Although he would be away to work soon. She knew that, so if he needed to talk, it had to be now, or soon. Only sometimes it wasnt important, not once he had said it. Chit-chat, that was all. Why couldnt it wait? He could wait. She had waited for him.
At least she wasnt cooking; that was the worst, no space at all, that so-called counter, having to keep it clear, everything stacked everywhere just because nowhere and nothing, no proper cupboards, no workplace my God this silly wire thing he brought home; the cutlery was supposed to like stand upright to dry off naturally but individual articles forever slipped through the gaps and landed in the sink and that sink, like gunge, always thick with it, and you had to wash them all again. It just created work. Why create work? That was labour-saving devices. He loved them but they were silly gadgets most of them.
He was talking again. Although it was cheery, Sophie was there and smiling at what he was saying and she put her arm round Helen. Helen said to her: Who does he remind you of? Does he remind you of anybody?
Mr Noisy.
Yes and Mr Nosey, rolled into one.
Mo laughed.
And Mr Grumpy, said Sophie.
Yes!
It aint me that’s Mr Grumpy! called Mo. There’s two Mr Grumpys in this house and they aint Misters let me tell you they are Misses.
Huh! said Helen.
Mo was beckoning to her: Guess what about?
Pardon?
Guess what I want to talk to you about?
I cant.
You have to.
Oh God.
Mo smiled.
You’re going to work in an hour and here you are blethering!
Exactly, he said.
Blether blether blether.
Yes, he said.
Helen sighed. There was a chair positioned to the side of the counter gable. She rose from the floor, settled the iron upright on a space on the counter, switched on the kettle of water then plopped down onto the chair.
Sophie was watching her. Of course she was. Helen smiled and Sophie smiled in reply. That was a girl who worried; six years of age and already, already she was doing it.
It was having people, she had people, and had known loss, whatever the reality was her father was no longer the fixture and that was it, poor wee soul. No doubt she worried about Helen. Of course she would. Helen’s arm was round her shoulder and she pulled Sophie to her. It was good having someone. Poor Brian if it was him. Imagine it was, down-and-out and on the street. A homeless person living rough. With psychological health problems. He should never have been on the street. That was so wrong. Britain was a horrible country. Everything being frittered and people in need. Brian should have been receiving care, he should have been in a nursing home. He was Helen’s brother and she would have looked out for him, come to see him every day possible, as often as she could, help him get better. Mo would be good too. He was good with people, he liked them. And if you like people people like you. Oh my God.
Mo was smiling.
What? said Helen.
You’re in fantasy-land!
No she isnt, said Sophie, leaning closely into her.
Yes she is, her head is in the clouds!
Dont be so cheeky, said Sophie.
She’s miles away!
Oh I’m just thinking, said Helen.
What about? said Sophie.
Nothing for nosey folk! Helen smiled. But Sophie didnt. Sophie was staring, about to cry my God she was, blinking to stop the tears. Helen sighed. Oh Sophie, she said.
I’m not nosey. You said I was.
I didnt.
You did. I was nosey. You said it.
Oh but it was fun, it was fun; I dont think you’re nosey at all.
I hate it when you say that.
Honestly, it was only fun.
You know your mum, said Mo, if there’s a joke she’ll make it.
Sophie looked at him. He poked his tongue out but she kept her face straight. A battle of wills. Helen shut her eyes. The water in the kettle had started boiling. She reached to switch it off. She thought to say something but didnt. They were both strong characters: stronger than Helen. At the same time it was comical, like how she had been herself, always on her dignity, on her high horse. Dad shouted that whenever Brian lifted her. Look at wee jellybelly, she’s up on her high horse, and that was Brian. Dad always poked fun. He shouldnt have. It wasnt sarcasm but it wasnt nice. Insensitive. That was Dad, like a lot of men. They saw things differently so their jokes too, their jokes were just not funny. But why did he pick on his own son? All the time he did it and it wasnt nice. If he was doing his best. People do their best. Why did Dad do it? Mum didnt like him when he did. Helen saw that. She was a wee girl and she saw it. Mum didnt like Dad. Brian was only lifting her, putting her on his shoulders. What was wrong with that? That was a big brother, he was a great big brother. There wasnt a single piece of badness in him, there wasnt — him and his burnt toast, he loved burnt toast. So did she, although it was bad for your insides. Brian burnt it black then scraped off the worst portions, showing it to Helen making her jealous. Oh I love burnt toast, mmm. That was what he said, tormenting her. He did torment her so she did it back to him. Oh but it was playful. It was not in spite. There was no spite. There wasnt. They didnt blame each other. Why would they have if it was fun? It was fun. Nobody was at fault. She was a wee girl. There was no fault. Why fault? What fault was there? Only Dad. Dad was silly. He was. She saw that now. Grown-ups could be silly, their little jealousies and pettiness. It was the pettiness. Helen hated pettiness. She would far rather
what
too many things. That was life. Where was she in hers? She didnt know, just how her thoughts went with so much like all the time, so so — just on the go, so so much; here there and everywhere and worry worry, him too, her ex, Sophie hadnt said but she looked forward to seeing him; she didnt say because she didnt want to, saying it to Helen so if Helen took it the wrong way — Sophie was safeguarding her! That was what it was, that was this little girl, just so so perceptive about adults and all everything, just everything, an astute wee girl, worrying about her mum. She shouldnt have had to do that. Was that fair? Children shouldnt have to serve the parent.
It was twisted loyalties. He was her father. Your father is your father. It was difficult for him too with them in England. Helen could admit that. It wasnt his fault. He was her dad and your dad is your dad. It was Mo she felt sorry for. He could never be her father, if that was what he was trying, not her real father. If he was trying for that it was silly. All he could do was be nice and be thoughtful, try to be a friend, but not her father like her natural father, he couldnt be that, never. If he was trying that. But he wouldnt have been trying that. Mo was bright and intelligent. He was not stupid. A proper friend. One to one, as an adult to a young person, friendly in that fashion: be responsible and dont give a child everything she wants. Children want everything and cannot have it. Sophie was six years old and had to be controlled. All children do. They cannot do what they want like just anything because they would ruin themselves and what would happen? biscuits for breakfast and chocolate for tea, they would never grow, they would never develop. Adults have to take charge of their development, they have to take charge; a child is a child; a child is not responsible, not for everything. How can she be? It is unfair to expect it. Yes be friends but dont get led astray. That is so easy. Adults fall into the trap. Play their games but be careful too my God they are children, that is all they are, girls are not women, they are not women. Dont blame them.