brows. She begins to laugh. ‘Look at you – back in your uniform and almost as scruffy as the kiddies!
You need a haircut, sweetie. Oh dear, what’s with the stormy look?’
I sag against the doorframe, trailing my blazer on the floor. ‘It’s the third time this week, Mum,’ I protest wearily.
‘I know, I know, but I couldn’t possibly miss this. Davey finaly signed the contract for the new restaurant and wants to go out and celebrate!’ She opens her mouth in an exclamation of delight and, when my expression fails to thaw, swiftly changes the subject. ‘How was your day, sweetie pie?’
I manage a wry smile. ‘Great, Mum. As usual.’
‘Wonderful!’ she exclaims, choosing to ignore the sarcasm in my voice. If there’s one thing my mother excels at, it’s minding her own business. ‘Only a year now – not even that – and you’l be free of school and al that siliness.’ Her smile broadens. ‘And soon you’l finaly turn eighteen and realy wil be the man of the house!’
I lean my head back against the doorjamb. The man of the house. She’s been caling me that since I was twelve, ever since Dad left.
Turning back to the mirror, she presses her breasts together beneath the top of her low-cut dress.
‘How do I look? I got paid today and treated myself to a shopping spree.’ She flashes me a mischievous grin as if we were conspirators in this little extravagance. ‘Look at these gold sandals. Aren’t they darling?’
I am unable to return the smile. I wonder how much of her monthly wage has already been spent. Retail therapy has been an addiction for years now. Mum is desperate to cling onto her youth, a time when her beauty turned heads in the street, but her looks are rapidly fading, face prematurely aged by years of hard living.
‘You look great,’ I answer roboticaly.
Her smile fades a little. ‘Lochan, come on, don’t be like this. I need your help tonight. Dave is taking me somewhere realy special – you know the place that’s just opened on Stratton Road opposite the cinema?’
‘OK, OK. It’s fine, have fun.’ With considerable effort I erase the frown and manage to keep the resentment out of my voice. There is nothing particularly wrong with Dave. Of the long string of men my mother has been involved with ever since Dad left her for one of his coleagues, Dave has been the most benign. Nine years her junior and the owner of the restaurant where she now works as head waitress, he is currently separated from his wife. But like each of Mum’s flings, he appears to possess the same strange power al men have over her, the ability to transform her into a giggling, flirting, fawning girl, desperate to spend her hard-earned cash on unnecessary presents for her ‘man’ and tight-fitting, revealing outfits for herself. Tonight it is barely five o’clock and already her face is flushed with anticipation as she tarts herself up for this dinner, no doubt having spent the last hour fretting over what to wear. Puling back her freshly highlighted blonde perm, she is now experimenting with some exotic hairdo and asking me to fasten her fake diamond necklace – a present from Dave – that she swears is real. Her curvy figure barely fits into a dress her sixteen-year-old daughter wouldn’t be seen dead in, and the comment ‘mutton dressed as lamb’, regularly overheard from neighbours’ front gardens, echoes in my ears.
I close my bedroom door behind me and lean against it for a few moments, relishing this smal patch of carpet that is my own. It never used to be a bedroom, just a smal storage room with a bare window, but I managed to squeeze a camp bed in here three years ago when I realized that sharing a bunk bed with siblings had some serious drawbacks. It is one of the few places where I can be completely alone: no pupils with knowing eyes and mocking smirks; no teachers firing questions at me; no shouting, jostling bodies. And there is stil a smal oasis of time before our
You need a haircut, sweetie. Oh dear, what’s with the stormy look?’
I sag against the doorframe, trailing my blazer on the floor. ‘It’s the third time this week, Mum,’ I protest wearily.
‘I know, I know, but I couldn’t possibly miss this. Davey finaly signed the contract for the new restaurant and wants to go out and celebrate!’ She opens her mouth in an exclamation of delight and, when my expression fails to thaw, swiftly changes the subject. ‘How was your day, sweetie pie?’
I manage a wry smile. ‘Great, Mum. As usual.’
‘Wonderful!’ she exclaims, choosing to ignore the sarcasm in my voice. If there’s one thing my mother excels at, it’s minding her own business. ‘Only a year now – not even that – and you’l be free of school and al that siliness.’ Her smile broadens. ‘And soon you’l finaly turn eighteen and realy wil be the man of the house!’
I lean my head back against the doorjamb. The man of the house. She’s been caling me that since I was twelve, ever since Dad left.
Turning back to the mirror, she presses her breasts together beneath the top of her low-cut dress.
‘How do I look? I got paid today and treated myself to a shopping spree.’ She flashes me a mischievous grin as if we were conspirators in this little extravagance. ‘Look at these gold sandals. Aren’t they darling?’
I am unable to return the smile. I wonder how much of her monthly wage has already been spent. Retail therapy has been an addiction for years now. Mum is desperate to cling onto her youth, a time when her beauty turned heads in the street, but her looks are rapidly fading, face prematurely aged by years of hard living.
‘You look great,’ I answer roboticaly.
Her smile fades a little. ‘Lochan, come on, don’t be like this. I need your help tonight. Dave is taking me somewhere realy special – you know the place that’s just opened on Stratton Road opposite the cinema?’
‘OK, OK. It’s fine, have fun.’ With considerable effort I erase the frown and manage to keep the resentment out of my voice. There is nothing particularly wrong with Dave. Of the long string of men my mother has been involved with ever since Dad left her for one of his coleagues, Dave has been the most benign. Nine years her junior and the owner of the restaurant where she now works as head waitress, he is currently separated from his wife. But like each of Mum’s flings, he appears to possess the same strange power al men have over her, the ability to transform her into a giggling, flirting, fawning girl, desperate to spend her hard-earned cash on unnecessary presents for her ‘man’ and tight-fitting, revealing outfits for herself. Tonight it is barely five o’clock and already her face is flushed with anticipation as she tarts herself up for this dinner, no doubt having spent the last hour fretting over what to wear. Puling back her freshly highlighted blonde perm, she is now experimenting with some exotic hairdo and asking me to fasten her fake diamond necklace – a present from Dave – that she swears is real. Her curvy figure barely fits into a dress her sixteen-year-old daughter wouldn’t be seen dead in, and the comment ‘mutton dressed as lamb’, regularly overheard from neighbours’ front gardens, echoes in my ears.
I close my bedroom door behind me and lean against it for a few moments, relishing this smal patch of carpet that is my own. It never used to be a bedroom, just a smal storage room with a bare window, but I managed to squeeze a camp bed in here three years ago when I realized that sharing a bunk bed with siblings had some serious drawbacks. It is one of the few places where I can be completely alone: no pupils with knowing eyes and mocking smirks; no teachers firing questions at me; no shouting, jostling bodies. And there is stil a smal oasis of time before our