Miss You Read Free Page A

Mum’s hair was unbrushed at the back. She had been in bed when I arrived. Just tired, Hope had said. She’d had four weeks of coping on her own.
    ‘I can do that,’ I offered, taking the kettle from her.
    I felt the first whisper of alarm when I noticed the collection of dirty mugs in the kitchen sink. Mum must really be exhausted, because she always kept the place spotless.
    ‘Where’s Dad?’ I asked.
    ‘Down the pub, I expect,’ said Mum.
    ‘Why don’t you go back upstairs and I’ll bring you a cup?’
    To my surprise, because nothing was ever too much trouble for Mum, she said, ‘All right,’ then added, as if she’d only just remembered I’d been away, ‘How was your
holiday?’
    ‘Great! It was great!’
    My face was aching with smiling at her and not getting anything back.
    ‘The journey?’
    ‘Fine!’
    She was already on her way back upstairs.
    When I took the tea up, my parents’ bedroom door was open and I caught a glimpse of Mum’s reflection in the dressing-table mirror before I entered the room. You know how sometimes
you see people differently when they’re not aware you’re looking at them? She was lying with her eyes closed, as if some vital essence had drained from her, leaving her insubstantial,
like an echo of herself. For a couple of seconds I stared, and then she stirred, suddenly noticing me standing there.
    Her eyes, bright with anxiety, locked on mine, telegraphing,
Don’t ask in front of Hope.
Then, seeing I was alone, closed again, relieved.
    ‘Let’s sit you up,’ I said.
    She leaned against me as I plumped up the pillows behind her, and her body felt light and fragile. Half an hour before, I’d been walking up the Crescent, hating how familiar and ordinary
it was, and now everything was shifting around me like an earthquake and I desperately wanted it to go back to normal.
    ‘I’m poorly, Tess,’ she said, in answer to the question I was too scared to ask.
    I waited for her to say, ‘It’s OK, though, because . . .’ But she didn’t.
    ‘What sort of poorly?’ I asked, giddy with panic.
    Mum was diagnosed with breast cancer when she was pregnant with Hope. She hadn’t had the chemo until after Hope was born, but she’d recovered. She’d had to go regularly for a
check-up but the last one, just a few months ago, had been clear.
    ‘I’ve got cancer of the ovary and it’s spread to my liver,’ she said. ‘I should have gone to the doctor before, but I thought it was a bit of
indigestion.’
    Downstairs, Hope was singing a familiar tune, but I couldn’t work out what it was.
    My brain was trying to picture Mum before I left. A bit tired, perhaps, and worried, I’d thought because of my exams. She was always there for me: in the kitchen at breakfast time, keeping
Hope quiet as I raced through my notes; and when I came home, with a cup of tea and a listening ear if I wanted to talk, or if I didn’t, just pottering around washing up or chopping
vegetables, a quietly supportive presence.
    How could I have been so selfish that I didn’t notice? How could I have even gone on holiday?
    ‘There was nothing you could do,’ Mum said, reading my thoughts.
    ‘But you were fine at your last scan!’
    ‘That was in my breast.’
    ‘And they don’t check the rest of you?’
    Mum put a finger to her lips.
    Hope was on her way upstairs. The nursery rhyme was ‘Goosey Goosey Gander’, except she was singing ‘Juicy Juicy Gander’.
    ‘Upstairs, downstairs, in my lady chamber . . .’
    We forced ourselves to smile as she came into the room.
    ‘I’m hungry,’ she said.
    ‘OK!’ I jumped up from the bed. ‘I’ll make your tea.’
    If I’d needed further evidence how bad things were, it was the empty fridge. Although there was never a lot of money in our family, there was always food. I felt suddenly angry with my
father. In our house the division of labour was very traditional: Dad was the breadwinner, Mum was the homemaker, but surely he could