Chapter 1

The Water’s Edge

Chapter 1

This is the story of my life. It began, or rather ended, this morning, Friday July 15th, with my mother Lorraine on the floor in front of me on all fours. Her hair had fallen forward and sideways so that the ends of her ragged ponytail brushed the carpet and I could see the nape of her neck exposed to daylight.  Between her creased green t-shirt and black boot-cut jeans there was another strip of bare flesh. If she’d been upright it would have bulged a bit over her waistband, but now it was taut, faintly mottled, but not unsightly.

She was fine last night, as far as I remember. The attack must have come on just after she’d got up. I expect she looked at the date, and some subliminal alarm system kicked in, sending a message down the neural pathway that nudges her ME into angry wakefulness. This afternoon I should have set off with my best mate, Faye, for our first job away from home, and a long-overdue encounter with boys, booze, and other unspecified teenage kicks. But there on our upstairs landing, I knew it wasn’t going to happen.  Like I said, this is the story of my life.

Mum was inching her way towards the stairs, her lumpy toes poking out from under the jeans, but because she was concentrating on the square of wool-mix berber in front of her nose, she hadn’t seen me, in the doorway of my own room, still in the washed-out top that passes for a nightie, watching her and knowing there was no way she was going to make it downstairs to the bathroom, not in one piece, not in any number of pieces.

Then my freshly painted toenails must have entered her peripheral vision and she craned her neck to look up at me. ‘Och, Ailsa. I’m all right.’ She had to break off to catch her breath and so I wasn’t taken in, not for a minute.

‘Wait here,’ I told her, and I manoeuvred past her to go down to the bathroom where I weed and splash my face with water. I avoided looking at myself in the mirror. I preferred not to come face to face with my new, or rather old, situation.

Back upstairs Mum had sensibly stayed put. I put my arms under hers and manage to sit her up so she could negotiate the stairs on her backside. Then I heaved her into the bathroom, sat her on the loo and closed the door on her. I’ve never actually had to wipe her bum, but who knows what tomorrow might bring?

While she was in there I went to get dressed. The clothes I’d been planning to wear today were still on the bedroom chair. I put the denim skirt back in my wardrobe and folded the top I bought last week back into its bag. The label’s still on it, so at least I’ll get my money back.

An hour or so later, Mum was back in bed and I rang Faye to tell her I wouldn’t be going with her to the kids’ camp that had taken us on as staff for the summer. I tried to make light of it. ‘Go on, you’ll get on far better without me.’ She started to argue, but she knew she was getting nowhere. We’d been here before, too many times.  ‘Well, bad luck, Ails. I’ll text you, eh?’

 ‘Yeh, right. And you’ll be back soon. You can tell me then.’

After that I changed Mum’s answer phone message to say that Waxworks Home Beauty Treatments would be closed until further notice. I imagined her customers adding Immac to their shopping list, or sneaking into the bathroom and borrowing a razor. Maybe they’ll notice how much money they’re saving. Maybe they won’t come back.

 Now I’m up in the spare room, slogging my guts out on the exercise bike. The calorie counter is rising nicely, and the sweat’s gathering in my oxters and around the saggy waistband of my jogging pants. But no matter how hard I pedal, the scenery refuses to change. 

* * *