Looking after Mum: Part II: Chapter 17

Chapter 17
“Oh my God!” shrieked Kirsty to her Mini-Ks the next morning, as we were waiting for Mrs Whitfield, the maths teacher to come in. “I can’t believe I just ate a whole Digestive biscuit. I’m such a slob!”
She was sitting on her desk, her legs swinging and crossed in a suggestive manner, covered by something which did not deserve the name skirt. As usual, Kirsty was surrounded by her little throng of admirers – the three idiotic bimbos. Boys were gazing at her, drooling, making up fantasies and probably getting stiff down there. Girls not accepted into her social group were glaring at her jealously, probably bitching about her in their little friendship groups, but they were all the same. They hated her for her looks and popularity but the minute she talked to them, if she demeaned herself to, they’d treat her like she was the Queen of Sheba.
Continuing with her little palaver, Kirsty grimaced, clutching her stomach. “Just LOOK at that flab!”
Her Mini-K’s were quick to disagree, in their pathetic, shrill voices.
“Oh no, Kirsty,” said Rhiannon, tutting at her.
“Don’t be silly, Kirsty,” grinned Martine. “You’re thin as ever.”
“Your stomach’s as flat as a washboard, Kirsty. And you’ve got the best figure in the class,” sighed Lucy wistfully.
“I’m going to put on at least a stone in the next month,” sighed Kirsty, putting on a pout, all the while casting furtive glances at me.
Full points for being discreet, Kirsty. Not.
I was sitting in my seat, getting redder and hotter by the minute, I could feel myself dissolving into my seat. I didn’t have to put up with this. I didn’t have to stand for it, I had the same rights as everyone else to sit in this classroom without being targeted...
I marched right up to their tight little circle, a determined look on my face.
“Oh look,” Kirsty giggled nervously. “It’s Frankenstein’s sister come to say hello.”
The Mini-K’s shrieked with laughter that was just a notch too high and shrill to be genuine; they were obviously all in disarray by my approaching them. I gave Kirsty a tight little smile and looked her in the eye. “Aww, don’t worry, keep talking. Some day you’ll say something intelligent.” Baffled and irritated, Kirsty flicked her hair and said, “Funny.”
I smirked at her, which completely threw her off key. She had no idea what was going on, and I was revelling in it. “Yeah, funny,” said Martine, or, that-irritating-squeak-that-echoes-Kirsty.
“Jeez,” said Kirsty, ignoring Martine and hastily regaining her composure. “You know, Melie-Sweet, a thought just crossed my mind. It must be a relief that your Mum is brain-damaged, because now you have someone on your level.” I almost laughed, thinking of how many nights she must have stayed up, working out that one. Not to mention the fact that she had failed to remember that my mother was more amnesiac than brain-dead. “Wow, Kirsty,” I said, eyes wide open in mock disbelief. “A thought actually crossed your mind? Must have been a long and lonely journey.” Kirsty’s mouth dropped wide open about a few minutes later, when she’d realised the full meaning of what I’d just said. “God, you are so retarded and useless,” she said, looking slyly at her Mini-K’s. “Melie-Sweet, are you quite sure your Mum’s the one warranting the disabled sticker on your car?” The whole class was in uproar. I hadn’t seen that coming. She must really have lines like these prepared, to shoot out at people when she’s retorted, I thought to myself. I stood there, wondering how I’d managed to let Kirsty get the upper hand, when suddenly Douglas sidled up, and stood next to me. “Well, Kirsty,” he said, “Talking with you is so refreshing. Usually one has to go to a bowling alley for this kind of intellectual stimulation.” She scowled at him, mouth wide open. How mean. How degrading. How nasty. I would have had to sew my lips together to stop a grin spreading all over my face.

***

At lunchtime, I bumped into Kirsty, who was walking in the hallway, loaded with a large stack of papers. She fell over flat on her face and the papers went flying. Sitting up, she looked at me, her face crimson, and pulled me down onto the floor so we were facing.
“Listen, worm,” she hissed, “Just because you’ve been all up yourself lately doesn’t mean anything’s changed. Don’t think for a minute I’m scared of that Rendall muck. She’s filth, that’s what she is.”
Slightly thrown off-key, I raised an eyebrow and attempted to get up. She clutched my wrist, forcing me to stay on the ground.
“Can you please let me stand up?” I asked, between gritted teeth.
“No,” said Kirsty. “You’ll stay and listen to me.”
“Sure I will,” I said, and once more tried to heave myself up from the floor, but she grabbed both my hands, making it impossible to rise. I rolled my eyes at this dramatic scene of hers and sighed.
“Do you hear me?” Kirsty said, her voice becoming increasingly high and loud. “Do you? Filth, filth, filth! That’s what she is. Scum that deserves to die, that’s what the Rendalls are!”
I put my hands over my ears and hunched up. “Shut up, you cow,” I said. “Shut up!”
Finally managing to pull away from her clutch, I got up and walked away, past all the pupils and teachers who had started to gather.
“You’ll see!” Kirsty shrieked after me. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you!”
When
I had questioned and questioned Ruby about how she knew Kirsty Brightman, but she wouldn’t reply. All she had done was shake her head and say, “Best to let sleeping dogs lie, eh Melia? You don’t want to talk about her. We have better things to do.”

It was the day of Mrs Brown’s birthday. The last time we’d seen each other had been my stormy outburst, and I hadn’t mustered up the courage to go and see her, but now I felt like I could do anything. I brushed my mousey bob, hoping it didn’t look quite as dull as usual, adjusted my glasses, and looked for an outfit to wear. The only fancy outfit I could find was hidden at the back of my closet and was quite hideously old-fashioned, a tartan 1960s frock with ruffles and puffed sleeves. I might not have had very fashionable clothes but I knew I would be the laughing stock if I was seen one minute in that, so I put on my grey dowdy tweed skirt of which the hem dipped down to my calves and a faded navy polo-necked sweater. I looked at myself in the mirror and sighed. It looked like I hadn’t made any effort at all. At least the dress would make it seem like I was dressing up instead of down. Nothing in my closet was worse, but I so wanted her to think I was trying, and I knew it wouldn’t seem awful to her because in her time people actually wore things like that. I pulled it over my head, and did it up – the buttons were nearly popping off and the cloth was strained.
I took the present off the shelf where I had stored it and after informing Miss Alcock where I was going, walked downstairs.
I knocked on the door and there was no answer for a longer time than usual. However, I could see light gleaming through the glazed window in the door, so I knocked again. Just in case, I tried the door knob, and to my surprise it opened. I walked inside gingerly, and then heard screaming and crying, coming from the TV in the living room. So I went there and was shocked to see it was Mrs Brown who was so distraught. She was in a long, white nightgown that was too large for her, the hem past her ankles and the material smothering her thin, fragile body. Her face was scarlet, her eyes the same colour, swollen with crying, and her hair out of its usual neat bun, instead strewn across her face and coursing down her back. She was holding an olive green, stripy dressing gown tight to her chest, and it almost seemed like she was crooning to it, rocking backwards and forwards on her feet in her crouching position.
When she saw me, she sat up and shakily rose to her feet.
“Get out,” she choked, gasping for breath, tears streaming down her puffy, distended cheeks, “Get – out – now.”
I was so bewildered I was rooted to the spot. I opened my mouth to say something but a squeak came out.
“Do you hear me?” she shrieked, losing all self-control. “Get out, get out! Tell her, Richard, tell her to leave! Go away, girl! Go away and leave me with Richard! Leave me be, leave me be!”
She let out a scream of anguish and collapsed on the divan, still clutching the dressing gown and sobbing like her heart would fall out and break into a thousand pieces.
And suddenly I understood what had happened. I recognized that dressing gown. I knew why it was in Mrs Brown’s hands and not on the person it was so habituated to dressing.
“Oh no,” I gasped, “Not Richard. Oh, Mrs Brown...” I carefully approached her, easing myself onto my haunches next to the sofa and turning my head so I could see her face. “Oh...”
She hit out viciously and although her arms were weak, I lost my balance. I banged my head against the coffee table and had to bit my lip to stop the tears coming. I could feel salty blood in my mouth and my head was spinning round and round. I stretched out my legs and leaned against the table leg until the dizziness stopped.
Mrs Brown seemed to choke on her tears, and started to whimper softly. “Go...leave me with Richard.”
I stood up, still feeling slightly giddy, and tried to edge towards her again. I held out a finger towards the dressing gown. “Is this...was it...”
She sat up abruptly and snatched it away. “Don’t you touch him!” she wept
She leant forward and swept the white cloth off the coffee table. Cups, saucers and a vase clattered off it, smashing into pieces on the floor. The old, wilted flowers that had been in the vase lay sadly in the trickling water that was seeping into the cracks in the floorboards.
She sat on the floor, and picked up the dry flowers – roses, as usual. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” she whispered, pushing her face into the withered petals, and I had a feeling she wasn’t talking to me.
“Mrs Brown...” I started, and then wished I hadn’t because this broke the peaceful moment and rage seemed to surge up inside her. She pushed past me and ran crying hysterically into the kitchen, her arms flailing wildly. In this half-crazed, desperate frenzy to destroy something, she struggled to open the little doors of the crockery cupboard on the wall and finally jerked it open, screws spinning out and rolling on the floor.
She thrust her feeble arms in, with difficulty hauling out the contents of the cupboard and throwing them vehemently on the ground. In the ear-splitting noise a singular crack and rip could be heard, and at the same time we both knew what it was.
“No...” murmured Mrs Brown, in such a troubled but soft voice that no-one would ever have realised the fury that had just possessed her. She crouched down and rummaged through the debris of china until her fear was justified. She picked up the fan, the once glowing rosewood cracked down the middle, and crushed by the fall, the silk with its beautiful patterns soiled and torn by the jagged edges of broken china. She retrieved the kid gloves, also ripped by the sharp points, the lace falling off the wrists, so delicate that any such incident would have destroyed them.
Mrs Brown breathed in sharply and placed her hand on her heart, her eyes crinkling up and filling with fresh tears, and as I sat down next to her on the floor, she held my hand and I squeezed it. “From our first dance at the summer ball, after we’d met,” she whispered. “Remember, I told you. And now I’ve...” she broke off into fresh sobs, her chest heaving with the effort of breathing in and out.
I pushed the birthday present into her lap and smiled. “Don’t worry, Mrs Brown,” I said, uncertainly at first, my confidence growing. “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine...you can do anything, Mrs Brown, I know you can. And if I can wear this hideous dress to your house on your birthday, of all days, I’m living proof than you can get through...”
She hunched up crying, her shoulders shaking. I patted her wobbling back and stroked her hand and told her everything was going to be alright, until I realised she was laughing. Yes, laughing at my dress, in spite of everything, in spite of the fact that the one person she loved and her one true friend in the world had just died and that she had just destroyed her most precious memory of their life together. She was laughing at what I had just said and at the sheer monstrosity of my tartan frock, and I joined in, despite that it was the day I least expected to hear her laugh for the first time.
We sat on the kitchen floor like that, surrounded in debris, tears of mirth rolling down our cheeks, our bodies shaking with hysterical laughter.