‘Honestly, Ollie, I think you moving out is the best thing that ever happened to her. It’s like now the worst thing has happened, she’s free from worrying about it any more. She misses you, of course, and is confused and angry, but we’ve somehow managed to convert it into a catalyst to get her enjoying things again instead of using it as an excuse to wallow. Not that she didn’t enjoy you being around, of course.’ She paused to deftly thread the tiniest of needles with gold embroidery silk. ‘But you know that subconsciously she was always playing the helpless victim to ensure you didn’t leave. She could never be too happy, in case you spotted that she didn’t need you any more.’
‘Is she really angry?’ I asked, apprehension jittering about in my stomach.
Linda looked at me. ‘I haven’t the foggiest.’
Just before six, the final cushion was zipped and plumped and loaded along with the curtains into my car, hiding in the small parking space behind the shop.
I took a shuddering breath, nodded to Linda and she made the call.
Seven minutes later, my mother burst through the Buttonhole door.
‘Ollie?’ she said, chest heaving, eyes wild until they spotted me. ‘I was halfway through my tomato and broccoli quiche.’
I could see the crumbs still sticking to her jumper.
‘Hi, Mum,’ I offered, not getting up from my seat near the back corridor that led out to my car.
‘Well, what is this? Am I allowed to give you a hug?’
After a short, stiff squeeze, I backed away and gestured to a seat.
‘Here we go.’ Linda placed a pot of tea and three slices of flapjack on the table between us.
‘Have you been speaking to Linda?’ Mum asked, her face brittle with hurt. ‘Meeting up? Is that how it is? She gets special treatment and I’m discarded like a used tissue?’
I tried my hardest not to mind. Not to drown in the swamp of guilt and self-loathing that I’d been trying to ignore for the past three weeks. I gripped my mug with both hands and willed myself to resist apologising, or making excuses.
‘Tina, making accusations like that is not helpful. If you can’t speak respectfully to Ollie, then she’ll leave.’
‘Oh, are you her mouthpiece now, as well? She can’t even tell me herself how she’s feeling?’
‘You haven’t asked me how I’m feeling,’ I managed to say, hating how my voice sounded so weak, on the verge of whining. I accepted that Mum was the one who’d suffered here; it was her feelings that mattered, not mine. I just couldn’t help wishing that she would act like a mother, just once, and put her child’s feelings first.
Mum’s mouth twisted in derision. ‘And how am I supposed to do that, when you’ve blocked my number?’
‘I told you that I needed some space.’Stop shaking, voice!
‘Oh, and what, now you’ve had enoughspaceit’s time to come crawling back to Mummy? Found the big, bad world isn’t much fun on your own after all? I knew it wouldn’t take long for you to realise how badly you need me.’
‘Tina,’ Linda warned.
‘This was a mistake,’ I muttered, starting to push back from the table. ‘We’re not ready.’
Linda reached out and gave my hand a squeeze as I stood up. Some of her steely strength must have zipped through her fingers into mine, because I straightened my spine, hitched my bag up onto my shoulder and looked my mother straight in the face.
‘I’m sorry that moving out hurt you. I’m sorry that I had to block your number. But this isn’t all about you. I needed to do this for me. And while I do appreciate everything you’ve done, I think in the past few years I’ve more than repaid my debt.’ I paused to catch my breath. ‘As if a mother should expect anything in return for raising their own child. Right now, you can’t see past your own hurt to consider things from my point of view. I understand, but I won’t sit here and be spoken to like this. Take care of yourself, Mum.’
I gave Linda’s hand a reciprocal squeeze, turned and walked towards the back door.
‘I’m sorry!’ The inevitable wail trailed after me. ‘I’m sorry, I just miss you so much. I feel lost. I can’t help it when I say these things. I’m your mother; you can’t just cut me off. I need you, Olivia. Please don’t go!’
I paused for the minutest of microseconds, waiting to hear even a hint that she was, in fact, sorry about anything other than not having everything her own way.
The last thing I heard as I pushed through the door and stumbled to my car was the sound of my mother’s wretched sobs, stabbing at my heart like a blunt knitting needle.
I spent most of the evening clutching my new daisy-embroidered pillow, while Nesbit snuffled and licked my tears away. My guilt gradually dissolved into self-pity, until, after a night of restless dreams, I dragged my duvet out to watch the sun rise. I curled up in my new garden chair staring at the trees and the birds and the sky, and I nudged that sorrow into gratitude that I was here, and not there any more, and that today was a new day, rich with endless possibilities as beautiful and magnificent as this new dawn.
* * *
