May 2010 A Song About Butterflies
Read by Lisa Rose
It was past midnight when Vicky got home, just a day and a few hours since she had closed the door quietly behind her and slipped away. She dropped her rucksack in the hall. Her schoolbag lay where she had left it, though its contents were scattered now across the floor. A hairdryer buzzed upstairs.
'Mum?' Vicky waited then climbed towards the sound, to Karen's bedroom. Her mother was sprawled, naked on the bed - hair still damp, her dryer labouring into the quilt beside her. Vicky moved quickly to pull out the plug then watched, in the overheated silence, till she was sure that Karen was breathing. Satisfied, she fetched a silky kimono to cover her. Vicky gathered a red-stained mug and a bottle half-full of Chianti from the bedside. She was heading for the door when she trod on an empty beer can which crackled like a firework under her foot. Vicky froze, then turned and met Karen's eyes, sparked awake.
Karen sat up, staring at Vicky then clutching at the kimono, which was falling from her breasts. She slipped off the bed, turning from Vicky as she wrapped the garment around herself. 'Where's the belt?' Vicky found it. Tying the belt as she went, Karen left the room. On the landing, she gripped the banister awhile then went carefully downstairs, a snow-capped volcano on her back.
In the kitchen, Karen filled a kettle. Vicky went through a small lobby to the bathroom. She locked herself in and sat on the toilet lid. China clinked in the kitchen. When Vicky emerged under cover of a hissing cistern there was tea in a mug on the table, one edge of a teabag just breaking the surface. Karen had put mules on. Vicky sat at the table and noticed, for the first time, fine veins that marbled her mother’s ankles.
'I’m not stopping,' said Vicky. The toaster popped. Karen swigged at a black coffee then went to the fridge. 'I'll get a job,' said Vicky, 'then I'm out of here.'
'Suits me sweetheart,' said Karen who squatted, wobbling a little, exploring the fridge. 'You want to pack school in?' She pulled a face at the contents of a plastic container and threw it at the sink. 'Have your kid in whatever crappy doss you can afford? Go for it, I'll help you move even.' Karen was up again with eggs and milk.
'I'm not hungry,' said Vicky.
'You've got to be hungry,' said Karen. She took out two pans and a tin of spaghetti hoops. 'I'm not asking any questions,' she said, opening the hoops. ‘Have you noticed that?' Karen cut a knob of butter from a packet on the counter. 'Here on in, you’re hacking it your way.’ She put the butter in one pan with some milk, tipped the hoops into the other and lit the gas under each.
'He's at a college,' said Vicky, focusing on the teabag in her mug. Karen stirred the melting butter into the milk. 'Actually it's university.’
'Actually,' Karen mimicked.
'In Glasgow,' said Vicky.
'I thought you'd been a while,' said Karen.
'He's going to be a farmer,' said Vicky. 'Or something on a farm. I don't know, I only…'
Karen shot from the hip. 'Met him the once?' She was sobering fast.
'No!' said Vicky.
'It's all right,' said Karen. 'I'm your mother, you can tell me things. Scribbling how you’re pregnant on a post-it and disappearing twenty-four hours is not required.' Karen cracked an egg into the milk and glanced at a clock on the wall. 'Twenty-eight hours, to be exact. How’d you meet him?'
'Deb's party,' said Vicky. 'He was home for Christmas.'
'And he got it yeah?' said Karen. She cracked another egg. 'I remember that party, you came home and went straight in the shower.'
‘I told you,’ said Vicky, ‘I got beer all down me.’ Karen stirred her pan. 'Mum, I do not do it at parties.' Still Karen stirred, moving her head a little so Vicky would see her eyebrows lift. ‘You want to know?’ said Vicky. ‘I shagged him here.’ Karen's spoon whipped faster. ‘Night before Christmas Eve, in my bed. Right over where you were spark out on the sofa with the telly on, cuddling a bottle of sherry with the cork out. He took your picture with his phone.’ Hands shaking, Vicky picked up her mug. There was a thin brown slick where the teabag had sunk from view. Karen slapped faster than ever at the pan, lifting it from the hob then slamming it down. The spoon back-flipped onto the floor, gobbets of egg flying.
'Mum...'
'Shut it Vicky.'
'I'm sorry...'
'Shut it!' Karen turned, scratching hard at her forearm. 'You'd better talk sense quick or I'll be on his tail Vicky. First train out...'
'It don't matter,' said Vicky.
'Who are you, telling me it don't matter?' said Karen. 'What's he got to say?'
'Not a thing,' said Vicky.
'You are kidding me.' Karen's anger was swinging into Vicky's defence. ‘I'll tell you for nothing sweetheart, when I get hold of him... '
'I didn't see him,' said Vicky.
Karen grabbed a cordless phone. 'What's his number?' She waited ferociously. Vicky closed her eyes. Karen shot out to the hall then was back with Vicky's rucksack, pilling it onto the table. 'You have got to have that number,' she said.
'I never tried,' said Vicky. 'Mum, are you hearing me? '
Karen had Vicky's mobile and was running through her contacts. 'Do I guess or are you telling me? Chris? No I met him, nice boy. Darren? Not a nice boy but works at Curry’s if I'm recalling him right. Felix – now I do not know a Felix. Sounds posh an' all.'
'Stop it!' said Vicky. The pans were sizzling. Vicky went to the stove and shut off both rings. 'I didn't see him cos there was nothing to tell, you know what I'm saying?' Vicky picked up the spoon from the floor and dropped it in the sink. 'Ten minutes off Glasgow Central, how far have I gone? I take a pee and there I am, eight days late. There’s no baby, I am not pregnant.' Karen still held Vicky's phone, looking past it. 'I never had that happen,’ said Vicky. ‘Not eight days.'
Karen looked sharply at her. 'He did use something...'
'Course he did!' said Vicky. 'I thought we'd muffed it.'
'You don't think you silly cow you get a test!'
'What, go in a chemist?'
'The doc'll do it,' said Karen.
'Old Petters? I had him for chickenpox!'
'Jesus Christ!'
'I'm sorry!' said Vicky.
'And how about me?' said Karen, dropping the phone. 'Mightn't I have known a thing or two? Been a help even? All I get's your stupid note and your phone turned off and every kid in your school knowing more than I do! '
‘You went round the school?’
‘To find who you’re knocking about with? Yes, I went round the school.’ Vicky tried to spin away but Karen held her arms. 'Fat use it was but I’ll tell you this, I don't know what little blabbermouth you've been pouring out your heart to but you'll be wanting a word cos they was all of them jumping with it. “Vicky up the spout Mrs. Fuller? Was it your boyfriend Mrs. Fuller?” And while I'm going frantic here,' Vicky was sobbing now but Karen flew on, 'frantic I say, where are you? Swanning round Glasgow not even fucking pregnant! Oh shit…' Karen let go of Vicky then grabbed her close. 'Middle of the night you must have got there.' She found a tissue in a bagged sleeve of the kimono. Vicky blew her nose. 'No trains home?' said Karen.
'Not till morning,' said Vicky.
'You could have called him anyhow,' said Karen.
'No way!' said Vicky and blew her nose again.
'Me then,' said Karen. 'I could have booked you somewhere.'
'I found a shop open,' said Vicky. She pulled away from Karen, her mood changing. ‘I hadn’t got anything? I'd been that sure. And a club. They were good, let me in to use the ladies.’ She took her mug again, pulled the teabag out with her fingers and dropped it in the bin. ‘It was amazing, I mean – crazy or what I could handle it? Fuck it Mum, I could handle anything! This tramp...
'What?!'
'He was alright,' said Vicky. 'He showed me where they go, like an old churchyard only no church. You had to climb in. Then he gave me this bubbly wrapping stuff for a blanket.'
'He'd been using it?' said Karen.
'I gave it a shake. There was a load of them, sleeping on tombstones and everywhere. All wound up head to foot in whatever they had, like they were coming out butterflies in the morning.' Vicky was gazing at her feet, still not drinking. 'When it was morning, when I woke up they'd all gone, all except one.’ She looked up at Karen. ‘He didn't look that old. Anyhow he wasn't moving – I mean not at all. I watched him a while, this dog was sniffing at him. He was dead yeah?'
'Sweetheart…'
'No, listen,' said Vicky, stepping away as Karen made to embrace her again. 'When I have a kid, if I ever...'
'I'll be there for you,' said Karen. 'Try stopping me.'
'I might do that.' Vicky opened a cupboard.
'What are you on about?' said Karen, the answer dawning in her face. Vicky pulled out a wine box and dumped it on the counter. Then another bottle of Chianti, two of sherry, a litre of vodka.
'You’re asking why I couldn't talk to you?' said Vicky. 'Why I've been hanging round Glasgow all day not coming home? That’s it. I will not see it happen Mum, not any of mine get to love you then watch you falling apart like I have. Or worse, cos it will get worse till it's you they're sweeping off a street.' Vicky was calm, eyeballing Karen. 'I've been thinking all day. You want to see any grandkids, you pack it in. That or I won't let you near them.' There was a silence till Vicky at last drained her mug and went to the door. She looked back at her wrecked meal on the stove. ‘Thanks for trying, yeah?’
Vicky was almost at the landing when there was a clattering from the kitchen. She stopped and turned. Karen emerged and went out to the front, a straining plastic bag in one hand and the wine box in the other. Vicky heard them hit the bottom of the wheelie. Karen reappeared. She closed the front door and locked it.
'You'll be fishing that out in the morning then,' said Vicky. Karen looked up, then climbed the stairs and took Vicky’s hand. 'I'm really tired,' said Vicky.
'Sit down,' said Karen. ‘Please.’ They sat together on the stair, Karen keeping hold of Vicky's hand. She traced the palm-lines, stroking Vicky's fingers. Taking in the knuckles, the nails. Vicky yawned. ‘There was a song you really loved,’ said Karen. ‘About butterflies? And caterpillars, I can’t think how it went.'
‘That’s good,’ said Vicky. Karen folded Vicky’s hand inside her own.
‘I was all right,’ she said. ‘Soon as I had you on the way that was it. And after. Years I was sober, or near enough. You know I was.'
'Till I had to grow up,' said Vicky, lolling onto Karen's shoulder.
‘There was nights,’ said Karen, ‘I couldn’t rest for all that was in my head and no-one to care if we lived or died. I'd hear you breathing in the dark, so soft and I'd swear to you Vicky, not out loud but I'd swear it on my life.' Karen laid her head against Vicky's. 'You’ll never be on your own like that.'
'I know,' said Vicky from far away, falling asleep where she sat.
A Song About Butterflies by Peter Francis-Mullins was read by Lisa Rose at the Liars' League Wine, Women & Song event at The Phoenix, Cavendish Sq., London on Tuesday 11 June 2010
Peter Francis-Mullins lives and works in South London. This is one of a collection of short stories he is working on. Another, Chevy, has already been read at Liars' League. He has also written for Tales of the Decongested.
Lisa Rose is an actress/writer/mother – not necessarily in that order, but they all do inform her creativity. She trained at LAMDA and has appeared on stage at the Leicester Haymarket, Tricycle Theatre, Edinburgh Fringe and Houghton Tower. She has shared the screen with such luminaries as John Malkovich, Timothy West and Kate Nelligan but none have been more impressive than the Liars’ League team!
Comments