183 Times a Year (2 page)

I turn away from Cassie to look at the clock on the kitchen wall.

‘You're very late Maisy,' I say, relieved to have an excuse to interrupt Cassie's histrionics. I try to sound assertive but the remnants of an earlier migraine and Cassie's ranting have left me deflated and it shows in my voice. Maisy's black eyes stare at me, her bright red, lip-sticked mouth opening and closing as an irritating, brisk, smacking sound emanates from her violently juddering jaw. She is chewing gum. Masticated and annihilated at a deadly pace. She remains quiet for a moment then shrugs her shoulders.

‘Whatevs,' she eventually replies. ‘And I told you before, don't call me Maisy.' She lowers her voice and mumbles. ‘What idiot would call their daughter Maisy? It's Mania!' she shouts as she climbs the stairs. ‘I told you before, my name is Mania.'

I half-heartedly attempt a stern response. ‘Well don't be so late again
Mania
otherwise I'll speak to your Dad, and you'll be grounded.' Her unintelligible reply is followed by the loud slam of a door, once to a bedroom but now to something more akin with a refuge collection. A floordrobe of clean and dirty clothes, empty boxes and assorted make-up as well as sullied plates, cups and glasses, some with their own furry growths.

It had taken me some time to work out why Maisy had resorted to calling herself Mania. Surely she'd just missed the ‘c' off the end of her new name? Cassie eventually informed me that Mania was the name of the Etruscan Goddess of Hell. A name discovered by Maisy while surfing the net for an alternative name
for
herself. Her search led her to female satanic names because, apparently, Maisy is as bad and black as Beelzebub himself. In a world where – according to Maisy – tyrants, mostly in the form of politicians, bankers and reality TV stars, are blindly worshipped by the uneducated masses, Maisy has taken it upon herself, along with a few others, to beat these narcissistic rulers at their own game. Maisy et al plan to override and rule with their own brand of evil. Although, quite what their manifesto is hasn't exactly been made clear yet. Maisy now prefers to be known as Mania – Princess of Darkness, Goddess of Hell.

This title of insidious, sinister royalty conjures up an image of a medusa type seducer of men. Of one that eats babies for breakfast and drinks the blood of mere mortals as an afterthought. An image completely at odds when juxtapose to the surly, self-assured but anxious woman-child I know so well. For, despite her fiery rhetoric, this is the same young woman insistent the reason she needed me to accompany her to the dentist the other week had nothing whatsoever to do with her fear of needles. She is also equally adamant that I did
not
catch her crying at the slightly sentimental yet endearing movie about a dog-called Marley. Any idiot could see she just had make-up in her eyes – apparently.

Cassie, who has temporarily suspended her ranting, looks from the stairs to me, from me to the stairs and I know what's coming.

‘Oh. My. God. Oh my actual god,' she declares. ‘You so
would
have grounded me if I'd done that. You always treat her differently to me – and
him
.' I turn to look in the direction of her dramatically waving outstretched arm.
Him
is Connor – my second born – or “your perfect child unlike me” as Cassie often refers to him.

Connor stumbles into the kitchen. His large eyes appear startled and his unruly shock of blonde hair is sticking up in all
directions.

‘I heard a noise,' he says in a voice not yet tainted by puberty.

‘I heard a noise,' Cassie repeats in a raised voice to mimic her brothers. ‘Enough Cassie,' I snap.

‘Can I get a drink Mum?'

I look at my 11-year-old son with affection. ‘Course you can love.' His daily declarations of love for me are – for the moment at least – genuinely altruistic. I glance up the stairs in the direction of Maisy's bedroom before I look at Cassie again, finally resting my eyes on the retreating back of my son. I sigh inwardly. One out of three isn't bad I suppose.

Cassie coughs loudly. She has folded her arms and wears an expression of disgust.

‘Right,' she shouts across the kitchen. ‘I'm going to bed because unlike
some
people who only have to go to work in the morning, I actually have important exams to do.'

Cassie sticks her nose in the air and haughtily pushes past me. Connor clumsily carries a glass of water, sloshing half of it on the floor before he stops to hug me.

He squeezes me hard, then looks up at me. ‘Love you Mum,' he declares through a brilliant grin.

I wrap my arms around him and squeeze him back. ‘Love you too my Little Big Man.'

Why do I feel as though I want to cry? Connor disappears.

All is quiet again.

CASSIE

It's Wednesday 17th April 2013. The day Nan starts radiotherapy for her Cancer, Margaret Thatcher's funeral, Chelsea's Birthday and another stupid exam. God she is such a cow! Chelsea I mean, not my Nan or Margaret Thatcher; although a lot of people seem to be pretty mad at Margaret Thatcher and are
calling
her a cow even though she is dead.

Some people have posted things on the internet like “Ding Dong the Witch is Dead”. Ha ha very funny – NOT! Why do old people even try to be funny? Wasn't Margaret Thatcher the first woman President or Prime Minister or whatever the title of the top manager in this country is? Exactly. So why is everyone being so harsh? What about girl power and all that crap? I don't really care anyway, she's just some old woman who died and is having a bloody expensive funeral as far as I can see.

I hope Nan doesn't die. They say the Cancer hasn't spread but adults lie – a lot.

Dad lies all the bloody time.

‘We can't take you and Connor abroad on holiday,' he said, ‘because we can't afford it. And we don't have to pay for your little sister because she goes free.'

Then don't go abroad you idiot. Go somewhere we can all go, as a family. Oh yeah that's right we're not really part of your new little family are we? Stupid bloody dickweed. Arrggghh – just thinking about it makes me angry.

I couldn't bear it if Nan died and left me here all alone with them. Mum, Dad, “Simple Simon” and the Emo freak.

I wish I could talk to Nan about Chelsea. I usually talk to Nan about everything but Mum said I can't coz we have to let her rest. Cow! My Mum I mean, not my Nan.

I love my Nan.

Chapter 2

EXAM HELL

LIZZIE

I feel worn out. Like I've done a day's work already. Cassie couldn't find the all-important piece of paper containing her Student ID and Centre Number for her English Exam this morning. I could hear a strange wailing noise coming from one of the bedrooms and for one ridiculous moment I imagined Maisy performing some sort of ritualistic sacrifice on the cat. As I made a panicked dash for the stairs I realised the dirge of noise was in fact coming from Cassie's room. Normally spotless, her bedroom looked a bit like the Emo Freak's as anything within reach was frenziedly thrown in a desperate bid to find the small piece of paper. A pair of frilly, pink knickers – clean thankfully – landed on my head as I opened the door. Mild amusement danced across Cassie's eyes but it was a mere split second before anguish contorted her features yet again.

‘This is all
your
fault,' she shouted.

Of course it's your fault. Why are you always so surprised when she says this? Her entire existence is your fault and she'll blame you forever more.

I watched my very angry daughter as her poor bedroom flinched from her brutal interrogation. A jumble of words I could barely make out fell from her mouth. She sounded like a tortured animal. Taxidermy sprang to mind. I imagined her here but stuffed and quiet. She would stand with her arms out –
welcoming.
And she would smile – permanently.

‘Are you even listening to me,' Cassie demanded. ‘If you hadn't come into my room last night to talk to me I wouldn't have put the stupid piece of paper down in the first place. I was putting it in my bag when you rudely interrupted me.'

‘Have you checked your bag?' I asked. Cassie stopped her ranting and stared at me, as if I'd just graduated from Stupid School with Honours.

‘Of course I looked in my bag,' she yelled back. Despite her angered protest I reached into her bag to check anyway. After a short rummage around I pulled out a crumpled piece of paper with the words “candidate ID and centre number” clearly printed in bold black type. Cassie looked at me in utter disbelief, as if I had planted it there. She snatched the piece of paper from my hand and headed for the door. She hesitated before turning back to look at me.

‘Thanks,' she said.

This small crisis has made me a couple of minutes late for work. I stuff my bag into my locker and head towards the back office. Amira, my manager, a twenty-something older version of my daughter looks up from her desk towards the clock on the wall before looking at me and frowning. I offer some hurried explanation about the security door for staff entry at the back of the building not working properly again (thank god it plays up sometimes) and she appears happy to accept my excuse, rolling her eyes and nodding her head in agreement. I key in the four-digit code to release and open the office door and before I know it I'm back on the frontline, ensconced amongst the arena that is the city library.

I'd always, as far as I can remember, wanted to work with
books
and had done now, on and off, for the last 25 years. As a child growing up in the 1970's most of my schoolgirl dreams were filled with boys, make-up and pop stars. Posters of Donny Osmond and David Cassidy adorned my bedroom walls and that all-important thirty minutes on Thursday night TV was always eagerly anticipated. If you missed Top of the Pops on Thursday evening, then Friday morning would be hell at school. Discussions and arguments would ensue about who the best performer was, what song Pan's People (later Legs & Co) danced to and if the number one slot was indeed deserved. To miss out was to be a social outcast.

Playground songs also developed around some of the more famous boy bands. Chanted by zealous pre-teenage schoolgirls like some sinister pubescent war cry to taunt the boys. The Bay City Rollers one still stays with me to this day.

BAY—BAY—BAY—CITY—with an RO—double L—ERS—Bay City Rollers are the best. If the boys don't agree, flush them down the lavatory, with an RO—double L—ERS—Bay City Rollers are the best!

However, although my youthful imagination was filled with being the next Mrs Donny Osmond or Mrs David Cassidy and as I entered my formative years Mrs Martin Kemp or Mrs Simon Le Bon, my love of books also flourished. Music and boys could be shared but reading was a solitary indulgence and had been my escape to strange and wonderful places like
The Magic Faraway Tree
or magical kingdoms at the back of old wardrobes such as the one described in
The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe
. When that sinking Sunday evening feeling descended and I was ushered to bed – always before the good TV programs started like
The Sweeney
or
Van Der Valk –
I sought solace with
James and the Giant Peach
or I imagined
a
whole tribe of little people living under our floorboards, just like
The Borrowers
. Later as puberty beckoned and strange things began to happen to my body, Judy Blume's
Are you there God? It's me, Margaret
helped me address issues like buying a first bra, starting my periods and jealousy towards another girl – Fiona Ramsden in my case. I watched in awe as her body changed from its straight up and down shape like mine to one that was noticeably curved and developed, my envy as inflated as her growing breasts. Thankfully,
Margaret
knew how I felt.