awaiting the storm to begin. What confuses me the most, though, is the lightness in my ma’s voice, her positivity.
She’s leaving Liverpool.
And going to America.
‘You can’t be serious, Mam?’
‘Tell me why not, love?’
I can’t. There’s nothing I can say to stop her because there’s nothing stopping her. Only me. A million reasons for her to stay bounce through my mind, but none translate into actual words. And maybe it’s because those reasons are not actually reasons. They’re excuses. Mikey was right.
My ma’s eyes look bright and yet they’re shadowed with frailty. She has something to live for. Only not enough time to enjoy it.
‘I don’t like admitting when I might be wrong,’ she says.
‘Wrong?’
‘That car. It brought you some luck.’
The painkillers she’s on are clearly strong; she seems a bit delusional. I can’t recall if she knows about my car misfortune, or if I’d mentioned it and she’s forgotten. The last few visits run through my mind. Now’s not the time to break the news that the car brought me the very opposite of good luck.
‘You’ll have to send me a postcard,’ I joke, desperate not to get choked.
‘The kids said they’ll show me how to get an email address.’
‘I can show you how to do that.’
‘Don’t be daft. What do I want an email address for?’
‘Postcard it is, then.’
‘Postcard it is.’
Another quiet moment passes, but it’s not as heavy as the previous, as if a window has been opened. Even the faded curtains seem to sway, a sense of life in a somewhat lifeless room.
‘Shall we put Corrie on?’ my ma asks.
I seize the remote and switch the telly back on, the familiar theme tune blasting out.
‘I wonder, will I be able to watch Corrie in America?’
I don’t want to give her an excuse not to go.
‘You can watch pretty much anything from anywhere these days, Mam.’
‘Isn’t that marvellous?’
And we’re sitting here together, just like any other Wednesday evening.
‘Oh, hold on,’ my ma says, tapping her hands on the chair’s wooden arms with a sudden burst of excitement. ‘Go into the ward for me, love. In me bedside table, there’s a packet of Minstrels. Ethel Barton brought them in this afternoon.’
With a firm nod, I do as I’m told. Good old Ethel Barton. She’s come out alright in the end.
In all the years that I’ve worked in the toll booth, I’ve never been able to work out whether I prefer the sunny days, the blue sky and sharp edge to the fume-ridden air, or if a typical rainy day is better, the grey grumpiness being a more understanding ally, befriending the high-visibility jackets dotted around.
Today, most people would call it lovely. It’s a lovely day. Not a cloud in the sky, as the song goes. Ed Sheeran’s coming from the silver Nissan Micra and the chatty girl’s wearing her sunnies. On cue, she dips them.
‘Hey you,’ she says to me, a little subdued.
‘How was your night out in Oxton last week?’ I ask.
‘Oh, fine. You mightn’t see me much anymore.’
‘Why’s that, love?’
‘I’m selling this car. Gonna be getting the train instead.’
Now look, I don’t know anything about this girl other than she drives a Nissan Micra. There’s no time to find out why she’s selling, or even ask where she would be getting the train to, but one question does spring to mind.
‘How much do you reckon you’ll get for it?’
‘Few grand. Why, you interested?’
‘It’s quite old, right?’
The girl huffs. ‘It’s not an old banger. But, yeah, it’s old. I didn’t actually think I’d get that much for it, but my brother said the parts are all in good condition and parts can always be sold separately. To be honest, I wasn’t paying much attention—’
‘There’s a queue, love.’
The girl puts the car into gear, gives a friendly honk partnered with a pouty sad face, and waves goodbye.
The yellow sticky sponge peeping through the seat of my chair is coming loose on my navy trousers. They really ought to invest in some new furniture. It’s the only essential the staff require. I give the back of my irritated neck a quick itch, shuffle to get comfy. Then I open up my book, but my focus isn’t on the words on the page. It’s on something Griffo said to me in the Pacific Arms.
A new ‘regular’ pulls up.
Once again, smugness shines and unless I’m imagining it, he pities me. It’s the fella in the white BMW M3, of course, an almost-replica of the one that had once belonged to me.