How to Find Love in a Book Shop(26)

And to be fair to him, Mia had changed. Motherhood had made her overanxious, sharp. She fussed over Finn too much, and Jackson told her repeatedly to stop worrying. It had caused a lot of friction between them. He spent more and more time out of the house, not wanting to come back to arguments and disapproval and crying (usually Finn’s, sometimes Mia’s). He tried to do his best but somehow he always managed to end up displeasing her. So it seemed easier to stay out of her way.

Then she’d booted him out, the night he’d come back half cut at one in the morning, when she’d been dealing with a puking Finn for four hours and had to change the sheets twice when she’d taken him into bed with her, desperate for a moment’s respite. Jackson had protested – how was he to know the baby had a tummy bug? But he knew he was in the wrong and had got everything he deserved.

He thought it was only going to be temporary, that Mia was just giving him a short sharp shock. But she didn’t want him back.

‘It’s easier without you,’ she said. ‘It’s easier to do everything all on my own, without being disappointed or let down. I’m sorry, Jackson.’

He didn’t bother knocking on the flimsy white door, just pushed it open. There was his mum, in the gloom of the caravan. Wolfie lay at her feet but jumped up as soon as Jackson came in. At least someone was glad to see him. He’d got Wolfie once it was clear Mia wasn’t going to have him back. He’d gone to the dog rescue place and looked at everything they had: Jack Russells and collies and mastiffs. At the far end was a Bedlington lurcher, far too big to be practical and ridiculously scruffy. But he’d reminded Jackson of himself. He was a good dog, deep down, but sometimes he couldn’t help himself … How could he resist?

His mum was as delighted to see him as Wolfie was. Her face lit up, her eyes shone. He still couldn’t get over how frail she looked. He didn’t want to admit to himself that his mum wasn’t getting any younger. He was going to cook her a decent dinner. He was no chef, but he’d bought some chicken pieces and some vegetables with the cash he’d been given.

She’d always taken pride in cooking them proper meals when they were young but somewhere, between husbands three and four, she’d lost interest in food.

He didn’t want to look at his once beautiful mother, sitting in her chair, bird-like and frail. He didn’t want to look at the hair that had once been dark and lustrous, tumbling over her shoulders. Now, the black dye she used to recreate her former glory had grown out, showing three inches of grey.

It was depression at the root of it. Obviously. Which wasn’t surprising when your looks and your husband left you at the same time. Was it easier, Jackson wondered, not to have been beautiful in the first place? He knew he’d got by on his looks more than once. His looks and an easy charm.

‘Shall we go out somewhere?’ he asked, knowing what the answer would be. He wanted her to surprise him and say yes, and yet he didn’t. He didn’t want to see her out in the real world, because it made her situation even more depressing.

‘No, love,’ she replied, just as he’d thought. ‘It’s enough for me to have you here.’

He sighed and made the best he could of the food he had bought with the facilities available. He dished it up, coating it all in a glistening layer of packet gravy.

They ate it together at the tiny table. Jackson had no appetite, but he wanted to set an example. He forced more carrots on her. Gave her the rest of the Bisto. At least now he knew she’d had some vitamins, some calories.

He’d bought a ready-made apple pie and a carton of custard, but she declared herself full.

‘I’ll heat it up for you later.’

‘You’re a good boy.’

She’d always said that to him. He could remember her, lithe and vibrant, dancing in the kitchen, holding him in her arms. ‘You’re a good boy. The best boy.’ He would touch her earrings with his tiny fingers, entranced by the glitter. He would breathe in the smell of her, like ripe peaches.

Where had she gone, his mother? Who had stolen her?

He did the washing up in the sink, which was too small to put a dinner plate in flat. He tried to suppress his despair for the millionth time. He washed all the cups and glasses that were lying around, and wiped down the surfaces.

He could imagine Mia’s voice: ‘You never did that for me.’

He had. Once upon a time. But nothing was ever right for Mia; she was a control freak. He couldn’t even breathe right.

‘I’m off to see Finn, Mum.’ He bent down to kiss her, not leaning in too close. ‘I’ll be back in a bit.’

‘Ta ta. I’m going to have a snooze now.’ She settled back in her chair with a smile. He whistled for Wolfie and the dog jumped to his feet. He was like a cartoon, his eyes coal black and inquisitive, his legs and tail too long; his shaggy grey coat like a backcombed teddy bear. He loped beside Jackson, amiable and eager.

Jackson lugged the bin bag back down the path and hurled it over the side of the skip. The stygian gloom of the caravan stayed with him.

‘Oi!’ shouted Garvie from his lair, but Jackson knew he was safe. Garvie wouldn’t bother to chase after him, or to fish the bag out.

He left the park and broke into a run, gulping in gusts of fresh air, trying to expel the stifling staleness of the past two hours. Wolfie ran beside him, joyful, his ears streaming behind him.