Songs For Your Mother Read online

  Songs For Your Mother

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5 Three months later

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8 September, almost six years later

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14 November, two months later

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Acknowledgements

  Songs for Lauren Tangle (Mark Warner)

  Fleeting memories (Mark Warner)

  She Sleeps in the Afternoon (Mark Warner)

  Fahrenheit (Tom Benjamin)

  Looking for you (Gordon MacMillan)

  She looks like Vivien Leigh (Gordon MacMillan)

  Modern Door (Gordon MacMillan)

  English skies (Gordon MacMillan)

  Copyright

  Cover

  Table of Contents

  Start of Content

  Songs For Your Mother

  Gordon MacMillan

  This is for Katie, Aidan, and Kenzie

  Prologue

  This is not how I saw my life. I want to say that right at the start just in case there’s any misunderstanding later.

  When I wrote my Letter to My Future Self in high school, it did not include giving birth as a single mom while waitressing in a vegetarian restaurant. I definitely missed that part out, and yet here I am.

  Josie gives my hand a squeeze for which I am beyond grateful. Other than to pee, she hasn’t left my bedside since I entered the delivery room, almost nine hours ago, which I can tell you is a long time to stare at white walls with next to nothing on them. In the brochure, they call it a ‘luxurious birthing suite’. They’ve totally oversold it.

  ‘You’re doing great,’ Josie says. ‘You’re doing great.’

  I look at her, exasperated. I wish she would stop saying that: it’s grating on my nerves.

  ‘Stop saying that,’ I say.

  ‘You told me to just “keep saying you’re doing great” no matter what happens,’ Josie says.

  ‘We’ve been here for nine hours. New record please.’

  ‘You’re almost there, right?’

  Josie turns to the labour nurse standing next to the midwife and the doctor who is delivering my baby.

  ‘She’s right, Lauren, you’ve almost gone the whole nine yards, a little more,’ the doctor says, and I can see from her eyes, peeking above her mask, that she’s smiling. ‘Keep pushing.’

  I want to tell her that I am pushing, and I’ve been pushing for hours, only now I am exhausted and want it all to stop.

  ‘Remind me why I am doing this again?’ I ask.

  Josie shakes her head. ‘I told you like a million times already, I have no idea, but you’re doing great.’ And she gives me a big fake cheesy smile.

  ‘Josie,’ I say testily.

  ‘You know I am joking,’ she says.

  ‘No jokes, and don’t let go of my hand.’ I blow at a clump of hair matted to the side of my mouth, and it will not budge. It takes Josie to brush it away.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  ‘As you asked, you’re doing this because you’re about to give birth to a beautiful baby boy, right doc?’

  ‘Josie’s right, focus on that, as baby is on the way, keep pushing,’ the doctor says.

  ‘Maybe you’re also doing this,’ Josie adds, ‘so one day you can give some British guy the surprise of his life, and a huge bill for child support. At least that’s my sincere hope.’

  When Josie says this, I forget where I am, and I lose myself in memory. I ask myself the question that has been rattling around my brain for the last nine months, as I went through this alone.

  Why didn’t he come back? I was so sure he would. Right from the start, it felt like something real. It was one of those rare moments in life when you meet someone who you know, in your heart and in your bones, that you want to be with. You want to hold onto them for as long as you can and not let them go. I suppose what I’m saying is that if there is such a dumb thing as ‘the one’, then he was it.

  Chapter 1

  Heavenly Californian sunshine streaks through the glass of the motel windows as motes of dust turn in the yellow light, reflecting on the TV as a grainy-looking 1980s teen movie plays.

  Sitting on one of the room’s two single beds, I watch a tall guy in a trench coat standing there with a ghetto blaster held aloft. He’s blasting out a song, and a girl is looking out of the window adoringly. That’s it, and the credits start to roll. There aren’t any words. He’s made his declaration, and I love the idea of a big statement like that. It makes me think that songs are our poetry, that they are the soundtrack to our romances, to our first kisses and our break-ups. As I’m watching this, the door opens, and Will steps back into our motel room. He glances at the screen and before I get the chance to challenge his encyclopaedic pop culture knowledge and ask ‘What is this movie called?’, he provides the answer. He does this all the time. It’s informative but annoying.

  ‘Say Anything, Cameron Crowe. Try doing that with a Bluetooth speaker. No one will ever look that cool again standing outside a girl’s house declaring their undying love,’ says Will.

  Will’s words spark a fleeting sense of loss.

  ‘It’s depressing that we will never have our ghetto blaster moment,’ I say.

  ‘I’m not sure the female population is going to mourn the passing of the ghetto blaster serenade, classic move that it was. Besides, I thought bad poetry was your go-to?’

  I throw my hands in the air and shake my head. You write poetry for a girl one time at university, and you are never allowed to forget it. Has the world not moved on?

  ‘It was one time, and she loved it,’ I say.

  ‘I’m messing with you. I know she did,’ Will says.

  I can almost hear him say ‘Much good it did.’ And he’s right. After three years, the girl in question, Sara, turned to me one day over breakfast and said ‘I’m going to Australia,’ pausing to add, and as if it needed saying: ‘On my own.’ It’s like the poetry stopped working. There’s a valuable life lesson there. Poetry will only take you so far. After that, you’re on your own. I’m mulling this over when I am snapped back to reality as a klaxon sounds.

  ‘Look, Jon…’ Will says, trailing off.

  When he says this, a sweep of cold sweat washes over me. Will never calls me Jon. It’s always Johnny. So, before he says another word, I know that something is up and that something cannot be good.

  Very slowly, I venture: ‘What?’

  Will proceeds to thrust his arms out like he’s about to break into song. ‘Our paths diverge,’ he says.

  ‘Our what?’ I’m confused. Is he a) making another movie reference or b) misquoting Robert Frost? I’m still turning the phrase ‘paths diverge’ over in my head, and trying to work out what it means when it all becomes clear.

  ‘I’m flying back to London tomorrow; it’s TSP, I have to go,’ Will says.

  TSP (Jones) is Will’s girlfriend. I’m dumbstruck. What he is saying is that the divergence, this fork in our road, involves him leaving me stranded with a rental car and more than two weeks to go on our American road trip to run back home to his girlfriend.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re doing this. I hope that any second you’re go
ing to tell me you’re joking. What about “road trip rules”? We’ve only been in California for five days, and I swear you have said that a dozen times. I’m surprised we don’t have a bumper sticker.’

  Will looks at me as I speak and he doesn’t crack a smile, and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to work out that he isn’t joking. I’m so angry. I can feel the heat on my face, and it’s burning up. I imagine TSP laughing insanely to herself like one of Shakespeare’s wicked wayward witches. This is terribly unfair. TSP is a tall, beautiful blonde, and quite lovely. She comes complete with hippy parents turned new-age farmers. They made a lot of money selling their organic cleaning products company to a multinational. Being hippies, they, of course, burdened their children with ridiculous names. Who names their daughter Trees?

  Let alone Trees Serenity Pure Jones. It’s because of this that she’s always been known as TSP, or sometimes Jones, since we met her at university. TSP’s name clearly had a severe impact on her psyche as a child. She’s been acting out ever since, having rebelled and become a lawyer. She, of course, denies this. She claims to love being a lawyer, which for obvious reasons cannot possibly be true. Fortunately, her younger brother is keeping the family tradition alive by working in a circus, as a clown. His parents think this is marvellous, and they encourage his clownish career choice. With a name like Cloud, TSP’s brother is, of course, known as Cloudy the Clown. Sometimes when TSP does something that is so wholly TSP, her surname does allow us all to joke ‘that’s Pure Jones’. She hates this, and rolls her eyes at it every time. Right now, this is what I am thinking. This move is Pure Jones.

  ‘I don’t have a choice here. I’m sorry. I have to go,’ Will says.

  ‘You do have a choice. It’s called free will.’

  Will stares at me blankly. Not a hint of a smile at this line. The two of them had been arguing over this trip for weeks before we left London. TSP hated the fact that Will and I had planned this trip together. She did not see why we couldn’t all go. I adore TSP, but Will and I both saw this as our last hurrah. After the trip, I knew he was going to propose. Will had the ring and was planning to take her to the top of Primrose Hill. It was going to be sunset over London, champagne and a bended knee. She loves it up there, and the view of the city is spectacular.

  ‘She’s making herself sick over this whole thing. You know how she gets when she’s like this, it kills me,’ Will says.

  ‘Can I say again: I CAN’T. BELIEVE. YOU’RE DOING THIS. You idiot, we planned this for months. There are more than two weeks to go. Seriously, stop and think.’

  ‘I already did. I fly home tomorrow evening, and I need you to drop me in San Jose. I can get the train to San Francisco. I’m sorry.’

  Ugh. I shake my hands at Will and try to work out when he became such an idiot. I don’t understand how he can’t see it.

  ‘No, Will, you stopped and let TSP think for you. It’s no wonder you’ve got Velcro trainers as she’s not here to tie your FUCKING LACES.’

  ‘The shouting doesn’t help,’ Will says.

  ‘Of course, it helps; you IDIOT,’ I say.

  I throw my hands in the air in exasperation. I sit there staring at him, as the dust spirals and turns in the sunlight and the realisation sets in that he’s abandoning me in America. I get up and walk out of the room.

  Without saying another word to each other, we leave Monterey and continue up Highway 101. As we drive, it’s all sunshine, sunglasses and silence. The plan had been to head up to the university town of Santa Cruz and see its boardwalk and 1920s big dipper roller coaster.

  I put Tom Waits on and allow him to do all the talking. I love Tom Waits. He isn’t, however, your go-to for a classic sing-a-long road trip playlist. You have to be in the mood for him, and, at that moment, I was. So instead of being able to drown my sorrows in whiskey at the wheel, Tom Waits does his best for me from Closing Time through to Grapefruit Moon. The hum of the engine, the clip of the tyres on the road and a gravelly voiced singer is our soundtrack.

  We hit Santa Cruz and head for the Victorian bed and breakfast where we have a room. Painted a sky blue, it’s a big classic Californian clapperboard house. We check in and head up to the room. I dump my stuff on one of the beds and, without a word, walk out, leaving Will behind. I walk down to the Santa Cruz boardwalk and stand looking gloomily at the 1920s wooden roller coaster. I can imagine the added buzz of racing around on something so old and rickety looking, that feels like it could fly apart at any moment. This underlines that so much of what we do is better with other people. If I had got on, I would have sat listless and barely noticed I was moving as I hurtled through the air.

  Downtown I browse in record and bookstores. I buy a copy of Will You Please Be Quiet, Please? by Raymond Carver. I’ve always meant to read him and the title makes me think what an idiot Will is.

  After a burger, I come across a flyer in a record store called Streetlife. It’s for an open mic music night at a bar down the street called the Blue Lagoon. I might not sing like Kurt Cobain, but playing guitar always makes me feel better. I don’t suck as long as I keep it to four chords. I played in a band when I was at university in Bristol. We only ever did half a dozen gigs before splitting up. All I need to do is get hold of a guitar.

  The Blue Lagoon is a dive bar. There’s a tattooed girl with black hair and dark red lipstick, standing outside in a black vest, smoking. She looks me up and down with bored indifference. I’m pretty sure in jeans and a green flannel shirt I’m generic enough not to offend anyone. Inside has that funky smell of places where so many alcoholic combinations of drinks have been spilt that they’ve soaked deep into every available surface. It’s the kind of bar where there’s always a deal on shots. Tonight it’s $4 for a PBR and a shot of Jack Daniels or Jim Beam.

  There’s a small raised stage at the back, and only a few more than a dozen people dotted at tables. I take a seat at the bar, order a beer sans the shot, and take out my book. I check the time on my phone and stare idly at the screen. I try connecting to the wi-fi to check Instagram and spend a couple of minutes playing with it before giving up.

  As the place starts to fill, two girls take up seats along the bar from me. A tall, attractive blonde with long wavy hair loose to her shoulders, who has an understated hippy thing going for her in a short summer dress. All she needs is flowers in her hair. She has a sticker-covered guitar case and looks like she can sing. She’s all guitar chords and songbooks, sunshine and sadness. With her is a shorter, slim brunette with a bob cut that hangs long at the front and tapers at the back. She’s dressed in jeans and a loose black strappy top, and she is quietly beautiful. Her face reminds me of a picture I saw of Vivien Leigh. There’s that same spark, which would light up any room, and my heart skips a beat.

  I spend too long looking her way, and this doesn’t go unnoticed. It causes the face of the brunette to redden, and she brushes her hand through her hair.

  This amuses the blonde girl who beams while looking straight ahead in a practised stare as they sit down. I do my best to smile and look cool. What I perform is more of an awkward wooden nod. While the blonde smiles, the brunette looks my way and purses her lips. She gives me a small half-smile, no more than a slight non-committal inflexion, and it completely sucks me in. Of course, I don’t say a word. I return to my beer, I check my phone, and I open Raymond Carver. I give the impression that I am reading rather than sadly sitting.

  A guy with big curly hair, little round glasses and one of those barely-there goatee beards done to a point appears on stage. He announces that the sign-up sheet is up for the night and open to anyone before the official bill. He reads out a few names of those playing tonight; one is someone called Josie something. There’s a round of clapping, and the blonde at the bar lifts her hand. I figure this is my moment. I turn to the two girls and put on my best BBC British accent.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, but could I ask a huge favour?’ I say, pausing to give them the time to tell me to get lost. The blond
e tips her head, and looks at her friend who offers a small shrug, which I take as a sign to continue. ‘For reasons too boring to explain I want to do an open mic song, my only problem is no guitar. So, is there any chance I please borrow yours? I get it if that’s a no.’

  That’s my pitch. Whatever happens next is in the hands of the gods. I could end up on that stage and sing my heart out or drink a beer or two and head for the door. My night could be over. As I wait for an answer, it feels like fate has been twisting all day long, from the moment Will announced that ‘our paths diverge’. Maybe it will continue to twist now, each turn tumbling in a new direction? The two exchange a look. There are layers of female non-verbal communication at work here as they silently weigh up my request between them. After a few moments, they turn back to me.

  ‘Tell me that isn’t a line,’ the blonde, Josie, says.

  I could tell them about Will, and how tonight is all about sending him a message. Or at the very least make myself feel better about a crappy situation. But no one wants to hear some British guy sit in a bar and whine. I keep it simple.

  ‘Not a line, I’m here for one night, and it’s been one of those days you want to forget. I want to play. That’s it,’ I say.

  Josie turns to her friend and the two exchange another look. The virtual scales are tipping, and my fate is in the balance. ‘What do you think?’ Josie asks.

  The brunette girl looks over her shoulder at me, and my heart runs away from me again. She appraises me, maybe looking for some sign that I am genuine. I have no idea what she sees. She offers a small smile and turns back to Josie. She doesn’t say anything. Instead, she shrugs as if she was sitting on the fence, and leaving it up to her friend.

  ‘Okay, we’ll say yes. Be good to it,’ she says.

  I thank her and smile. I walk over to goatee guy, and I put my name down. I sit back down at the bar, nursing my beer, watch the other acts and fret over what I might play.