Page 126 of Don't Tell Teacher

My mother stands in a cloud of rose perfume, black hair in tight, styled curls around her head.

‘You were hiding from me,’ she says. ‘Trying to pretend you were out.’

‘I’ve had a terrible day.’ I’m a guilty teenager caught with a cigarette. ‘Tom’s in hospital again. I’m just picking up a few things for him.’

‘My goodness, your hair still looks terrible.’ My mother tries to enter the house, but I block her path.

‘I’m just on my way out, Mum.’

‘Please don’t tell me you intend to wear that scarf outside the house.’

My hands go to the soft orange wool – Tom’s favourite colour. ‘Didn’t you hear me? About Tom?’

‘This place looks disgusting.’ Mum wrinkles her nose at the living room behind me. ‘Absolutely disgusting.’

I pull myself up tall, and with as much dignity as I can manage say, ‘Tom’s in hospital again. I’m terrified. Housework hasn’t been first on the agenda.’

‘Tom is in hospitalagain?’ Mum adjusts her Louis Vuitton handbag. ‘What’s wrong with him this time?’

I break down in tears. ‘Another seizure.’

Mum watches me, mouth open. Then she puts an awkward hand on my shoulder. ‘There, there. Let’s not make a scene. What did the hospital say?’

Finally, it seems to be sinking in for my mother. Something serious is happening with her grandson.

‘They’re as confused as I am.’

‘Well, I would suggest a nice cup of tea. But you don’t have any teabags.’

My mind skips around the kitchen, dancing over dirty cups, into the empty cupboards. ‘How do you know that?’

‘I came by an hour ago. The house was empty. I was going to make myself a cup, but you didn’t have a single teabag in the place. Let alone fresh milk.’

‘You were here earlier?’ I ask.

‘The kitchen was filthy.’

‘You wereinsidemy house?’

‘Oh, for goodness sake, Elizabeth. There’s no need to raise your voice. Why shouldn’t I be inside your house? I’m your mother.Yougave me a key.’

‘I’ve never given you a key.’ My words are low. Almost animalistic.

‘The letting agent gave me a set for safekeeping. Don’t you remember? It’s not unusual for a mother to have a key to her daughter’s house.’

I have a hazy memory of Mum accompanying me to the letting agents when I signed a load of forms.

This is how Mum twists things.

She never mentioned getting her own set of keys cut. I certainly didn’t give her any.

My whole childhood, Mum planted the seeds of stories, which grew like weeds, choking what was real.

‘I don’t like you coming into my house without asking.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Why on earth not? I’m your mother.’

‘I need to go now, Mum. I need to go back to the hospital.’

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