Trying to Get Rid of Me
What on earth are you wearing? Margaret Brown scrutinised her daughter from head to toe, her gaze lingering disapprovingly on her skirt. Thats unacceptably short. At your age, you really ought to stop dressing like a schoolgirl.
Sarah reflexively tugged at the hem, even though the skirt nearly reached her knees. It was just a plain office skirt, picked up last month in a sale. It had felt like a good find at the time: a classic cut, a neutral colour.
Mum, theres nothing wrong with it, Sarah worked hard to keep the irritation from her voice. I wear it to the office.
Exactly! People see you and think heaven knows what. When I was your age
Sarah no longer listened. Shed heard it all before, hundreds of timesabout modesty, about back in my day, and the correct appearance for a respectable woman. Instead of replying, she put a thick envelope on the table, marked with the logo of a travel agency.
This is for you, Mum…
Margaret fell silent mid-sentence. She glanced at the envelope, then at her daughter, then back again.
And what have you dragged home now?
Open it.
Sarah had been waiting for this moment for half a year, scrimping and saving every spare penny. That very health spa with the colonnades and mineral springs, the one her mother had longed to visit. Sarah had finally found it, secured the best room, arranged every detail with care.
Margaret pulled out the reservation, scanning it quickly. Sarah waited, hoping not for a hug, but at least a soft thank you, a warm look.
Her mother merely pursed her lips, pushing the envelope to the edge of the table with her fingertips as though it were soiled.
Once again, youve made all the decisions for me.
Sarah felt her breath catch.
Mum, its Bath. Youve always wanted to
And whos going to water my African violets, have you thought of that? Margaret tapped on the table. Three weeks gone, theyll be dead.
Ill come by. Every day.
You work. Youll forget, get wrapped up in things. And I suppose theyll feed me nothing but cabbage there. I read these modern spas cut every corner.
Sarah looked at her mother and wondered if she was joking. Six months of doing without morning coffee, new shoes, outings with friendsfor this?
Mum, theres a five-room restaurant, a full menu, massages, a swimming pool, walking paths
Walking paths, Margaret mimicked. Youve learned all the trendy words, havent you? But did you even think to ask me if I wanted this?
Sarah swallowed hard, her throat tight. Shed longed for just a simple well done, the sort shed lived for all these years.
She slumped into the nearest chair, her legs suddenly weak, body giving in on her behalf. She stared at the envelope her mother had banished to the far corner of the table and said nothing.
And that climate, too, Margaret had begun her rounds of the kitchen, needlessly straightening a tablecloth already smooth. Its damp as anything. Ill have trouble with my blood pressure the moment I get there. Did you consider that?
Sarah said nothing. For the first time in years, she realised she no longer wished to explain herself. Some strange resolve not to justify her choices swept over her.
And what about the journey? How far is it? Hours rocking on a train? My back cant take it. Her mother sat opposite, hands folded, ready for a long lecture. Now, look at next doors Sophieshes a handful, and her husbands hopeless, drinks all the time, but she never neglects her mum. Pops round every day, with groceries or just for a chat.
Sarah found herself studying the creases at the corners of her mothers mouth, the grey roots peeking through dyed hair, the familiar hands knotted with veins. Those hands used to plait her hair before school. Those lips used to sing lullabies. Where had all that gone?
Are you even listening?
Im listening, Mum.
Doesnt seem like it. You just sit there like a statue. Im telling you important things and you
Margaret continued: modern spas were cramped, the neighbours were bound to be noisy, the doctors too young to know a thing, doling out nothing but tablets. Sarah nodded at the right moments, but inside the emptiness was growing.
The mantel clock ticked off the minutes. An hour. Nearly two. Margaret was gathering steam, moving from the spa to general grievanceslonely evenings, rare phone calls, how her daughter had slipped from her grasp.
Do you know what its like for me here, all alone? Her mother lifted her chin. You want to ship me off so you can have fun yourself, dont you?
Mum, its a gift.
A gift! Margaret threw up her hands. A gifts supposed to be pleasant! But thisyou bought it just to soothe your conscience. Shove your mother out of the way and carry on, eh?
Sarah rose slowly, knees still wobbly, but she forced herself to pick up the envelope, fingers clenching the thick paper.
Youre right, Mum. You wouldnt be comfortable there. Ill cancel it.
Margaret stopped short. For a second, her face flashed with confusion, like someone bracing for a fight whose opponent suddenly lowered their weapon.
What do you mean, cancel it?
Exactly that. Ill get the money back. Youre right, I didnt consider everything.
Sarah, put the envelope down.
Why? You dont want to go.
I never said I didnt want to! I said you ought to have asked me! Margarets voice rose, red patches on her cheeks. You always go off and do your own thing, then wonder why Im upset!
Sarah pressed the envelope to her chest and headed for the hall. Her heart was pounding in her throat, but resolve steadied her legs.
Where do you think youre going? Sarah! Im talking to you!
Mum, Im tired.
Tired, are you? Margaret dashed out and grabbed her daughter by the elbow. I gave up everything for you! We went hungry, your father ran off, and I raised you, alone! Is this how you repay me?
Sarah turned. She looked at her motherher lips trembling with anger, her face bloodless with fury.
You said you didnt want it.
I said you never asked!
Fine. Im asking now. Mum, do you want to go to Bath?”
Margaret spluttered with indignation.
Are you mocking me? Trying to drive me mad? Heartless robot, thats what you are! Put the ticket back, Ill think it over!
Sarah gently pried her elbow free but didnt let go of the envelope.
Ill ring you tomorrow, Mum.
She closed the door behind her before Margaret could retort.
Margarets wordscurses about thanklessness, wasted youth, regretscaught up with Sarah out on the landing, muffled but vicious through the closed door. Sarah didnt pause, didnt look back. Her legs carried her briskly down the stairs, past the battered post boxes, past the familiar neighbours.
Outside, a fine rain had begun to fall. Sarah tilted her face up, letting the drops land, and for several minutes she stood rooted to the pavement, breathing in the earthy scent of wet tarmac. Passers-by skirted around her, one tutted irritably, but she didnt care. The travel voucher was still clutched in her hand, and Sarah suddenly wondered if she might go herself: Bath, columns, royal baths, and no silent reproaches over breakfast.
She wandered aimlessly until she stopped before a small café on a corner. Soft golden light shone out, illuminating tables set with white cloths and vases of fresh flowers, people lingering over supper unhurriedly. She pushed open the door and went in.
Good evening, said the waiter, handing her the menu with genuine warmth. Will you be dining alone?
Yes, Sarah was surprised by how effortless it sounded.
She chose a table tucked away from the others. She sat down, smoothed her napkin across her lap, and opened the menu. Her eye fell instantly on the most expensive puddingpear tart with caramel and salted fudge. And a glass of full-bodied red wine.
Her mother would have called this madness. Money down the drain. Sarah pictured those tight lips, the reproachful looks, the endless when I was your age and placed her order.
The wine was rich and slightly bitter. Sarah took a sip and leaned back in her chair. A strange sensation crept over herlightness where a familiar heaviness used to weigh her down. She remembered dreading a B grade as a child, because her mother would refuse to speak to her for a week. Choosing economics at university, not literature, because thats not a proper job. Three years with Michael, whom shed loved but left because her mother had whispered daily that he lacked ambition.
The tart melted in her mouth. Sarah watched the caramel soften and realised she couldnt recall the last time shed done something simply because she wanted tonot for her mothers approval or even the smallest well done, but for herself.
Her phone trembled in her bag. Then again. And again. Sarah lookedseven missed calls from her mother, three voice messages. She switched it off.
She finished her wine, ate her pudding, and asked for the bill. She left a generous tip, just because she felt like it, and stepped out to the evening street. The rain had stopped, and a few brilliant stars glimmered over the rooftops.
Sarah thought that the hardest stepthe very firstshe had already taken. She had allowed herself to matter more than anyone elses expectations.
