The Illustrated Mum Read online

  I was starting to feel a bit sick when we got to New Barnes.

  ‘I’m not sure Mars Bars really go with crisps,’ I said. ‘Especially not with Coke on top.’ I burped miserably.

  ‘You’ll be all right in a minute,’ said Oliver. He asked a lady the way to the leisure pool. She said it wasn’t far and we couldn’t miss it. We set off walking in the direction she sent us. We walked for quite a bit, not saying much. It seemed far. It looked like we had missed it.

  I didn’t mind.

  Oliver asked again and then we doubled back on ourselves and saw a big modern white building at the back of the street.

  ‘That looks like it,’ said Oliver.

  I said nothing.

  ‘You’re ever so quiet,’ said Oliver.

  ‘I feel sick. I told you.’

  ‘It’s probably because you’re scared about meeting your dad.’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ I said, irritated. ‘Stop being such a know-all. You don’t know anything.’

  ‘Yes I do,’ said Oliver softly. ‘Scaredy-cat.’ But he laced his bony little fingers through mine as he said it.

  I glared at him but I gripped his hand hard. I hung on tight as we got nearer and nearer the leisure pool. The smell of the chlorine was so strong as we went through the entrance that I wondered if I really was going to throw up.

  ‘Take a deep breath,’ Oliver advised.

  I stood still and gasped like I was making a dirty phone call.

  The woman at the reception desk eyed us up and down.

  ‘Are you both over ten?’

  ‘Of course we are,’ said Oliver. ‘But we don’t actually want to go for a swim.’

  ‘Well, the café’s over there.’

  ‘No, we don’t want the café either.’

  ‘Well, if it’s the toilets you’re not allowed to use them if you’re not using the leisure centre premises, but your friend looks a bit dodgy, so if she needs to dash into the Ladies I’ll turn a blind eye.’

  ‘It’s kind of you, but she doesn’t need the toilet,’ said Oliver.

  ‘I do,’ I said truthfully. I did have to make a dash for it.

  When I returned, white and trembling, the lady and Oliver looked shocked.

  ‘You look awful,’ said Oliver.

  ‘Perhaps you’d better come into the office and sit down,’ said the lady. ‘I’ll ring your mother.’

  ‘You can’t,’ I said, and I started crying.

  There was a lot of fussing after that. I was led into the office, Oliver holding my hand again, which was kind of him though it meant I couldn’t wipe my nose properly. A thin man with big black glasses and a grey tracksuit shook his head at me.

  ‘Dear, oh dear, you look a bit woebegone,’ he said. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘She’s not well at all. Can I leave the kids with you a minute, there’s a queue at the desk. Thanks, Michael.’

  I stared at him. Michael. My dad.

  I’d never had any clear idea what he looked like. Marigold had always described him as nothing special, which wasn’t helpful. Then I’d rearranged my ideas over the last couple of hours and pictured him as a brawny bronze hunk in lycra shorts.

  This Michael was a shock.

  ‘You’re Michael!’ said Oliver.

  He stopped looking at me. He stared at Oliver. His face went white.

  ‘You’re the kid who phoned,’ he said.

  Oliver nodded.

  ‘You asked if I remembered Marigold.’ He said it oddly, as if it was a magic name and saying it out loud would make all his wishes come true.

  ‘What’s your name, son?’ he whispered.

  ‘Oliver,’ said Oliver.

  Michael bent down and clasped Oliver gently by his narrow shoulders.

  ‘I knew it,’ said Michael. ‘I knew it as soon as I heard your voice. And now look at you. A real chip off the old block. Oh, Oliver. I’m your dad, aren’t I?’ He pulled Oliver closer to hug him.

  ‘No!’ said Oliver, wriggling out of his grasp.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ said Michael, setting him free at once. ‘I know I can’t rush things. This is probably very difficult for you. But ever since Marigold left I’ve been haunted by the thought of you.’

  ‘No! Not me,’ Oliver said. ‘I’ve got my own dad. I’m just her friend. It’s her.’

  He took me by the wrist and yanked me upright. I was still feeling so weak I went dizzy. Oliver and Michael started multiplying and spinning round me.

  ‘Sit down and put your head between your legs,’ said Michael.

  ‘Put my head where?’ I mumbled.

  ‘To stop you fainting.’ He took hold of me by the elbows and sat me back down. He gently pressed my head down until my knees nudged my ears.

  ‘There!’ he said, as the black whirling slowed down. ‘OK. You can try putting your head up now.’

  ‘Up and down, up and down. I feel like a yo-yo,’ I said shakily.

  ‘Now,’ said Michael, sitting on the arm of my chair. ‘Are you telling me you’re Marigold’s baby?’

  ‘I’m not a baby. I’m nearly eleven.’ Then I realized what he meant. ‘How did you know she was having a baby?’

  ‘It was why she left. I was so thrilled, but she didn’t know if she could cope. Star was only little. Marigold didn’t want—’ He stopped suddenly.

  I stared at him, rubbing my eyes, trying to get him properly in focus.

  ‘You mean, you and Marigold, you lived together for a bit?’

  ‘Eleven months.’

  I must have looked astonished.

  ‘I loved her so much,’ said Michael. ‘I knew she didn’t really care about me. She wanted that Micky. But he didn’t want her.’

  ‘She’s the same now,’ I said.

  ‘Does she know you’re here?’ He looked painfully eager.

  ‘She’s not waiting outside, is she?’

  ‘No. She’s – she’s in hospital.’

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘She’s not very well. Sort of . . . mentally.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘And Star’s with Micky now.’

  ‘Is she? How did that come about? He left long before she was born.’

  ‘Well, he came back. And he’s taken Star.’

  ‘So Star’s got her dad. And – and you came looking for your dad. Me.’

  I felt myself going bright red. Michael had gone through an overly emotional scene with Oliver. It would seem so daft if he repeated it with me.

  The weird thing was that Michael and Oliver really did look like they were related. Michael and I didn’t look at all alike. He was dark, I was mousey. He had vague brown eyes, mine were sharp green. He had pink cheeks and I was always white unless I was blushing.

  ‘Maybe you’re not my dad,’ I said. ‘We don’t look like each other.’

  ‘You look like Marigold.’

  I stared at him. My dad was pretty stupid.

  ‘Marigold’s beautiful,’ I said. ‘I’m ugly.’

  ‘No you’re not. You’re very like her. Your hair, your skin, your eyes.’

  ‘Marigold’s got red hair,’ said Oliver.

  ‘It was pale brown when she was with me,’ said Michael. He smiled at me, his eyes big and blinking behind his black glasses.

  ‘Do you swim wearing your glasses?’ I asked.

  ‘I have prescription goggles,’ he said. ‘Though I look a bit like a frog in them.’

  I thought.

  ‘Marigold has a frog tattoo.’

  ‘Between her toes. I know. I held her hand when she had it done.’

  ‘I have to hold her hand too.’

  ‘Has she got a lot more now?’

  ‘She’s practically covered up!’ said Oliver. ‘She looks amazing. Like a comic. I’d give anything to have a mum who looks like that. Oh, my mum! Do you think I could possibly make a quick phone call?’

  ‘Of course.’

  While Oliver was dialling and then spinning his mum some long