an answer to that.
‘I’m going to make a few calls to find emergency accommodation close to DJ’s school. But I must stress that I can’t guarantee that. It’s been a busy month – hell, it’s been a busy year,’ Gillian said.
‘It’s OK if I miss school for a bit,’ DJ said helpfully.
Gillian laughed at this, but stopped when she realised Ruth wasn’t joining in. She was such an odd woman, so serious.
‘We have no car to sleep in. Or friends’ houses to sofa surf. Please help us. I do not want my son to sleep on a bench. Please,’ Ruth said.
Pop, pop, pop.
Gillian leaned in and said, with utmost sincerity, ‘I told you that I would help. And that’s what I plan to do. Try not to worry.’
Twenty minutes later, Gillian looked up from her computer screen and said, ‘I’ve pulled some strings and found you a room in a hotel. It’s a little bit away from DJ’s school, which I know was a priority for you both location-wise, but it’s all I have at the moment. Like I said earlier, it’s been a hard year for many people,’ Gillian said.
‘Thank you. We will take it,’ Ruth said, breathless with relief. She wanted to dance with joy. No park bench for them. They would be safe.
‘I’ll keep the pressure on for you, to try and get your house. You’ve been on the waiting list for a long time. Your turn has to come soon,’ Gillian promised.
‘What’s the name of the hotel?’ DJ asked.
‘The Silver Sands Lodge. It’s small. Really a guest-house or, as Erica, the owner, likes to say, a boutique hotel. We’ve housed a number of our families there over the past couple of years. I think you’ll be comfortable. It’s all booked with Erica, who is expecting you. You mentioned you have no car?’
‘No. I sold our car a few years ago to pay for a deposit on the flat we’ve just been evicted from,’ Ruth replied. She scribbled down Erica’s name and hotel details into her notebook. Fairview. She did not know the area, but knew it was close to the city centre.
‘Just as well maybe. The Silver Sands Lodge does not allow social housing residents to park in their car park,’ Gillian said.
‘That makes no sense. A car park is for cars.’
‘It’s small, so they prefer to keep the spaces there for their paying guests. You understand.’
Ruth did not understand, but thought she’d better keep quiet in case the room was taken from her as quickly as it had been offered.
Gillian turned to DJ, who was listening to their exchange with eyes wide. ‘My priority is to get you that garden, DJ. I promise I’ll do my best.’
DJ’s face was alight with excitement. ‘I’ve never stayed in a hotel before! This is going to be so cool. Our first holiday!’
Gillian looked at him, pity turning her kind face sad. She had visited too many families squashed into one hotel room, with little privacy and no comforts to make themselves a home. Gillian wished she had the power to stop that harsh reality sinking in for DJ. He wasn’t much older than her own kids. Glancing at the photograph of her beaming family, snapped at home, she realised how lucky they were, to live the life they did. And when she got home, she would tell them so.
Then
Ruth slipped a navy sleep mask over her eyes, smiling in satisfaction when her brother, Mark’s, small kitchen disappeared into darkness. Armed with her bowl of chopped fruit, she moved eight steps to the small dining-room table, which sat at the edge of the open-plan kitchen and living room. She had considered eating standing up, against the sink. But the thought was fleeting. One, her lower back ached and she needed the welcome relief of sitting. Two, more importantly, the sink was not the correct place to eat.
Ruth liked to do the correct thing. Follow the rules.
‘Sorry, little baby. Be patient,’ she whispered.
A third kick under her ribcage made her jump and elicited a loud bellowing laugh. ‘Not afraid to look for what you want, that’s my fierce little one.’ In delight, she rubbed her round tummy.
The baby responded by kicking her once again, its target the top of her pelvis. She lowered the bowl onto the table, ignoring the stabbing pain, then sat down. The relief was immediate. She felt her body celebrating the respite from hauling around the additional weight she now carried on her slight frame.
Reward for her efforts was immediate when Ruth popped a large slice of mango into her mouth. The sweet, tangy juice spilled from the soft flesh in an explosion that set her taste buds alight. She laughed out loud again as her jubilant baby began a victory dance, its craving for bright-orange mango fruit quenched. ‘If there is a sweeter taste, then I do not know it,’ she whispered to an empty room. But her little one answered, with another sharp kick to her ribs.
‘I will always do all in my power to give you what you want, little one,’ Ruth whispered to her unborn child.
Not everyone is cut out to be a mother.
Ruth stuck her tongue out to the voice of her mother, which loved to peck, peck, peck at her. If she could fulfil the wishes of her baby, even now, before it was born, maybe her mother was wrong.
Then a monstrous thought crept up on her, threatening to ruin what had been a perfect moment. Irrational fears about consuming food that was not white began to fill her head. What if she turned her breast milk orange, from all the mango juice she had been relishing? What if the baby decided that it did not want to drink her milk or formula? What if the baby only wanted juice? The mango syrup changed from a vibrant orange to blood red and her head began to pound. What if … what if … what if … Ruth felt dizzy with the unanswered dangers that were hidden in the what ifs of her mind. A familiar flip of panic turned her stomach upside down and as it grew stronger, feeding on her fear, it snaked its way around her insides, exploring her body, poisoning her.
She pushed the bowl of fruit away from her and stood up, taking off her mask.
Why must you always be so difficult?
It was no use. Her mother may not be here, in this flat, but she lived in her head and would not leave her alone.
‘Do you think the starving children of Africa get to choose the colour of their food? Oh, for pity’s sake, Ruth. You are trying my patience. Just EAT YOUR DINNER!’ Marian shouted to her ten-year-old daughter.
‘I am sorry, Mama, I am trying,’ Ruth whispered.
‘Yes you are. Very trying.’
Now she reached for a napkin and threw it over the discarded fruit in disgust. Her baby thought about protesting, even gave a small kick but, in a moment of solidarity, quietened down.
Sweat trickled from her forehead, sliding down her cheek, disappearing under her chin. She wiped it away with the back of her hand, feeling contaminated and shamed. Always just below the surface, ready to jump up at a moment’s notice, self-reproach returned. She was bad. She let people down. Shame, shame, shame.
Ruth lay her hands on her protruding tummy and felt love move between her and her baby. It was a tangible thing – an energy that was palpable. Had her mother ever felt that energy herself, when she carried Ruth in her tummy? Her memories said no. But maybe she remembered her childhood incorrectly. Was it possible that she had distorted her childhood into something ugly, something untrue? A confusion of dreams with reality. Maybe right now, her mother was in her childhood home, baking bread and smiling as she thought of her daughter and the grandchild