Читать книгу Disconnected - Sherry Ashworth - Страница 8

I walked home from the bus enjoying the open air and the quietness. I know you like our neighbourhood because it’s so peaceful. You told us you need to be able to come home and relax totally, and with your job it’s not surprising. Dad likes the house because it has such a big, mature garden, which is unusual for a modern housing estate. You liked the fact the house was new and a bungalow because it was less housework. I was glad when we moved here eight years ago as I had friends in the area and so it seemed an OK place to live.

I left Windermere Crescent where there was just the occasional car – no pedestrians – and then turned into Wasdale Close, where we live. There was no one about. I don’t know why Dad thinks the garage door needs painting because it looks fine to me, but as you say, it’ll keep him happy. I could tell by the closed look in the windows and the silence of the house that you were still at the surgery. That was OK. I quite like having the house to myself.

I unlocked the door, both the Yale and the Chubb lock, and stepped inside, flinging down my bag, scooping up the letters and hoping, stupidly I know, that there might be something for me. There was one for Dr & Mrs Holmes which I knew would make you mad. It should have been addressed to Dr & Mr Holmes. You’re the doctor. As I hung my jacket over the banister and made my way to the kitchen for some coffee I was feeling kind of weird, as if I was acting in my own life. Perhaps it was because the house was empty, and there was no one around to remind me I was real.

I grabbed some coffee and opened the biscuit tin, but it was empty. Naïve of me, I know. You think it’s important that I eat healthily. You’re proud that I’ve always eaten three regular meals a day. Snacking is a bad habit, and undereating is another danger for teenagers. You like proper, family, sit-down meals. I have told you we’re one of only a handful of families I know who still do that, but you shrug and your eyes go all hard and defiant. I love you, and admire the way you fought to get where you are.

I knew that really I should get on with some work but I just couldn’t face it, so I went into the living room and turned on TV. There was a cheesy chat show with people saying gross things. It was easy to watch and made me feel kind of smug, kind of better than them, all those people who didn’t know how to lead their lives. You say these American chat shows are like freak shows, and you disapprove of them. You give me grief for watching them. So it’s just as well you weren’t in.

I sprawled on the settee and it was nice, just letting everything go. I decided to shut my eyes and just listen to the shouting and abuse on the screen. The next thing I knew I heard your voice.

“Catherine? Are you asleep?”

I was, but I came round pretty quickly.

“No. I just had my eyes shut.”

“Good, because if you sleep now you won’t be able to sleep tonight. How was school?”

“OK.”

“Did Mrs Dawes give you your poetry essay back?”

“No. I don’t think she’s marked them.”

You tutted and carried on chatting as you rifled through the letters. “Typical. These teachers, they expect you to hand work in on time but they can’t be bothered to hand it back. It sends out the wrong messages. And I wanted to know what she thought of it as I’m certain it’s better than the last. I can see English Literature might be a weak link as the results in the English Department weren’t all that good last year. Dr and Mrs Holmes! I just do not believe it. It’s the twenty-first century and everyone still assumes a doctor is a man. How was your Economics – are you finding it any easier?”

“It’s all right.”

“All right? What do you mean, all right?”

“All right.” I pouted at you. You didn’t seem to see that I was tired and wanted to forget about school.

“Because it’s important that you understand each new concept thoroughly. You have to build firm foundations. I can remember having trouble with Physics when I was in the sixth form because of some poor teaching in the fifth form. That was what decided Daddy and I to send you to St William’s. Choosing the right school matters a lot. And I don’t regret our decision. Every penny we’ve paid in fees has been worth it. Not that I’m saying you couldn’t have got those GCSE grades by yourself. Your ASs should be just as straightforward. Of course, it’s not just that I’d like you to get good grades, but I know that you’d be disappointed with anything less than the best.”

Yeah, right.

“You’re a perfectionist, Catherine, just like me. I’m all in. They added on five emergency appointments to my schedule – at least I’m not on call tonight. Time to catch up with the BMJ, I daresay. Daddy said he might not come home till late – there’s something happening at the golf club. I’ll take one of my lasagnes out of the freezer. When are you starting work?”

Maybe you said all that, maybe you didn’t. I don’t listen to you all the time. I think you talk just for the sake of talking. It’s not that you like the sound of your own voice, but everybody has to bear witness to you. I don’t mind, really. I’m used to it. I know you were a little disappointed I didn’t want to be a doctor but you said a barrister would be just as good. Or a company secretary. I didn’t argue because I trust you. You know better than me about careers and stuff, and anyway, me going to work seems a long way off. It even seems crazy to me that I’m in the sixth form!

“When are you starting work?” you asked me again.

“Later,” I said.

“What do you mean by later? Before dinner, or after dinner? I need to know.”

I felt a flash of irritation.

“I don’t know. I might not do any work tonight.”

“Why? Are you going out?”

“No. I’ll just chill.”

I saw you bridle and shoot me an odd kind of look – as if you were worried and scared of me, both.

“Chill? What kind of English is that? Are you hot or something? Honestly, it’s as bad as that silly expression ‘cool’, which I never liked. And Catherine, you can’t – as you so elegantly put it – chill. You are taking four A-levels. Four demanding A-levels.”

I said nothing. That way I could stay in control. You paused, sizing up the situation.

“You’ll feel different after dinner, I daresay.”

You went over to the drinks cabinet and poured yourself a gin and tonic. Gordon’s gin, and Schweppes Slimline Tonic. You drank every evening and because it was so regular it seemed normal and acceptable to me.

“Can I have one?” I asked you. You swung round, looking guilty and alarmed.

“Don’t be silly. You don’t have to copy my bad habits.” The joke was meant to defuse the situation.

I refused to smile. I was as taut as a bow, watching you, as if I was seeing you for the first time. You didn’t care much about your appearance, you never did. You always laughed when I put on some make-up as if it was a childish, or worse, a rather common thing to do. Your hair was short but almost deliberately dishevelled – clever women didn’t have time to fuss with their hair. That day I remember you wore a grey skirt and a black sweater that screamed Marks & Spencer. You thought you looked classic, timeless, but I could see the little lines that radiated from your lips like cracks on an old oil painting. I observed the tiredness in your eyes. I felt sorry for you and glad I was young. But at the same time, or following on from that, I felt angry at you because you were my mother, which was just so claustrophobic. I didn’t know how to judge myself without using your eyes, your tired, ageing eyes.

When I’m with my friends, I never talk about you. We don’t talk about our parents unless they’re being a pain. It’s good to escape. But then I come home and it’s like living in your shadow – and that’s good, because in some ways you make me feel safe, but in other ways, I want to scream. Is that normal? You’re the doctor. You should know. And I hate it that I think you know everything about me. You never worried when I was ill, and you tell me, all the time, that I’m just going through a developmental stage.

But I don’t want to be like you because your life is so drab and monochrome and hard and you’re so tired all the time. Like me. I’m tired all the time too.

I thought, I just can’t be arsed to move. Not that I’d ever say that to you.

We had dinner that evening at the breakfast bar in the kitchen. We just small-talked – well, you did, going on about the bank statement and redecorating the porch and hallway, and whingeing about your paperwork. I refused dessert. You said you wished you had my willpower. Then you said, “Are you going up to your room to work now?” It was a challenge.

“I might,” I said.

Two pugilists, eyeing each other from their respective corners.

“And there’s your oboe.”

I hated my oboe just then. She had pulled it over to her side.

“Because, Catherine, I know it’s hard sometimes to get motivated but the secret of academic success is persistence and determination. It’s always the student who keeps going who gets there in the end. I’m only telling you this for your own good. Really, it’s nothing to me whether you work or not.”

I was silent.

“Well?” she asked.

I took refuge in ambiguity. I got up, said nothing, and went up to my room.

It was a relief to be alone. I love you, but sometimes there’s too much of you. Once in my room, I threw myself on the bed, wondering what was wrong with me that night. I worked out I wasn’t pre-menstrual, but I didn’t believe in that crap anyway. Girls I knew just said they were pre-menstrual so they could have an excuse for having a go at people, or a big cry and all their mates would cuddle them. I didn’t feel like crying but just like things were out of joint. Worse, as if nothing mattered any more. The idea of not doing any work was so appealing. Like, what was the point?

But automatically I opened my schoolbag and took out my History text books and file, the document question he’d given us and an A4 pad of paper, and got myself organised. For a moment or two I actually felt like working. I like the look of a piece of blank paper. But as soon as I wrote my name, that same lethargy descended. It was such an effort to write. I tried to read the documents but they made no sense. I glanced at the first question – Explain briefly the following references: (a) ‘patrons and nominees’ (b) ‘the absurd admiration of the triumph of physical strength in France’.

I felt paralysed by the weight of the words. A sensible voice in my head (yours?) said, come on, now! It’s only a short question. You can do it. Another voice said, what has this got to do with you, or with anything for that matter? It’s all a silly game, taking exams, getting qualifications. It doesn’t matter, any of it.

Only, if it doesn’t matter, what does? That was what scared me. So I tried again. I began a sentence of my own on the paper in response, but then was distracted by the reflection of me in my dressing-table mirror.

Girl at work. Or girl not at work. My brown hair was dishevelled since I’d taken out my hair bobble. The expression on my face was blank. I automatically asked the mirror the question I always did – am I good-looking? This time the reply came back – what does it matter? In reality I suppose my face changes depending on my mood. When I smile I look quite pretty – my eyes are large, which helps. But at other times my face is heavy and formless.

So I got up to put some music on to help me start work. You have this rule, I know, that I’m only allowed classical music to work to – you read somewhere it aids concentration. Today I decided to go against you because I wanted to listen to a tape Greg, a boy in my Economics group, had lent me – The Smiths. From the Eighties. But they weren’t like what I thought of as Eighties at all, but camp and suicidal all at once. They were good. I lay on my bed and listened and thought, I could get into this. A shame I didn’t like Greg that much, at least not in that way.

Then I decided to give myself a manicure. It can be quite therapeutic, doing things with your nails, or plucking your eyebrows, self-grooming. And I needed to get myself looking good for Brad’s party on Saturday. I was half-listening for you because I didn’t want to be discovered not working. But who was I kidding? I felt as guilty as hell. The more I put off working, the more I felt squeezed by some sort of invisible pressure. I couldn’t breathe. But I couldn’t work either. I thought about rejigging my work schedule and doing double tomorrow. That seemed like a good idea. Or I could wake at six in the morning and work then.

I heard you shouting up at me.

“Catherine? Are you busy?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Very.”

“OK,” you said.

I got my headphones out of my cupboard and put them on and carried on listening to The Smiths.