Prologue
‘He doesn’t love me mum,’ wailed Louise, throwing down her school bag as she came through the front door. ‘He’s seeing some rangy tart in the next year down from us. Does that make him what you call a cradle-snatcher mum?’ she asked curiously.
Louise’s mother placed the knife down that she'd been cutting up the carrots for the evening’s meal with and turned down the radio. She’d had enough of Elton John’s new version of “Candle in the Wind” to last a lifetime anyway! In her opinion, this 1997 version wasn’t a patch on the Seventies original. Then she went into the hall and helped her daughter up off the floor where she’d sunk down next to her discarded bag. Her own mother had warned her that she’d been a difficult teenager but she had been hoping against hope that her own daughter wouldn’t take after her. Gladys Fletcher didn’t think she’d turned into as bad as her mother, but if Louise’s recent behaviour was anything to go by, then she had indeed inherited her mother’s and not her father’s genes.
‘Come sit down and I’ll get you a juice’, she said leading her teenage daughter by the hand into the kitchen.
‘Don’t want a juice,’ Louise sniffed, wiping her nose on the back of her hand. ‘Can I have a fizzy drink?’
Mrs Fletcher shook her head. ‘No you can’t. I’m sure you’ve been drinking nothing but rubbish at school all day so when you get home, you get something wholesome to drink. And don’t give me that face young lady,’ she scolded, having seen the expression that had just appeared on Louise’s face, ‘you know those are the rules and I’m getting a little tired of having to repeat myself. Nearly every day,’ she muttered.
Louise nodded, but Mrs Fletcher knew that they were more than likely to have the same discussion at least once more during the coming week. And it’s only Monday, she remembered depressingly.
Louise’s mother poured her a juice, made one for herself and took a seat next to her daughter at the kitchen table.
‘Now’, she began in what she hoped was her best “Mother-knows-best-but-I-hope-I’m-not-sounding-condescending” voice, ‘tell me what happened.’
She’d almost added “today” but had stopped herself just in time as she recalled the last time they had spoken like this had only been two weeks ago. The addition of that one word had caused Louise to erupt and accuse her mother of being a nosy old bag who didn’t listen to her and never had! And many other things she preferred not to recall. They hadn’t spoken for three days after that which, whilst being nice for Mrs Fletcher in one way, made everything else rather difficult.
To her surprise, her tone of voice must have worked as suddenly Louise let all her pent up feelings pour out.
‘I’ve been going to that bloody chess club for the last six months and I now know more moves than Charlie Sheen! If I hadn’t been so intent on not being seen by that gang of posh girls, I wouldn’t have walked into that damn room in the first place and I wouldn’t be in this mess. I’ve tried everything I know to get him to notice me short of dropping my...’
She fortunately looked up and noticed her mother’s face at this point and let that remark drop unfinished.
‘Not that I’d ever do anything like that, she hastened to add, ‘but I just want him to love me! I know I’m ugly, I’ve got spots on my face, straggly hair, boss eyes and all that, but I do love him and I don’t know why he can’t love me back?’
Mrs Fletcher contemplated her daughter as she blew her nose on an overused handkerchief. Note to self, she thought, grab and soak that odious article as soon as possible.
‘I know you don’t want to hear me say this,’ she started in as kindly a voice as she could muster, ‘but you’re still so young. This isn’t love. Just a teenage infatuation and you will grow out of it. I’m sure of it’
‘What if I don’t want to grow out of it?’ her daughter said defiantly. ‘What if he’s my one true love?’
‘I’ve never heard of anyone getting together with the first person they thought they’d fallen in love with,’ Mrs Fletcher stated firmly back, lips pursed.
Louise glanced up from the contents of her handkerchief to her mother’s face. ‘But isn’t that what happened to you and Dad?’
Mrs Fletcher placed her glass down very slowly, stood up and went over to stare out of the kitchen window. Sensing that she may have pushed her mother too far (Mrs Fletcher’s missing husband was a very touchy subject – he hadn’t been seen since he left the house on the morning of Christmas 1985 and wasn’t normally brought up in conversation) Louise buried her own feelings of misery, pushed her chair back and went and put her arms around her mother. She didn’t say anything to her until she felt the tremors that were coursing through her mother’s body fade gradually away.
‘I’m sorry mum. I didn’t mean to upset you,’ she said, stroking her mother’s slightly greying hair soothingly. ‘I miss him too. It’s just that when I get angry at the world, which is most of the time at the moment,’ she felt her mother chuckle at that, ‘I tend to lash out and forget to engage brain before mouth. Come on,’ she turned her mum around and led her back to the table, ‘sit down and let me make you tea for once.’
‘Here,’ she passed the handkerchief to her mother,’ dry your eyes.’
Up close, it was even more disgusting than she’d previously thought. Mrs Fletcher quickly pocketed the offensive article, trying hard not to think of the mess it would be making of the pocket in her skirt and pointed her other hand towards the kitchen roll.
‘Thanks,’ she smiled, ‘but pass me some roll instead?’
As she blew her nose, a dawning look of shock appeared upon her mother’s face. Louise had never offered to make a cup of tea before, let alone a complete meal? Been ordered to, yes, but offered! Louise waved the carrot she had just picked up at her and said, ‘Well, I’ve got to start sometime and if nothing else, it’ll take my mind off Adam Bloody Roberts!’
‘Well, okay, but can you please wash your hands first before you cut anything else up? I’ve seen the state of that handkerchief and I have no wish for a trip to the local A and E with food poisoning.’
‘Fair enough,’ agreed Louise waling over to the sink. ‘Do you think he even notices me though mum?’
Mrs Fletcher scolded herself. She should have known that her daughter would not have been able to let the subject drop that easily; she never had been able to.
‘Of course he notices you dear. How could he not? Aside from the temper you got from me and the occasional sobbing fit (that remark earned her a venomous glance over Louis’s shoulder), you’ve got such a cute bottom!’
‘Muummmm!’ came the plaintive cry from amongst the peas Louise had started to shell.
‘Seriously Lou, this is the first boy I’ve heard you talk about like this. You’re only thirteen and there’s plenty of time for boys and love. Or girls, if you want to, it’s up to you,’ stated her mother with a wicked gleam in her eyes.
Louise turned around from the sink, dripping water all over the floor, a look of incredulity on her face. This was turning into a most unusual conversation? She’d never heard her mother talk like this before. In fact, she wasn’t even sure before now that her mother knew what a lesbian was? Did they even have them in the days when her mother was a child?
She dried her hands on a tea towel and came to sit back down next to her mother. ‘Mum. I’ve only just fallen for my first boy, I don’t think I’m liable to swing the other way just yet.’
‘Whatever pleases you honey,’ said her mother patting her hand.
‘Honestly mum, I don’t think I’m handling this that well at all anyway, so don’t confuse me anymore!’
‘I’m just saying that as we seem to having this sort of conversation, you’re my daughter and I’d love you no matter what lifestyle you chose. Though if it ever came down to it, I absolutely forbid you to marry a Gooner!’ she told her, leaning her chin on a hand thoughtfully.
‘What on earth’s a Gooner?’ asked Louise, who’d now realised she’d been making a mess on the floor and knelt down to clean up the pool of water at her feet.
Her mother smiled that smile which only other mother’s can understand and looked into her daughter’s eyes.
‘You know I’m a Manchester United fan?’ she started.
It was Louise’s turn to smile. ‘Bit hard to miss what with all the videos you’re always watching, the posters on the walls and the United shirt you’re wearing there,’ she pointed at the red shirt with the name Cantona emblazoned across the back which her mother was wearing.
‘In that case you may have noticed when we play a team called Arsenal, my language tends to be a bit on the, shall we say, fruity side.’
Louise laughed out loud. ‘If that’s a polite way of saying that you swear like a trooper, I’d have to agree.’
This earned Louise a playful swat on the bottom for her cheek.
‘Well, there is a mutual hatred between the two sets of fans and we call them “the Gooners”. It’s only a nickname, but if you ever went out with someone who supported that team, then I’d have to deny that I’d ever had a daughter.’
There was a mischievous glint in her eyes when she said this that Louise totally failed to catch.
‘Yeah, well, the way things are looking with Adam; you won’t have much to worry about. Like I said, he doesn’t even seem to notice I’m there, so as far as I’m concerned, my love life hasn’t even started yet. As for if he’s a “Gooner”? I wouldn’t care if he were mum. In case you hadn’t noticed, I don’t share your love for football.’
‘It’ll rub off on you,’ her mother assured her with a knowing smile.
‘Not if I’ve any say in it,’ Louise shot back.
Louise’s mother looked at the untouched vegetables in front of them.
‘I thought you were going to make me tea?’ she pointed out. ‘You’re not making a very good start!’
‘It’s your fault mum,’ Louise said standing back up and starting to slice the carrots. ‘You distracted me with all your talk about my latent lesbian tendencies!’
‘I said no such thing young lady. I merely implied that if you were that way inclined, it wouldn’t matter to me.’
‘I suppose you did,’ agreed Louise. ‘You’d just never talk to me again if I went out with an Arsenal supporter. How about if I went out with an Arsenal player? They earn a load of money,’ she enquired, not able to resist toying with her mother.
‘In that case,’ her mother said after taking a few moments to take in her daughter’s question, ‘I’d pretend that he played for Rotherham United.’
‘Never heard of them,’ stated Louise, going to the fridge and taking out some mushrooms.
‘They play in the same colours as Arsenal,’ she was informed.
‘So, you’d disown me if I saw someone who followed them, but if I went out with one of their players, their rather rich players,’ she pointed out, ‘you’d find a way around your phobia?’
‘I’d hardly call it a phobia,’ said her mother defensively, ‘and I wish I’d never brought up the subject!’
