Page 56 of Jenny James Is Not a Disaster
I wake up the next morning at six. There is no need for me to, but I guess my body clock has adjusted and these days expects me to be up, dressed, and ready for adventure before breakfast. I am in an actual bed, in an actual room, with an actual ceiling and walls. It feels strange—this is the first time I have had such privacy in a while, and I’m not sure I like it quite as much as I thought I would. It is weird, not having Luke and Charlie within shouting distance; not having Betty clambering up to greet me. Even having so much space is slightly disorientating—it’s amazing how quickly I have gone full wild.
I slept in my old room, but thankfully it has not been preserved like some creepy Museum of Me and is clearly used by another teenage girl these days—I presume my niece, Shannon. So weird to say that, and I find that I am actually looking forward to meeting her. Maybe she’ll help me re-form the Sugababes.
The walls are painted a pretty shade of lilac, and there is a dressing table and mirror in the corner scattered with abandoned tubes of lip gloss, hair clips, and the long strands of earphone wires. She’s probably been complaining to her mum for ages now about how she’s lost them.
The bed is now a small double rather than my old single, and when I poked around in the wardrobe, I found a small selection of teenage girls’ clothes. It is a bit strange, truth be told—like I am in some kind of time-slip movie where I am inhabiting a different version of my own life.
I know that there is no chance of getting back to sleep, so I get up, pad along to the bathroom, do my ablutions, and get dressed. As I make my way downstairs, I look out of the landing window and see Joy in all her glory and feel a tug of what I can only describe as homesickness. I wonder what Luke is doing, whether he is up and on his first coffee, if he’s doing a crossword or reading a book, if he’s gone for a walk with Betty and his binoculars. It might feel odd for him too, being alone again—or, for all I know, it’s a blessed relief. He was the one who chose to stay outside, instead of using one of the spare rooms.
I amble into the kitchen on autopilot, as I have done countless times before in my younger life, yawning and searching for sustenance. Frank is also awake and dashing around my ankles looking for love. He follows me into the room, and I get quite a shock when I see that my mother is already there, sitting in her dressing gown at the table, a mug of tea in front of her. Her hair is a mess, which is very unusual, and she looks exhausted.
She glances up, and her eyes widen in surprise, and I see her process of regaining control. Funny how I never noticed any of this when I was a child; never noticed how hard she works at being her.
“Jenny,” she says quietly. “Join me. I’ll get you a... what? I don’t actually know what you’d like anymore.”
“Coffee, please, Mum. White, no sugar.”
She makes my drink, and we both sit down again. Frank disappears off to another room, obviously deciding that we are no fun at all.
The new table is shiny and clear, and I find that I miss the old one, with its scrapes and scratches. It was battle-scarred and looked like it had stories to share.
“Are you okay, Mum?” I ask, gazing at her over the steam. “You look tired.”
“Glass houses and stones, dear. Couldn’t you sleep?”
“I did, actually. I’m just... well, it takes a bit of adjusting, doesn’t it?”
“In all sorts of ways, yes. I am so happy to see you, darling, I really am. And to meet Charlie of course. But... it’s been a bit of a shock. I know you sent those postcards, but I never knew, you see, if you were really safe. I’ve had to get on with life—with work, with Richard and his family and their ups and downs, with looking after your dad. But underneath all of that, I suppose I’ve always been worried about you. Now you’re here, and I can see you are fine, but I can’t quite switch it all off...”
I gulp down some coffee, and it burns my throat, and I feel kind of like I deserve it.
“I can imagine that, Mum. And I’m sorry for all that worry. I know now what it’s like to be a parent, and I know I’d be exactly the same if it was Charlie. But I’m here now, and I am indeed fine, and maybe we can make up for lost time.”
She nods firmly, as though trying to convince herself, and pats my hand.
“I am absolutely made up of questions,” she announces, “but I don’t want to come across like the Spanish Inquisition... Where have you been living?”
“Most recently, Norfolk, for a long time actually. At first, London, then Kent. Then I followed work to the east coast. We had a lovely cottage there, where Charlie has lived for most of his life, but it... well, funny story actually, Mum, but it fell into the sea!”
She looks understandably shocked and replies, “Goodness! That doesn’t sound especially funny, Jenny—it could have been a tragedy!”
“I know. But it wasn’t. And anyway, that’s how we ended up doing this—traveling with Luke. And if we hadn’t done that, then we might not have ended up here, so it’s all worked out in a way. Who needs a large-screen telly anyway?”
“Oh, I do, sweetheart—my eyes aren’t what they were! But I know what you mean. You do seem... happy.”
That, I realize, hasn’t always been the case. If by some freak coincidence I’d bumped into my mum a year ago, I’m not so sure she wouldn’t have seen through me—used her mum X-ray superpowers to look beneath my skin and see that I was actually lonely, anxious, wrapped up in fear and regret. I don’t think I even knew that myself—it’s taken some pretty strange events to understand what was really going on.
“What’s up with Dad?” I ask, keen to distract the Spanish Inquisition before she gets her knives out.
“It’s his heart,” she replies gravely. “He was diagnosed a few years ago, and mainly it’s managed, with medication and some lifestyle changes. No more full English for breakfast every morning. It was one of the motivations for selling the farm, of course. Hopefully, next month, he’ll be going in for a bypass, which we’re told will make a huge difference. But for now, he’s easily tired, gets out of breath, sometimes gets a bit low... It is what it is.”
She shrugs, but I can hear the pain in her voice, the way she is trying to hide her fear. They didn’t have me and Richard until they were in their thirties, but Mum first met Dad in primary school. I never thought of it as a great love story—they were just boring old Mum and Dad, who got on my nerves. They weren’t exactly Rhett and Scarlett. But now, older and hopefullya thimbleful wiser, I see that it is a love story—to have remained committed to the same person for the whole of your life takes stamina, hard work, tolerance, and a truckload of genuine affection. Now it is clear that she thinks that love story might be reaching its final chapter, and she is struggling.
I am awash with so many different emotions, I can’t even process them. Sadness, that my Superman of a father has been so reduced. Sympathy for my mum, his Lois Lane. And, most toxic of all, I suppose, guilt—guilt that I haven’t been here to help, and the creeping suspicion that maybe I contributed to it all. What if the stress of what they went through with me added to his burden?
“I’m so sorry, Mum,” is all I can manage. It covers all of it, in its own way. And I mean it—I’m sorry for her, for me, for my dad. For the whole mess.
“Seeing you has perked him up,” she replies, waving away what she perhaps perceives as pity. “Seeing you, meeting Charlie. It will help and at least put a smile on his face... So. Luke. What’s going on there, then, with your dishy flanker?”
