Down London Road (On Dublin Street, #2)(10)

‘I need more, Jo.’

I sighed and hung my head. My mother, Fiona, was a severe alcoholic. She had always liked a drink. When I was younger it hadn’t been as bad as it was now. For the first two years after we moved from Glasgow to Edinburgh, Mum managed to hold on to her job with a large private cleaning company. Her drinking had worsened when Uncle Mick left, but when her back problems started and she was diagnosed with a herniated disc, the drinking became excessive. She quit her job and went on disability allowance. I was fifteen years old. I couldn’t get a job until I turned sixteen, so for a year our lives were pretty much shit as we lived off welfare and the little savings that Mum had put away. Mum was supposed to keep active – to at least walk around – because of her bad back. But she only made the pain worse as she became more of a hermit, vacillating between long periods of bedridden drinking and short bursts of angry, drunken stupors in front of the television. I dropped out of school at sixteen and got a job as a receptionist in a hair salon. I worked crazy hours to try to make ends meet. On the plus side, I’d never had really close friends at high school but I made some good friends at the salon. After reading some vague article about chronic fatigue syndrome, I began to make excuses for my schedule – always having to be at home to look after Cole – by telling people my mum had chronic fatigue syndrome. Since I knew very little about the complicated condition, I pretended to find it too upsetting to really talk about. It felt, however, much less shameful than the truth.

I looked up from under my lashes, the resentment in my gaze burning through the woman on the bed and not even causing her to flinch. Mum had once been a stunning woman. I got my height, trim figure and colouring from her. But now, with her thinning hair and bad skin, my forty-one-year-old mum looked closer to sixty.

‘You’ve got no gin left.’

Her mouth trembled. ‘Will you go get me some?’

‘No.’ I never would and I’d forbidden Cole from getting alcohol for her as well. ‘I have to get ready for work anyway.’ I braced myself.

Her lip immediately curled up in disgust, her bloodshot green eyes narrowing hatefully. Her accent thickened with her venom. ‘Cannae even get yer mam a f*ckin drink! Yer a lazy wee slut! Don’t think I dinnae know what yer up to oot there! Whorin around. Spreadin those f*ckin legs fur any man that’ll have you! I raised a whore! A goddamn whore!’

Used to my mum’s ‘split personality’, I shuffled out of the room, feeling Cole’s fuming anger as I passed the door to the sitting room and wandered into the kitchen for a sweeping brush. Her voice rose, her insults coming quick and fast, and I glanced at Cole as I passed, saw his fist crumpling around a piece of paper. I shook my head at him to let him know I was okay, and continued on into our mum’s room.

‘What are you doin’?’ she stopped her tirade long enough to ask me as I bent to clean up the broken bottle.

I ignored her.

‘You leave that there!’

‘You’ll cut yourself if I leave it, Mum.’

I heard her whimper again and felt the change. I’d been dealing with her long enough to know which side of her I was about to be subjected to. There were only two choices: the pitiful sweetheart or the acerbic bitch. The pitiful sweetheart was about to make an appearance. ‘I’m sorry.’ Her breath hitched and she started to cry quietly. ‘I didn’t mean it. I love ye.’

‘I know.’ I stood up. ‘But I can’t get your drink for you, Mum.’

She sat up, her eyebrows drawn together, her fingers trembling as she reached for her purse on the bedside table. ‘Cole will get it. I’ve got money.’

‘Mum, Cole’s too young. They won’t serve him.’ I’d rather she believe that it didn’t have anything to do with him being unwilling to help. I didn’t want him having to deal with her bile while I was out at work.

Her arm dropped. ‘Will you help me up?’

This meant she was going out herself. I bit my tongue to stop myself from arguing with her. I needed to keep her sweet if I was going to be gone. ‘Let me get rid of the glass and I’ll be back to help you.’

When I stepped out of her room, Cole was already waiting by the door. He held out his hands. ‘Give me that.’ He nodded at the glass. ‘You help her.’

An ache gripped my chest. He was a good kid. ‘When you’re done, take your comic book into your room. Stay out of her way tonight.’

He nodded, but I saw the tension in his body as he turned away from me. He was getting older and more frustrated with our situation and his inability to do anything about it. I just needed him to get through the next four years. Then he’d be eighteen and legally I could get him out of here and away from her.

When Joss discovered the truth about my situation, she’d asked me why I didn’t just take Cole and leave. Well, I hadn’t done that because Mum had already threatened to call the police if I ever did – it was her guarantee that she’d have us around to keep her fed, to keep her company. I couldn’t even petition the courts for custody because there was the risk I wouldn’t get him, and once the social services found out about our mother, they’d probably put him into care. Moreover, they’d have to contact my dad and I really didn’t want him back in our lives.

I spent half an hour getting Mum into a decent enough state to leave the house. I didn’t have to worry about her wandering in and out of the pubs or restaurants on our busy street, because she seemed to be just as ashamed of her condition as we were. The need for drink was the only thing that compelled her to go out, and even then she’d taken to buying it online so she didn’t have to go out for it too often.