Annie’s chat with Dave was interrupted by the front doorbell.
“Talk later,” she switched off her phone.
Opening the door to the sodden figure, head down, rain dripping from the hood, Annie was surprised. Big time. Not in a good way.
“I – I,” Stella started and broke off.
“What do you want?” Annie rasped.
“Can I come in?”
“I suppose,” She stood back sourly. “What’s that?”
“My stuff,” Stella moved in, followed by a suitcase. Annie wanted to throw it back out. But the neighbours might be watching.
The suitcase bulged through the narrow hallway into the kitchen.
It looked odd against the maroon presses and ivory walls. It, and the old raincoat covering it, dripped heavily. Rain swamped the stone-tiled floor.
“If you’ve a floor cloth... I could....” But Annie was already there, vigorously mopping while the heap kept dripping. She wheeled the suitcase awkwardly out the back door, along the garden path and into the shed, banging the door. She locked the shed, taking its key back indoors in her pocket. Cheek, she thought, bringing rain and slush from wherever into my house.
She mopped again forcefully, as if she could rub her mother away with the spill.
Later, in the tasteful sittingroom, drinking tea while her daughter sipped red wine, Stella wore a pyjamas and dressing gown, draped around her body in a fleecy embrace. She was tired. She closed her eyes, relaxing into Annie’s warm nightclothes and cream leather armchair.
Sipping her wine in the chair opposite, Annie didn’t like the view.
She loved her home. She’d worked hard for it. She enjoyed having friends in and loved it when Dave stayed over and it became their little love-nest. She didn’t enjoy her mother turning up out of the blue.
The rain still poured. She’d have to stay tonight. Couldn’t leave a dog out on a night like this. Who makes up these clichés? Mothers, Annie thought. Mothers invent them to manipulate daughters.
Stella sighed contentedly. Her daughter boiled. She’s got no right, Annie thought, raging helplessly at the sleeping figure.
She threw a quilt over Stella and went to bed. She wanted to sleep this evening away, or postpone the morning indefinitely.
*
But morning comes, ready or not. Annie, waking, pressed the snooze button, then remembered the night before. She was quickly wide awake and seething.
She peeked into her sittingroom. Stella, asleep in the chair, exhaled in gentle, audible breaths. Annie banged the door shut.
Waking, Stella looked around, then snuggled back in the quilt. Warm, dry and can’t be evicted, she told herself.
When she went to the kitchen, her daughter had finished breakfast and was wiping the table. Annie put out cereal, milk, yoghurt and bread. She switched on her kettle.
“Tea, is it?” She asked, grimly.
Stella nodded, clearing yoghurt from around her mouth with her hand. Annie looked away, saying, “I’m going to work, lock the door behind you when you go.”
After Annie had driven off, Stella settled in front of the television with tea, biscuits and last night’s quilt.
She looked out at the grey sky and the shrubs in the garden, swaying in the wind. Annie would feel better in the evening. Stella sat and concentrated instead on others’ problems – debt, infidelity, paternity tests – as featured on daytime TV.
In the evening, Annie didn’t live up to expectations. She slapped a plate of pasta in front of her mother, followed by a glass of water, and began to talk about what was to be done.
“How d’you mean?” Stella asked.
“You wouldn’t want to stay here,” Annie said.
“I thought I could?”
“The village is miles from anywhere, you don’t drive and anyway, you’ve your own house.”
Silence. Stella looked down, examining her neglected nails, a striking contrast to her daughter’s beautifully manicured hands.
Annie poured herself a glass of chilled white wine. Stella, who’d ignored the water looked longingly at the Sauvignon Blanc.
Annie sipped her wine, “I have to work, I’m out most of the time.
“I can look after the place. While you’re at work.”
“No. You can’t.”
“Why not? I won’t do anything to anything.”
“What do you want from me?” Annie’s voice grated.
“I’d love a glass of wine,” Stella answered.
“That’s not what I meant,” Annie said, but sullenly passed her a glass, “You have your own home.”
Stella sat, silent.
“Well?” Annie asked.
“No.” Stella whispered.
“Oh for Christ sake, what do you mean?”
Stella looked down.
What is it?” Annie was fuming, “What?
“It’s not my house,” Stella whispered.
“What?” Annie exploded, like a clap of thunder in the room.
“I... lost it.”
“Tell me you’re joking.”
She could see from her mother’s face it was no joke. She sat at the table, head in hands. She couldn’t bear to look at Stella.
“Dad left you that house free and clear.”
Stella sipped her wine.
Annie got up and stood over her.
“It’s that Fred, isn’t it? Is it?”
Tears welling, Stella nodded
“We had to mortgage it.”
“What?”
“We needed money. For a business.”
“You mean, Fred needed money?”
Stella nodded again, tears coursing down now.
Annie felt like slapping her. Messing up, landing herself on her daughter, then weeping piteously, looking for sympathy. She knew she was being manipulated, yet couldn’t turn away from her mother’s tears. Her voice was gentler when she said,
“Look, I’m tired. We’ll leave it for tonight.”
“Can I watch telly so?” Stella spoke like a child, embracing role reversal.
“Go on then,” Annie answered, “but this is temp-or-ary.”
“And another glass of wine?”
Annie poured the wine and Stella left the kitchen.
“We’ll have to get things sorted,” Annie called after her. Stella didn’t respond.
Dave rang about nine. Annie told him her mother had arrived.
“Great,” Dave said, “I get to meet your mum at last.”
“Well...,” Annie fudged.
“We could take her out. For a meal,” Dave said.
Annie said, “we’ll talk when I see you.”
“Will I come over?”
“Not tonight. To be honest, I’m exhausted.”
“You’ve been working too hard, love. You’ll have to take things easy.”
“I will,” a smile crept into Annie’s voice.
“Promise?” Dave asked.
“I promise.”
“Right then, off to bed with you, Missy.”
“OK – is that an order?”
Dave laughed, “Sleep well.”
In the sittingroom Annie found her mother asleep in the armchair, under last night’s downy quilt, in front of a blaring TV show about a large family, all losing weight. She turned it off and went to bed.
She fretted a while. Lost the house? Annie raged at how someone, left in financial comfort, could just ‘lose’ a house, as if it were an umbrella left on the bus. She thought about contacting her solicitors, but before long she drifted off, exhausted, into a dreamless sleep.
In the morning, at the kitchen table with tea and toast, Stella asked for her case.
“I want to change my clothes.”
Annie left the kitchen. Stella peeked out. Annie was in the hall at a built-in cupboard, taking clothes out of a bag. She then disappeared into her own room and came out with some underwear, still in their packaging. Stella quickly slipped back into the kitchen.
There were dresses, trousers, blouses, cardigans, along with the new underwear. Stella wished that the clothes wouldn’t fit, but it was clear they would be fine. She’d once been petite and now, even with some middle-aged spread, was small enough to fit into her daughter’s clothes. She’d seen Annie rummaging in a charity-shop bag, but she couldn’t refuse them without revealing that she’d been spying. So she took Annie’s unwanted things.
She muttered to herself about hand-me-downs. More like hand-me-ups, she thought, going from daughter to mother
In the following weeks, Annie tried unsuccessfully to get her mother to leave. Stella insisted she had nowhere to go. But whenever Annie asked why, Stella clammed up, said nothing.
Frequently, she asked for her ‘stuff.’
Annie told her, “you’ll get it back when you’re going.”
“I need my stuff,”
But not enough to tell the full story. Annie felt helpless. Stella would say nothing about Fred and their breakup, insisting only that she had nowhere to go.
Annie had known little about Fred but she hadn’t trusted him. Two years ago, Annie had spoken out to her mother about what she called “a stupid infatuation” with the much-younger man. Stella, on a rollercoaster of fun and besotted with Fred, had refused to listen. Crossly and loudly she’d told Annie where to go. Since then, they’d had no contact; Annie, stubborn and busy, had got on with her life while an obsessed Stella had thrown herself into her affair. She couldn’t bear to admit now about adding Fred’s name to her accounts and how those accounts were cleared following Fred’s disappearance.
She’d found Annie’s liquor cabinet but was careful to take little. Each night, when Stella plaintively asked for wine, her daughter frowned, but poured a glass. Stella knew that wouldn’t be forthcoming if Annie suspected she’d been helping herself.
She passed each day with daytime television, food, tea, a little drinking, all in the comfort of a plush sofa.
Annie no longer had Dave over to stay, but she sometimes stayed at his. Stella was pleased whenever Annie wasn’t around for breakfast.
She knew Annie wanted her out. She felt increasingly unwelcome and embarrassed in her daughter’s presence.
She racked her brains to think of something to put herself in Annie’s good books and secure her place in this cushy spot.
She hit on the old mother-child answer.
Food. A homemade meal.
In the kitchen, she found nothing fresh but dairy food. The freezer mainly held frozen gourmet dinners. Hidden at the back, she found some chicken fillets and half a bag of chips. There was an old packet of quick-set jelly in a cupboard. Annie didn’t normally eat dessert. Today, though, Stella boiled water and made up the jelly, sloshing a little vodka in and putting it in the fridge to set.
She was excited. The chicken fillets, covered in a can of mushroom soup, were bunged in the oven.
Stella hadn’t seen any chips since she’d been here. This bag had the tired, iced look of having been freezer-bound a long time. There was some oil, which she poured into a saucepan and set to heat.
It heated slowly. Stella went to the sittingroom to watch a little TV. The programme featured a woman, beset by debt and deceit through a partner, being advised by a couple of do-gooders. It was like Stella’s own story. She completely lost track of time.
Remembering the oil, she opened the kitchen door to be greeted by flames around the cooker, spreading to the presses. Panicking, she ran, leaving the kitchen door open. From outside, everything looked fine. She wondered what to do.
Ah, yes, the fire brigade. She’d left her mobile in the kitchen. She knocked loudly next door. No answer. The next house was empty too. She moved back down the street to stand outside her daughter’s house in tears. Smoke and flames lit the windows now. People began arriving back from work and some neighbours called the fire brigade. They patted her shoulders and asked her in for tea. Stella shook her head, weeping. By the time the brigade arrived, the fire had really taken hold. They trained their hoses on it and soon the flames were gone, with only a smouldering wisp left here and there.
The house was gutted.
Annie got out of her car and looked at what had been her lovely cottage. What wasn’t burned out was so badly damaged as to be useless. Between tears and coughing, Annie called her mother all the names in the dictionary and outside. Stella stood in shock. Her plan was in pieces. It had seemed so simple. Now, her daughter had lost everything and she herself was homeless again.
Annie was on her mobile now, tearful and cross, making arrangements with Dave until she could get sorted. Dave welcomed her and insisted her mother should come too.
“Get in,” she said, opening her car door.
“Where are we going?” Stella asked.
“Get in. Go on.”
“My stuff....” Stella said, “What about my stuff.”
“You can’t bring that manky suitcase to Dave’s,” Annie hissed, “Get into the car.”
“I want my stuff,” Stella stuck out her lower lip, “is it burned? Is my stuff burned?” Fresh tears blubbered.
“Christ!,” Annie went by the charred mess to the back garden, returned and dumped Stella’s tartan suitcase in the boot.
*
Dave sipped his beer. He looked from Stella to Annie and back again. Two women, dressed in designer clothes, sat on his sofa. He was happy. He loved Annie, had always felt a little unworthy of her. He was glad to help. He’d been waiting for just such a chance.
After Annie’s call, he’d set the table. As they arrived, he went for takeaway.
They had one suitcase between them, the tartan one that Stella had pushed across town and beyond, all the way to her daughter’s house three weeks ago. Annie had wheeled it in gingerly, the raincoat dried off and sticking to the case. Stella opened it.
Inside, dry and safe, there were dresses, tops, trousers, shoes, all designer labels. Hardly able to believe her eyes, Annie had fondled the expensive garments, admiring the fabric, cut and finish. She felt like crying. She’d had wardrobes of beautiful clothes in her house. All gone now. Her mother’s fault. And here was that same mother, with a suitcase of fashion worth thousands. A woman who had nothing. Who’d kept bleating about her case; Annie had thought it was a suitcase full of tat. She’d enjoyed punishing her mother about her ‘stuff,’ but she’d had no idea of the contents. There was designer lingerie (which surprised and embarrassed Annie) and jewellery.
“It was all I could take from home. When I lost it.”
Annie could only stare.
So here they were, eating Chinese food; Stella in a burgundy suit, beautifully cut, Annie looking stunning in a grey silk kimono, Dave quietly enjoying having two such stylish women in his flat. Until they’d finished eating.
Stella stuttered an apology. Annie replied by accusing her mother of everything from stupidity to deliberate sabotage, even arson. Stella blubbered a while, gave up apologising and began to shout back, her voice shrill and harsh. Dave talked nicely, trying calm the situation, but gave up when he realised they didn’t even hear him.
The arguing went on, ever louder. Voices became more strident, accusations hurled from one to the other.
“You never cared about me.” Stella spat out.
“You taught me not to care. You left me with anyone and everyone.”
“I was busy.”
“Yeah – going out with your friends.”
“I was doing my best.”
“I suppose I should be thankful you weren’t doing your worst.”
“Your dad worked long hours. I was lonely.”
“He worked long hours – and left you in comfort. Which you threw away on that – that scam artist. I warned you. Didn’t I? I told you. He wasn’t long charming the pants off you.”
“Don’t talk like that! I’m your mother!”
“Well he did – judging by your fancy knickers.”
Dave looked from one to the other, stunned.
“Stay as long as you like,” he’d said to Annie, when they arrived.
Tomorrow, he’d help them find someplace, a flat maybe, until the insurance kicked in and Annie could get sorted.
He hadn’t bargained for her mother, certainly not for this mother.
He’d heard it often enough – meet the mother, because that’s what your girl will become.
There it was, his girl had grown into her mother before his very eyes; a raucous virago.
He sat, sipped his beer and told himself he’d had a narrow escape.
Frances O’Keeffe
