Mum in the Middle Read online

  As Gabriel’s pen moved faster, I had a sudden pang for the house in Finchley. The jumble of coats in the hall. The kitchen with its crowded work surfaces and discarded coffee mugs. The radio playing over the sound of the television in the breakfast room and music coming down the stairs. Always someone there …

  ‘Which son is this?’ Gabriel picked up the photograph of my youngest leaning back on the old sofa, guitar in his hands.

  ‘That’s Ben. He’s really good.’ I laughed self-consciously. ‘But then I’m his mother–’

  Gabriel nodded. ‘He should come down to the Fox next time he’s here – they have an open mic night. Tell him there’s a Facebook page.’

  ‘Do you play?’

  ‘A bit – nothing special. I like to listen, though. So, what do you think of your neighbour Jinni, then?’

  ‘I admire her. She’s a bit barmy but …’ I clapped my hand to my mouth. ‘Don’t write that down! I mean she’s eccentric in a good way – creative … No, don’t say that either …’

  Gabriel put his notebook down. ‘No, of course I won’t. We’re just chatting now. I know she’s crazy.’ Gabriel laughed. ‘I’ve spent quite a lot of time over there. I can’t print most of what she says. Malcolm’s always shouting at me to look up the laws of libel. Are you happy to have your photo taken?’

  I pulled a face. ‘Oh no – I don’t think so. And I don’t really want my full name …’

  Gabriel nodded. ‘Okay, we’ll just put Tess, and do you mind very much if I ask your age? Malcolm always wants to include it – you know, Tess, 38, said …’

  I laughed. ‘I wish. My eldest is 24 – I didn’t get started that early! I was 23.’

  ‘Early enough!’ Gabriel said. ‘I’m 24 this year too. And I can’t imagine having children right now …’

  At 24, I had two of them. And was married with a mortgage. I struggled to picture my offspring in the same position. Oliver was the most grown-up – he and Sam were looking for a flat together right now – but Tilly lived hand to mouth and Ben …

  ‘I’ll email you the details,’ Gabriel was saying, ‘or come down to the office and I’ll give you a leaflet. It would be great to see some new guys there …’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The open mic night. The next one’s the Tuesday after Easter. You said Ben would be home then?’ Gabriel was still smiling despite it being evident I hadn’t been listening. ‘Come into the office anyway. Have a coffee. I’m sure Malcolm would be pleased to see you again.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps you can tell him what a great interview we had. He isn’t hugely impressed with my abilities right now,’ he added ruefully. ‘Told me I was useless this morning.’

  ‘Really? Why?’

  Gabriel pulled a face. ‘I should have been here earlier. In his day there were proper journalists not – I quote – kids with their useless media studies degrees his dyslexic granny could have earned!’ He shrugged. ‘I did go to see Jinni on Saturday.’

  ‘She said you were being very helpful about getting the glass fixed,’ I said. ‘She was ever so grateful.’ I smiled and patted his arm.

  Gabriel looked embarrassed. ‘Oh, it was nothing.’

  ‘It was bloody marvellous!’ yelled Jinni, who had bolted over the road as soon as she’d spotted Gabriel coming out of my front door. She threw an arm around his shoulders. ‘Your friend Sean has been and the window’s all done. And guess who was passing as I said goodbye. I swear she stopped and smirked. Soon scuttled off when I gave her the finger, though.’ Jinni wagged one at Gabriel now. ‘You should put that in your article – the fact that she walks past my house all hours of the bloody day.’ Jinni threw her hair back over her shoulder and snorted.

  ‘I think my editor would say it’s a free country and it doesn’t prove anything,’ said Gabriel apologetically.

  ‘Bollocks,’ said Jinni. ‘Ingrid is obsessed with me, isn’t she, Tess? You said yourself she’s always going on about me – putting leaflets through your door.’

  ‘She did put one through, yes,’ I said awkwardly, feeling Gabriel’s eyes on me.

  ‘See! It’s her or some loser she’s whipped up into a frenzy!’ Jinni was triumphant. ‘Or the wanker son. He can’t stand me either. And the feeling is mutual, let me tell you.’

  She threw her hair even more vigorously over the opposite shoulder and gave a dramatic sweep of her arm. ‘Still, what do I care? I’ve got a new window for nothing and when she sees her name in the paper she’ll think twice about doing that again. You know how she likes to think of herself as a leading figure in the community for all her bloody agitating–’

  ‘We won’t be able to name her,’ Gabriel interrupted. ‘That would be defamatory.’

  ‘Be bloody hysterical!’ Jinni gave one of her great honks of laughter. ‘Anyway, my darling boy,’ she boomed, flinging an arm around his shoulders once more. ‘I can’t WAIT to see what you HAVE written …’

  The clock showed 4.07 a.m. when I decided I really could. I woke from a disturbing dream that involved Ingrid and a stunted, maniacally-faced son, who were both living in a tent in my garden. Gabriel and Jinni had sauntered in, arm in arm, and told me Tilly had been arrested for libel and had given the police my address …

  As I hastily pushed on the bedside light, anxiety gripped at my solar plexus. My mother had phoned at 1 a.m. convinced there was something wrong with her Sky box and asking me to talk her through which buttons to press to re-set it. I’d eventually persuaded her that we could deal with this much better by daylight and had fallen back into a fitful sleep dogged by fresh worries about my parent’s strange little preoccupations and what they might herald for the future.

  Last time it had been the tuner on her kitchen radio she said had packed up, although Mo had reported nothing wrong with it when I’d called back to try to help.

  I was reminded of the mother I’d read about on one of the online forums, who had to go into a home when she kept turning the gas hob on and failing to ignite it.

  All my usual middle-of-the-night agitations – and a few new ones – pressed in on me, squeezing my chest till it thumped. My mother, work, the unanswered emails, the half-painted walls and running repairs and –

  Oh God – what had Gabriel written? I remembered my use of the word ‘paranoid’, my simpering about wanting everyone to be my friend, my protestations about using the shops …

  Jinni – only my second friend here – would be furious I hadn’t backed her to the hilt. Everyone else in the town would give me a wide berth because I was clearly so needy and the owner of the corner shop would testify I only ever spent a tenner at a time and he’d seen me driving to Waitrose.

  Gabriel might have written that I was complaining about Ingrid too, so then I’d get my windows smashed as well. In any event, I’d look like a complete prune and when my children came for Easter they’d be ashamed I’d given birth to them.

  I lay listening to the Shipping Forecast, regretting the weak moment in which I’d agreed to forward Gabriel a small head-and-shoulders photo Ben had taken last Christmas. And trying to comfort myself with the fact that Tilly said it looked nothing like me, and ignoring that she’d added I looked as if I’d been admitted to Broadmoor. (I was carrying a tray of roast potatoes at the time and there was a hole in the oven glove.) Barely anybody knew me here anyway, I reasoned, and they’d hardly recognise me with that manic expression. (Would they?)

  By six I’d come out in a light sweat. The paper wasn’t out until tomorrow, so if I emailed Gabriel now he could probably make some minor adjustments. He was a nice boy – he wouldn’t want me to worry.

  I got out of bed, put on my dressing gown and fetched my laptop and the card Gabriel had left me, made a cup of peppermint tea and headed back beneath the duvet.

  With the screen against my knees, I tried to keep my tone light as I explained I was ever so slightly concerned about being misconstrued. If I could just see what he’d written, I suggested, I was sure I’d be completely put at ease, bu
t if he had by any chance quoted me as mentioning paranoia or I’d sounded anything less than totally loyal to, and outraged by, the treatment of Jinni, then could he please amend accordingly, along perhaps with the fact that I found everyone in Northstone very friendly, rather than I wished everyone would be my friend, and if there were possibly room to mention it, that while I did go to the supermarket for major stockings-up, how totally appreciative and admiring I was of the local independent shops and how I intended to make sure I went to my own newsagent-cum-corner shop several times a week …

  I hope you are well, I finished. And I will certainly tell Ben about the music night. As a PS I added: It was lovely to be interviewed by you and I hope to see you soon, so he, Gabriel, could show Malcolm, if he wanted to, and he wouldn’t feel that, despite my cold feet, he wasn’t welcome to visit again.

  As I pressed send, I felt as if a weight had lifted and I was simultaneously overcome with fatigue. I closed the lid of the computer, put it on the floor beside me and immediately fell asleep.

  The next time I woke, it was half-past eight. In theory, I was supposed to be ‘at my desk’ by 9 a.m. in case the office needed me. And Paul – who insisted on landline contact with anyone working from home for this very reason – was not above calling at 9.01 just to see if I was.

  I stumbled into the en suite and turned on the shower, taking a mouthful of cold tea on my way. It wasn’t till an hour later that I was finally checking my mail.

  There were two messages from @northstone‌districtnews. The first was an auto reply from Gabriel, informing contacts he was out of the office but if the message were urgent it should be forwarded to newsdesk@northstone‌districtnews or editor@northstone‌districtnews, who would be able to assist in his absence.

  It seemed, however, that the message had already made this journey without me.

  The second email was from Malcolm Priceman, Editor. And consisted of just two words:

  TOO LATE.

  Chapter 5

  The newspaper offices were halfway down the High Street. I pushed open the door and crossed the floor to where a middle-aged woman sat behind a counter, looking at her screen. She looked up wearily as I came towards her and raised her eyebrows.

  ‘I’m here to see Gabriel,’ I said.

  Her eyes swept over me, as if deciding. Then she

  jerked her head towards the stairs to the side of her desk. ‘Go on up …’

  At the top I found myself in a large room with various desks and computers and people tapping at keyboards. A woman of about my age looked up and smiled. ‘Do you want Malcolm?’

  ‘Er, no Gabriel, please.’

  ‘He’s in with Malcolm.’ She pointed to the back of the room, where double doors were open to another office beyond. I walked towards it feeling conscious of several pairs of eyes on me and rather wishing I’d ignored Gabriel’s message.

  He’d emailed at 8.30 a.m. apologising for not replying sooner and saying I had nothing to worry about. If I came into the office at lunchtime he would give me both a copy of the newspaper and the info on the open mic night for Ben.

  I’d replied saying I would, then hot-footed it to the newsagent’s to see the story right away. It was not too bad. The manic photo was small and the feature quoted Jinni at length and me not too much – and didn’t mention anything about anyone being paranoid or otherwise, but focused on how upset and shocked I was that anyone could display such mindless aggression.

  I didn’t actually remember using this phrase, but it was better than sounding like a lonely hearts advert. The main picture was of Jinni pointing at a broken pane of glass beneath the headline ‘Actress Fears Campaign to Drive Her Out’, and above a report on how Northstone’s top glazier had given his services free to replace the window.

  I was Tess, 46 (either Gabriel couldn’t do the maths or he was being kind), mother of three and a newcomer to the town and the only quote that sounded slightly cringy was the one about my finding it so handy to have a corner shop on the corner (where else might it be?). The online version was identical, except the photo of me was bigger, with a pop-up ad for greenhouses mostly obscuring it.

  I heard Malcolm before I saw him. ‘You don’t make things up!’ he was saying loudly, ‘and you don’t sneak rubbish about your mates into my newspaper AFTER I’ve seen it. Get it to the subs, I said. I didn’t tell you to write a bloody fairy story first!’

  ‘I didn’t know it was …’ Gabriel was protesting.

  ‘It’s your job to know. You check the facts. Then you check ‘em again, You don’t put a load of bullshit in just because your crony in the pub gave it to you.’

  I stopped outside the door, unsure what to do. The girl at the desk nearest to me was typing on, apparently unconcerned by the shouting.

  Gabriel was saying something about helping Jinni, which seemed to infuriate Malcolm further. ‘WE’RE NOT RUNNING A BLOODY CHARITY,’ he roared.

  His voice then dropped. ‘And two tyres and one broken window is hardly “an orchestrated campaign”,’ he said sarcastically. ‘By whom exactly?’ I thought you said you wanted to be an investigative journalist. I’m surprised you can find your way out of bed …’

  Gabriel was still valiantly defending himself. ‘You said I couldn’t name names – I told you Jinni said Ingrid …’

  Malcolm gave a loud, disparaging snort, which seemed to echo around the office. ‘Ingrid is a damn nuisance. She’s not a complete imbecile.’

  I stepped back as he strode through the doors. He saw me and stopped. ‘If you’re here to see me, I’m going for lunch,’ he barked.

  ‘I’ve come to see Gabriel,’ I said. ‘To say thank you,’ I added, as I saw the crushed expression on the young man’s face.

  Malcolm looked sceptical. ‘I can’t imagine what for.’

  ‘A great article,’ I said boldly. ‘I thought he did it very well.’

  ‘Everyone’s an expert today,’ said Malcolm. ‘Don’t keep him talking too long – he’s got work to do …’

  He marched on through the outer office. ‘I’m going to Rosie’s’ he bellowed to the room in general.

  The girl nearest us rolled her eyes. ‘He goes there every day and has done for about twenty years. It would only be worth shouting about if he wasn’t going to Rosie’s.’

  She pushed her keyboard away from her and opened a drawer, pulling out a foil package. ‘It’s your turn to make coffee, Gabe,’ she said, unwrapping sandwiches.

  Gabriel, who was still standing in the doorway shell-shocked, looked at me. ‘Would you like a coffee, Tess?’ he asked politely. ‘I’ve got those things for you.’

  He led me to a desk in the corner of the room and offered me the chair. ‘Thanks for what you said.’ He gave a small smile as he handed me a mug and fetched a second chair to sit next to me on. ‘Sorry about the mess.’ He pushed a pile of paper aside so I could put my coffee down.

  I smiled back. ‘No worries. It was a good article.’

  Gabriel went slightly pink – looking touchingly pleased and grateful. Then he pulled a face. ‘Not according to the big boss. I was only trying to help …’

  It seemed Gabriel had offered this bloke he knew, Sean, who had a replacement windows and conservatories company, a good mention in the paper if he replaced Jinni’s broken glass and sorted out another rotten frame or two for her, to cheer her up after what had happened.

  But Gabriel had taken Sean’s word for it that Sean was the longest-established windows firm in Northstone, and one of Malcolm’s friends had phoned him up this morning to complain, that in fact HE owned the oldest glazing company in the area and so Malcolm was furious because this friend was the chairman of the Rotary Club Malcolm belonged to, none too pleased at one of his competitors getting all those column inches.

  ‘He says I should have checked,’ Gabriel said ruefully.

  ‘Well, has he?’ I asked indignantly. ‘He’s taking the word of this Rotary Club chap, isn’t he?’

  Gabriel looked at m
e in admiration. ‘I didn’t think of that.’

  As I got up to leave, I recognised Emily, the pretty young blonde girl who’d been at the quiz, coming towards us with a carrier bag. She stopped at Gabriel’s desk and pulled out a baguette and a diet coke. ‘I got you these,’ she said, looking even more adoring than she had in the pub.

  Gabriel smiled at her. ‘That is really kind of you,’ he said.

  Emily flushed and looked at her nails, clearly not sure whether to stay or leave us. I helped her out.

  ‘I’m off, then,’ I said, putting my handbag over my shoulder and picking up the flyer for Ben and a booklet of Things-to-do-in-Northstone, which Gabriel very sweetly thought would help me make friends.

  He kissed me on the cheek and I saw Emily look longingly at him. ‘Thank you,’ he said, with feeling – his slightly lost and emotionally battered look bringing out in me a surge of motherly concern.

  It must have been the thought of how I’d feel if it was one of my boys being so unfairly judged because I am not usually given to bursts of assertiveness – not unless really roused – but the sight of Malcolm through the window of Rosie’s Bistro opposite, tucking in without a care in the world, filled me with a flush of outrage on poor Gabriel’s behalf.

  The young man had helped Jinni out and brightened her up again and so what if he’d given a bit of a plug to the chap who’d done the work for free. It was a simple bartering system and what was wrong with that? It was really quite inventive and creative of Gabriel and weren’t we, as a society, always complaining that the youth of today weren’t sufficiently resourceful or self-motivated? The reporter’s heart had been In the Right Place and it was completely unreasonable of Malcolm to shout like that. Where the whole office could hear too!