By Josie Hickin

"All women," said Wilde, "turn into their mothers. That is their tragedy." While most of us accept it, in this story we meet a young woman for whom it is not only tragic but terrifying.

"Oh, thank God you’re here!"

My mother flings her arms around me as soon as I open the door. She looks better than usual. I think she’s even brushed her hair. Dressed in a shawl and, of course, a smock dress. She mastered the smock dress pattern when I was seven and it is all she has made and worn since. They come in a variety of colours and fabrics. Sometimes she’ll alter the hemlines. Add a little embroidery. I try to make her shop but she won’t hear of it. It’s a relief really. I don’t think I could handle shopping with my mother.

"He’s been awful all day. Really awful."

She is pretending to cry. She may actually be crying. I can’t tell.

"I’ve been running around after him. No time to myself."

Her voice is breaking. I expect a loud sob any moment now.

There it is.

"Do you think I’m being unreasonable?"

I don’t know what to say.

"No Mum, not at all."

She gazes at me longingly. Awaiting the great answer that will solve all her problems. My mother thinks I’m a genius because I went to university. It’s quite flattering really. I have to watch what I say, because she takes everything literally.

The kitchen door swings open and the bane of mum’s life saunters in. He’s just woken, eyes drooping with sleep. He yawns and stretches his legs. Looks at mum, nuzzles her knee and begins to wag his tail.

"Can’t I have any time alone with my daughter?"

I don’t get my mum. I never had the fascination that most young girls have. The others would discuss their mother’s bodies, their clothes, their make-up. They recounted conversations they’d had about periods, pregnancy and sex. I was shocked. My mother had never mentioned such things to me. I wondered if she knew about them herself.

I didn’t feel sad though. I didn’t think I was missing out. I preferred it. We weren’t close but it was a mutual decision. I do love her. I’m pretty certain she loves me. She was twenty-one and single when she had me. It can’t have been easy. She could have given me up but never did.

I’ve seen photos of her taken before I was born. She looks normal. Shiny hair and a beaming smile. As a teenager I was wracked with guilt, convinced that I had caused this change. At the age of eighteen I met a childhood friend of hers. She assured me that my mother had always been odd. The relief was immense.

She does have other friends. She is an active member of the Alconbury dog walking society. She takes Henry twice a week. I worry about her in social situations. I am convinced that people will laugh and ridicule her. But I met the dog walking society once, and they thought my mother was wonderful. They didn’t hear the rambling, didn’t see the matted hair. She was just Jean.

Afterwards I felt guilty. The dog walkers had been so friendly, so eager to meet Jean’s clever little daughter. Why had I assumed that they would laugh at her? It’s just me that laughs. I’m the one who ridicules her. But then the thing that disturbs me the most about my mother is her bond with the dog. Henry moved in six years ago and it was a love-hate relationship from the start. The dog walkers understand this. I do not.

Mum lives opposite a woman called Audrey. Audrey is her confidante. They tell each other everything. Audrey is married to Harry. Harry is, my mother tells me, a drunken layabout. He does not show Audrey the respect she deserves. I wholeheartedly agree. Audrey gulps tea and sobs as she tells us how Harry has moved into the spare room and taken the TV with him.

"How can he treat me like this!" she cries, tears streaming down her red cheeks.

My mother has nothing on this woman. Audrey cries with real gusto. Mum is horrified. She cannot believe this is still happening in this day and age. I always listen to these conversations, hoping she’ll mention my father. I know nothing about him. His name or where they met. But he’s never mentioned. Mum talks about Henry. Henry expects the world from her and does nothing in return. Harry and Henry, nothing but trouble.

I put Henry in the garden and Mum calms down a little. He presses his nose against the glass door and starts to gently whine.

"Just ignore him Mum. He’ll go to the kennel in a bit."

Mum holds up her hand, shielding her eyes from the sight of him. The whining is too much for her. We move to the sitting room. I am only allowed in the sitting room and kitchen. I had never realised there was a rule. It just occurred to me several years ago, that in the ten years since I’d left home, I’d only ever been in the sitting room and kitchen. And the downstairs toilet, of course.

I attempted to go up to my old room and she barricaded my way. Fast as a dart, there she was guarding the stairs. It was then that the rule was enforced.
Three rooms only. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Curiosity got the better of me and I broke in when she went dog walking.

I was terrified. What was I expecting to find? The dining room was spotless and completely empty. Creeping up the stairs I realised she had decorated. Flicking on the light I was stunned. It looked lovely. Downstairs the wallpaper was starting to peel and the paint had faded. Up here it was as new. Bright yellows and oranges. New carpets. Her bedroom was hot pink.

My bedroom door was closed. Inside it was exactly as I had left it aged sixteen. Nail varnish on the dresser, same checked duvet cover. I don’t think the bed had even been made. She’d just shut the door. I ran out crying. It freaked me out for weeks and I had to avoid her. I couldn’t bear to be in the house.

Mike suggested I try therapy. He said I had issues. He never met my mother. I outright refused. Meeting her would surely make him leave me. They say that men judge women by their mothers. I don’t look like her though. I wish I did. She was beautiful, looked a bit like Faye Dunaway. I will never forgive my father’s genes for interfering. If it wasn’t for them I’d have been a looker. She’s petite and blonde and used to possess a killer body. I am tall and lanky, no bosoms to speak of. My hair and eyes are dark.

I needn’t have hidden Mike from her. He left anyway. Maybe I should have introduced them. Got the sympathy vote from him. I can hear him in the pub telling his friends, "She’s had such a hard life. She needs me."

They would nod encouragingly. Slap him on the back for being such a caring chap.

Maybe Mum has the right idea. Henry may be troublesome but he’s utterly devoted to her. I’ve never known her to have boyfriend. Men don’t interest her. I don’t think she’s gay either, although I have my concerns about Audrey. She’s not a feminist or a man hater. I doubt she even has an opinion regarding their existence. She isn’t lonely though. She enjoys her own company, and Henry’s.

I admit that I’m probably scared of being her. Physically there is little resemblance but I find myself copying her mannerisms. Using her phrases and gestures. I recently joined in a Harry and Henry conversation and starting complaining about my cat, Monty. Mum and Audrey were full of support. I was mortified when I realised what I’d done.

Which is why I can’t believe that I’m in this mess. That I’ve ended up here. Mike left and I couldn’t cover the rent, so I’ve been thrown out of the apartment. And I’ve got nowhere else to go. And I’m three months pregnant. I can’t look at her as I’m saying it. I can believe the words are coming out of my mouth.

"Are you sure you want to do that?" she says.

"It won’t be permanent, just a few weeks, until I sort myself out."

"I didn’t mean it like that, I just didn’t think you’d be happy here."

I probably won’t be but she’s my only option.

"I’ll be alright, Mum. I might enjoy it."

She smiles, unconvinced, and asks when I want to move in. Everything I own is in the car outside. She doesn’t react, just offers to help carry my stuff.
"I’ve decorated" she says. "Just the upstairs. I spend most my time up here now."

The study door is open and I can see the makeshift kitchen she has created. Kettle, microwave and mini-fridge. I follow her down the corridor and she opens my bedroom door. It’s all gone. The posters and the sticker-covered dresser. The pink walls are now a light green. Cream linen curtains and a rich chocolate carpet. I never realised she had such good taste.

"I left this one till last. It was the hardest one to do. I’ve kept all your things, they’re in the attic if you want them."

For the first time I regret not knowing her. Why didn’t she tell me she had decorated? When I decorated I made all my friends come round and see the finished results. It was all I talked about for weeks. I drove Mike mad. I’m annoyed that she didn’t share this with me. And I’m jealous. Jealous of bawling Audrey and faithful Henry.

I’m going to be here for more than a few weeks. It’ll take at least a couple of months to clear my overdraft. By the time I’ve saved for a deposit the baby will be here. I’m not sure how she feels about babies. I survived early childhood unscathed so she must know something. I look happy in the photos. I don’t think she was a bad mother. I just wasn’t a very co-operative child.

Later that evening I go into her room. We relax on her bed and watch The Hustler. She is obsessed with Paul Newman. She makes me tea and toast. I watch her boil the kettle and fuss over Henry. Through her nightdress I can see the outline of her body. She still has that killer figure. I didn’t leave a mark. I place my hand on my stomach and imagine it swelling.

Mum settles next to me.

"Three months is it?"

I nod.

"Have you got a bump yet?"

I nod again and lift my top to show her. She reaches across and lays her hand on my stomach. Her fingers spread to feel the beginnings of a swollen belly.

"You’ll be getting big soon," she says, "I could make you a dress if you like."