Page 31 of The F*cking Fabulous Forties Club

My mother laughs at my shocked expression, until tears start to slide down her cheeks. She looks beautiful, and joyous and happy and I can’t help but start to laugh too.

‘I told you I knew some things,’ she says eventually as she wipes the tears from her eyes.

‘I believe you! I don’t need a demonstration,’ I laugh. ‘Just promise me one thing. Please don’t go on Tinder. Because I really don’t want to have to try and explain to you what a fuckboy is…’

‘Rebecca!’ my mother scolds. ‘Language!’

21

THE MAGIC MONEY TREE

I stay with my mother all afternoon. She even accompanies me on a short walk around Brooke Park with Daniel, who thankfully behaves like the sweet angel baby he is and walks on the lead beautifully. We have one potentially worrying moment when he catches a whiff of a sausage roll emanating from Gwyn’s Cafe close to the park gates. Thankfully, I am able to distract him with some cleverly secreted ham I put in a food bag in my pocket before we left the house, just in case of such incidents.

While the air is cold, it’s dry and we’re able to enjoy the fresh early winter weather. The sun hangs low and lazy in the sky and as Mum and I walk arm in arm up and down the well-tended pathways we reminisce about my childhood. We had so many picnics here on these lawns, before or after exhausting ourselves in the playpark at the top of the hill, or getting soaked to the skin in the large central fountain. The park was always so busy, so full of life and while it is still beautiful, I don’t think it still attracts families for full days out the way it used to. I suppose we all have so many other options these days.

But we didn’t need anything else when I was young. I know, I’m sounding like an old woman reminiscing about ‘the good old days’ but they were good. Laura, Niamh and I spent so much time sitting on the benches of this park poring over a joint copy of Smash Hits or taking turns to listen to Niamh’s Walkman. One summer we upgraded to a boombox and would practice our dance routines on the grass, blasting out the hits of Stock, Aiken and Waterman. God only knows what the other people in the park thought at the sight. I imagine they thought there was a bit of a want in all three of us, but they were good times and innocent times when we didn’t have to think about whatever else might have been going on in our home city or across Northern Ireland. Our parents, all of them, from Kitty to Mum and Dad, and Niamh’s parents too, did their very best to protect us from the harshest realities of The Troubles. But we weren’t ignorant of them – we just learned to live with them.

‘Are you lost in your own wee world?’ my mother asks as we walk towards the park gates to head home again. ‘I thought I was supposed to be the one in danger of doting.’

I smile. ‘I’m just remembering,’ I tell her. ‘And thinking how grateful I am that I grew up when I did. If you ignore what was happening politically, those were easier times.’

‘Hard to ignore what was happening politically though,’ my mum says. ‘But I agree. You know, going back to what we were talking about earlier, about living your life differently… maybe the only regret I have, and it’s a small one all the same, is that we didn’t move away from here when things were bad. Then again, nowhere else would’ve felt like home.’

‘Where would you have moved?’ I ask her. ‘If you could’ve chosen anywhere in the world. Where would you have gone?’

‘I’m a home-bird, love. I’d probably not have moved further than Donegal, just over the border. And I’d have been content as anything there, as long as I could see the sea. Do you remember that year we rented a house down in The Downings? And the sun shone the whole week? I don’t think you and Ruairi even had a cross word between you the whole time. We spent our days on the beach together. It was blissful. I’d have settled for that. Hey, maybe I’ll go wild and book myself a week away down there – since we’re all talking about living big and doing mad things!’ she says as we walk through the cast-iron gates onto Creggan Hill where the immediate sound of the after-school traffic reminds us that as much as Brooke Park is quiet and calming, it is only an oasis in the middle of the city.

An idea comes into my mind that maybe I could get Ruairi on board with Caroline and the kids and plan a family break. All of us heading to The Downings. If we make sure it’s when the boys are home from university then there’s a chance we could all – the remaining Burnsides – be in the same place at the same time creating some shared memories.

By the time we’re back at her house and I’m cooking her dinner I’m feeling positively on top of the world. The afternoon has been lovely. I can’t remember the last time we laughed together so much or were so open with each other. This family break is something I shouldn’t let slide. Then again, I still haven’t figured out where I’m getting this magic money tree I’ll need. A holiday with the girls. A holiday with the family. Going to gigs or festivals. Helping Saul with his expenses. Maybe it’s time to consider selling some feet pictures on OnlyFans or something. I’d have to get a series of preparatory pedicures first and they don’t come cheap though, especially not with my feet, which I have neglected over the years.

I might need to find some other way to make some cash.

The words my mother is sure my father would’ve said come to mind. ‘You’ll be dead for a long time, so get your living in now.’ Maybe I shouldn’t worry so much about raiding my savings. Not that I think there’s that much in the account any more thanks to a broken-down car, Saul and Adam’s accommodation costs and his emergency plea for financial assistance, but surely there has to be enough for a week in a cottage in rural Donegal? And if Ruairi is coming, he can chip in too. Lord knows he makes more money than I do, and his wife, Caroline, has a high-paid job with the Council.

I’ve made Mum her favourite dinner of mashed potato, peas and pork chops. To my surprise she instructs me to cook up the one leftover chop still in her fridge and feed it to ‘that dog’.

‘Sure, it will only go off if he doesn’t eat it,’ she says. ‘And it’s a sin to waste food.’ But I notice her ruffling his fur and he nuzzles against her and I can see she is definitely less averse to him than usual.

Once I’ve washed up, I head for home – walking again, much to Daniel’s delight. I’m pretty sure he thinks all his birthdays have come at once getting three walks in the one day. I only hope he’s not going to expect this level of physical activity every day going forward, although it does cross my mind that if I really need to increase my income I could maybe take on dog walking. Daniel would love it, apart from the fact he can get a little possessive of me. But I could possibly make a few extra quid, and walk the legs off myself leading me to become a toned and lithe MILF instead of the walking Bird’s Trifle I feel I’m morphing into.

I sigh, and Daniel stares up at me mournfully before nuzzling his head against my leg. ‘I know,’ I tell him. ‘I shouldn’t be body shaming myself. It’s the patriarchy, Daniel. I can’t help it. It’s programmed in us to hate our bodies. But you’re right. Haven’t I promised myself I’ll make peace with my body? I think I need to workshop that with the girls a bit,’ I say, but Daniel has been distracted by a strong scent near some hedges and hauls me across the path so that he can liberally apply some Eau De Fox Poo on his furry little pulse points.

These are the times when I fully understand why my mother calls him ‘that dog’, I think, as I fight to pull him away from the godawful stench. My heart sinks at the thought of having to give him a bath when we get home. I’m definitely running on fumes right now and was really hoping to just curl up in front of the fire with the TV on while I scour my laptop for ideas on how women of a certain age can start to fall in love with their bodies before segueing into searching holiday homes in Donegal where I can take my mum for a much-deserved break. Instead, I will be up to my elbows in poo-infused water, trying my best to stop a slippery dog from escaping from the bath and causing unknown havoc as he bolts for freedom around the house.

I make a mental note to make sure whatever accommodation I book for my mother’s break is also dog friendly. Daniel would love the chance to spend a week getting to run among the sand dunes and roll in all sorts of coastline unmentionables.

Yes, there’s a lot to plan and a lot of things to think about just now but it’s all good. This is me taking control. I am empowering myself. Becki would be proud.

As long as I can stay awake long enough to do so, I think with a yawn as we finally reach home and I shoo Daniel into the bathroom before he can rub his new favourite scent all over my sofa and rugs.

22

A FAMILY-SIZED BAG OF MALTESERS

To my shame, the rest of the working week zooms by at a rate of knots and my research doesn’t go much further than falling down a number of online rabbit holes that started with good intentions but ended quite unproductively.

Where I started to look into holiday rentals in Donegal, I ended up – somehow – watching countless true crime cases online of sociopaths luring unsuspecting holiday makers to their demise. When I started to research tattoo ideas I ended up watching six episodes back to back of Just Tattoo of Us and wondering why anyone would subject themselves to getting a tattoo done that they hadn’t personally approved and which could turn out to be pretty offensive.

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