Mothers & Daughters (5 page)

Ian caught up with us eventually. He was waiting for me one morning when I got to The Olive.

‘Carol,' he said, pushing at the bridge of his glasses. ‘I need to see you.'

‘Not here, not now,' I said, fumbling with the keys in my eagerness to escape inside. What if Moira popped in to check a customer order or a delivery, walked through the door and found a family drama unfolding in the middle of her shop? Tears and accusations amid the wooden mushrooms.

‘Carol,' he said.

‘It's Jaz you should be talking to,' I told him. The key slid home and turned. ‘Go round there. She's in.'

‘No, she isn't.'

I was genuinely surprised. ‘She was in an hour ago because I stopped off to pick up some more of Matty's clothes. She must have nipped out for something. I'd try again.'

And with that I slipped inside and locked the door against him.

He loitered for five minutes and then walked off. Good, I thought. I got on with my jobs: turning on the lights, the till, checking the post and answerphone, unpacking a load of cat-motif mugs for examination and then flattening the cardboard box ready to go in the bin out the back.

After that I flipped the sign round and opened the door. Ian was standing on the pavement opposite.

‘You can't come in,' I called, stupidly.

‘You can't stop me, I'm a customer,' he said, and walked straight over, crossed the threshold, installed himself by a display of slate clocks. No one else was around. We don't usually get anyone till ten at the earliest, so why Moira always wants the place open at nine-thirty sharp is beyond me.

Ian glanced at the shelf nearest, then picked up a marble egg and weighed it in his hand the way everyone does who touches them. ‘I'm not hanging round there indefinitely, Carol. She's in but not answering the door, and she's got the deadbolts on. She won't pick up the phone either.'

‘She will. I was chatting to her last night.'

‘We've got caller display. She won't pick up when she knows it's me.'

‘Ring from a friend's, use a different mobile.'

‘I tried that. She hung up.'

‘Can you blame her?' I said.

I watched his expression flicker for a moment. Ian isn't the kind of man who's built for deceit; he's nowhere near cool enough.

‘No, of course I don't blame her. But we can't carry on like this. I have to explain.'

‘To her, though, not to me.'

He put the egg down – I was relieved about that – and approached the counter.

‘You need to hear, Carol. You need to help. You understand Jaz better than anyone.'

It was an astute compliment on his part. ‘Well,' I said.

‘I know what I've done, I know just how badly I've messed up. I love Jaz, and Matty; they're the only things I care about. Not that woman, she was nothing. What happened was a slip. It absolutely didn't mean anything. It'll never happen again.'

‘Why did you do it, Ian?'

He shook his head. ‘I don't know.' And he did look bewildered, as though he truly couldn't fathom it.

‘You need to take responsibility,' I said.

‘That's what I'm trying—'

‘She's very, very upset.'

‘Yes. She must be.'

‘Devastated.'

‘Tell me what I can do, Carol.'

I let myself imagine, for a moment, what might have happened if someone had taken Phil aside all those years ago and told him. Whether Phil could have been straightened out. I turned my head away from Ian, and across the floor of the shop, ground-in specks of glitter winked and sparkled at me; we'd had some frosted twigs in over Christmas and they'd shed like billy-o, we'd been hoovering every day. Christmas, when Matty wasn't even walking.

I had a chance to make things good.

‘She is dreadfully hurt,' I said.

Ian hung his head. ‘I feel terrible. Please, tell me what to do.'

‘OK, then,' I said, sitting myself on the edge of the counter because by now my legs were trembling. ‘Firstly, don't corner her. Don't stake out the house or ring every half-hour. She doesn't react well to being pursued. Send her a letter – I'll give
it to her if you're worried she'll just stick it in the shredder, though I don't think she will. Give me a letter and I'll make sure she gets it. In it you say what you've told me: that you love her and Matty; that she's not done anything wrong, it's entirely your fault; that it was a stupid, joyless one-off and it will
never ever happen again
.'He was nodding emphatically. ‘That last bit's really important. You must never let her down again, Ian. She won't give you a second chance.'

She might not even give you a first, I thought, but I kept that to myself.

‘Will it work? Will she have me back?'

‘I don't know.' In my head I saw Matty, pyjama-ed, rolling his toy car up and down the newel post in their hall. ‘But you have to give it a try.'

After he'd gone I turned on the shop's CD-player and listened to some Celtic harp. I felt drained, as though I'd been doing some hard physical labour. The urge to ring Jaz was enormous, but I made myself stay off the phone because I knew I'd only blurt out something I wasn't supposed to. Though I did call the nursery and check on Matty. ‘Is anything wrong?' the girl asked me when she came back from the toddler room. ‘Nothing,' I said. Then, because I didn't want to sound weird, I said, ‘He looked a bit flushed when I dropped him off this morning.' ‘Well, he's fine now,' she said. ‘He's playing Funky Footsteps.'

We had four paying customers all morning – you can see why Moira frets – so I had plenty of time to go over events. Mainly I thought about Ian: how much did we ever really know about him? The first time Jaz mentioned him was the Christmas after she started at the Rocket café. ‘I met him on a protest, Mum,' she said, and when I told Phil he went, ‘Of course she did.'

We thought we knew what was coming. The Sullen Boys, Phil used to call them, the thin, shifty youths who refused to meet your eye and slipped away upstairs the moment you paused to draw breath. The bedroom door would shut and you'd be crashing around in the kitchen, trying not to think about what was going on above. Couldn't believe it when Ian turned up in a shirt and tie, normal hair, voice like a BBC newsreader. His table manners were lovely. ‘Were you protesting, too?' I asked him over the washing up. ‘No, I was trying to get into my office,' he said. We were so busy admiring what he wasn't, we never thought to probe what he was.

And he seemed so kind. One time he came and dug out my pond while I was at work, for a surprise. I came back to find a moulded liner, like a giant tortoise shell, propped against the back fence. I love that pond. When I spied my first load of frogspawn a few months later, he was the person I rushed to tell.

Phil reckoned Jaz was the happiest she'd ever been, and we were happy for her. How much had we all invested in this charming, earnest, motherless young man, taking him into the family, knotting him into our hopes and dreams. The day Matty was born, I'd thought my world was complete, that everything was stable at last. Goes to show how wrong you can be.

Jaz had Matty that night, so it was a chance for me to catch up on jobs before I drove up to Chester library for a lecture on Clarice Cliff. The clematis wanted tying back before it snapped, and I'd some raffle ticket stubs to fill out and give back to Laverne, an outrageous estimated gas bill to chase up, plus my hair desperately needed a wash and blow-dry. I knew I'd have to scoot if I was going to make it out of the house for half-six.

The phone went while I was leaning over the bath side with my head under the shower.

I threw a towel round my sopping hair and ran to pick up.

‘Carol?' It was David Reid.

‘Yes; what?' I said abruptly, because once again he'd caught me on the hop.

There was a slight hesitation.

‘Ian and I were talking at breakfast this morning. I gather you're acting as mediator.'

‘Ahm, I suppose, yes.'

‘He's very relieved. Jasmine's still not taking his calls.'

‘No.'

‘So what's been the reaction? Do you think we might be making progress?'

The towel was sliding to one side and cold water was trickling down the back of my neck. I said, ‘I've not spoken to Jaz yet, but I'm seeing her for tea tomorrow and we'll talk then. To be honest, just at this—'

‘Good,' he said, sounding like a headmaster. ‘That's good. I'm so glad you decided to help.'

I felt a hot flare rise up inside my chest.

‘
Well, someone's got to try and make something out of this mess
,' I said. Then I hung up and stood with my hand over my eyes for a moment. It wasn't David's fault; he hadn't deserved that. But then, what a bloody imperious thing for him to say. I was right, I was wrong. I was very hot, suddenly. When I looked across the room I could see myself in the mirror:
Middle-aged Woman in a Turban, Flushed
. You'd think I'd have learned by now to be wise and serene. I put my palms to the sides of my face and lifted the slack skin tauter.

The next second, the phone rang again.

I snatched at the receiver. ‘
Yes?
'

‘God's sake,' said the voice of my ex-husband. ‘No need to
be like that. I only wanted to ask what's going on with our Jaz.'

Too late now for Clarice Cliff, but I reckoned I could still make it to the gym if I put a spurt on. I needed to work out my temper on something. And to be with other women, have a giggle, listen to some music and get out from inside my own head.

Why didn't you tell me, Carol?

Because Jaz said she wanted a chance to think
.

So how come she's just told me now?

I don't know, Phil. I don't know why Jaz would do that
.

Upstairs, then, for my T-shirt and leggings. My trainers were supposed to be in the bottom of the wardrobe, but weren't. Were they by the back door? What was this? My top slipped off the hanger and crumpled to beggary—

Is she right?

What do you mean?

Has he been playing away?

Of course he has. He's confessed
.

Fucking hell
.

That about sums it up, yes
.

A different top, then, with longer sleeves. That would be too warm, but no choice. At least the leggings were in an OK state.

What are we going to do?

I don't see what we can do. I'm looking after Matty
.

You do that anyway
.

Not this much. Everything else is on hold, I can't get on with my ordinary stuff. I'm not complaining, Phil, I love him being here. I just want it to go back to normal, for us all
.

Answerphone on, trainers located and laced—

Have you talked to her?

Obviously I've talked to her, I've done nothing else for over a week. But she's confused at the moment. I think it has to come down to Jaz, whether she wants him back or not. Then we have to support her either way
.

What do you reckon she should do?

Whatever she thinks is best for her and Matty
.

Bottle of water, bottle of water, keys keys keys—

Ian's a shit
.

Well, yes
.

Keys. Coat—

And that's when the phone rang again, and it was Jaz on the machine, and this time I knew I wasn't going anywhere.

CHAPTER 5

Photograph 311, Album Three

Location: Chester Rows

Taken by: Carol

Subject: Jaz and Solange Moreau, school French exchange student, stand arm in arm, grinning. Solange is neat and minxy in her mini-skirt and boots: obviously French mothers are more liberal regarding their daughters' attire. Jaz is much more suitably kitted out in jeans, sweater and long, lime-green scarf. Next to them is Jaz's friend, Natalie, standing apart, looking suspicious. Behind them all is Phil. He's pulling the same stupid expression as the one in his school photograph of 1968
.

Carol has enjoyed having Solange to stay: she is drawn by the girl's fractured English, and the fact that she's away from home at such a young age. And the attraction seems to be mutual. Not an hour ago, Solange produced from nowhere a lovely set of soaps bearing an impossibly expensive label, and handed them over. ‘For my vacation mother,' she explains prettily. ‘Well, aren't they beautiful?' says Carol, impressed. ‘But you shouldn't have. However did you afford them?'

When Jaz translates, Solange laughs and laughs, as though it's the funniest line she's ever heard. Carol can't see the joke,
and nor, judging by their expressions, can Jaz or Nat. Strange creatures, teenage girls. There's been a terrible atmosphere in the house for nearly two days now. She presumes they've had some kind of a fall-out. Whatever it is, it can't be Carol's fault, because she's bent over backwards to make the visit a success
.

Not to worry. Solange returns to France tomorrow, and then everything will be back to normal
.

Jaz said she'd gone to pick Matty up from nursery as usual, and he had not been there.

‘It's all right,' she went on, before I could begin hyperventilating. ‘I mean, he's with me now.'

She paused, and I could hear him chuntering in the background. ‘Oh, God, love,' I said.

And she told me this: that while she stood shaking in the hallway, among all the little coats and bags, the nursery manager came with a message about Matty's daddy collecting him twenty minutes ago. No, he hadn't mentioned where they were headed. But Mr Reid had forgotten Matty's jumper, so maybe Mrs Reid could take it. Jaz hadn't waited to argue, she'd simply grabbed the jumper and dashed out onto the pavement, scanning up and down in case she could see Ian's car. For a few minutes she ran the length of the road and back again without knowing what she was doing. Then she gathered herself to ring Ian's number on her mobile. It took two goes before he answered, at which point he calmly told her to cross the street. So she did, and through the window of a grotty little café she saw them: Matty in a high chair eating a bowl of chips, Ian with a newspaper open in front of him. ‘He
waved
at me, Mum, like it was no big deal.' When she went in, he invited her to stay and have a coffee with them. But she was too agitated to sit down. ‘I didn't know where the hell you were!' she told him. ‘You could have taken him anywhere.'
And Ian said simply, ‘He's my son, Jaz. I can take him anywhere I want.'