivers, like a pointer. Then she starts rifling through one of the clothing racks, shoving hangers left and right, eager at first and then with
increasing irritation. She scans the store, does a double take, strides over to a two-foot podium where a half-mannequin’s kitted out in a Union Jack blazer, and clambers up to examine the
label. Next thing she’s trying to wrench the jacket off, tugging at the buttons, cursing the pins at the back. Other customers are beginning to stare.
I have the choice of either going across and claiming her, or walking out of the shop and leaving her to it. With my head lowered I make my way quickly to the podium.
‘The smallest on the rail’s a ten,’ she says in explanation. Pins tinkle to the floor. The mannequin rocks.
‘Get down. Ask a member of staff,’ I hiss. ‘They’ve probably got a box full of eights in the back.’
‘It’ll be fine. God, don’t they want people to buy stuff?’
The blazer slides off, bringing with it the mannequin’s lower arm. Melody jumps down smartly. Assistants are closing in.
‘See,’ she says, pulling on the jacket. She twists to look in the mirror. The labels from the hat and glasses dangle over her nose.
Here comes the manager, a young guy in a suit that’s too big for him.There’s a terrible shaving rash all down his neck. The rest of the staff part respectfully to let him
through.
‘Could you and your sister leave the shop, please,’ he says.
Melody starts to laugh: she’s laughing at my expression, at the boy-manager with his scraped-raw skin, laughing at her own laughter, and at the assistants frowning. Behind her the loose
forearm rolls off the podium and bounces onto the lino. I think she might die of laughing.
I reach out and take her collar because whatever happens, we are not buying that jacket in this store today. And I tell him, ‘She’s not my sister, she’s my mother.’
Later, back at Liv’s, and I’m feeling peckish. There being nothing in the fridge and the bread gone to mould, I venture into what Liv refers to as the
‘downstairs cloakroom’ to see what’s in the freezer.
Before I can get to the freezer itself, I have to pick my way through boxes of pamphlets on Meres and Mosses, towers of mammal traps, a pile of wellingtons and waders and grabbers and poles, and
shift a stuffed otter out of the way.
Next, having tugged the door open, I spend a minute or two chipping off a layer of ice because the last person to close up – Liv, or possibly the idiot Geraint – didn’t do the
job properly. When I do free the top drawer I find it’s empty apart from a lone sandwich bag containing nibbled iris leaves. I shove the drawer back in again lumpily.
Pointless pulling out the second one down as it’s permanent home to Victor the vole who Liv uses for field study training sessions. Melody claims the freezer also houses Billy the
Bacterium and Gerry the Germ, but to be fair Liv’s always scrupulous about how she stores her props. Inside his box Victor’s shrouded in cling film, kitchen foil and a zip-seal plastic
pocket. God forbid any harm should come to the vole.
The bottom drawer’s worth a try. Usually there’s a packet of emergency fish cakes to be had, or sausages, or at the very least frozen Yorkshire puddings. Very versatile is your
Yorkshire pudding. You can eat them on their own, or with tomato soup, jam, beans, anything really.
But today all I see as I pull out the wire basket is a white polythene bag with something grey showing through. I lift the bag out and have a feel. Encouragingly, there are the remains of a
supermarket label still stuck to the side. The shape is long and solid, cosh-like.
I think what we have here is a trout.
I consider for a moment. Yep, it’s OK, I can cook a trout. All you have to do is stick it under the grill. It needs defrosting, but if I take it out now I could conceivably have it for
supper, especially if I give it a quick blast in the microwave to start the process off. You sprinkle lemon juice and salt on; I’ve seen Nigella do it.
Grasping the trout in one hand I try to wrestle the drawer shut with the other. It won’t budge. I swap hands. I put the trout down and try shunting with my knee.
Then Liv’s voice calls across the corridor from her office: ‘Freya? If you’re in the freezer, don’t touch the trout. Geraint wants to use it for baiting mink
traps.’
And this is my other mother.
From Liv’s diary,
12/04
First meeting over, I think OK.
Dropped Frey off at station entrance & went for pointless walk round back streets of Crewe. Christmas lights up, gloomy afternoon, eerie atmosphere like before a storm. Must have checked
watch every
2
mins. Promised F I’d wait in car park till they’d finished but needed loo so had to go past station café anyway. Freya & Melody sitting in window,
couldn’t believe how young M looks. She was waving her hands around in the middle of some story. F completely rapt. Wanted to stand & watch but knew I mustn’t .
Was dreading having to go in & get her in case seemed needy, but she came out when she said she would. M small next to her, gypsyish, in huge long coat. Pointy cat’s face, eyes like
a cat. F’s face.
M came up to me & speech I’d rehearsed went out of head. Left F in the car & had ¼ hour with M. She said, ‘It’s a dream come true, isn’t it?’
Didn’t stop for me to answer. I managed to get in that I was grateful for her letters, & tell her how well F doing at school, predicted grades etc. M began to talk about her own time as
schoolgirl, best/worst subjects etc. Had to cut her
short because it began to sleet & F waiting. Said we’d all meet again, hugged briefly. Thought she might say thanks for bringing
up her daughter, but she didn’t. Perhaps meant to & overwhelmed.
F quiet on way home. I didn’t press her. When got back made cheese on toast, couldn’t eat mine & found F’s in the bin later. Suggested we watch
Meerkats United
DVD. F said she was tired & wanted to go up to her room. Whole house felt odd.
Later got out some of her toddler clothes & the wooden blocks Col made for her. F came back down & we had chat about her early years. She said she hated not being able to remember
Col, that it was sometimes hard to believe he’d been real. I said, ‘Oh, your dad was real & he loved you to bits.’ Felt weepy but fought it. She said, ‘It’ll work
out all right, Mum, I promise you.’ Hope she’s right. I want to be hopeful.
