OOM: Mother's Son

[the_gene_genie]

 

He’s awoken by the sound of a cup being placed on the coffee table next to his head. And he knows before he even thinks about opening his eyes that this is going to hurt.

There’s a groan. It might be a ‘thank you’ or he might just be dying.

‘Tol’ ya no’ t’get too pissed, didn’ I, lad?’

Another groan, that probably means yeah but you knew I would anyway so don’t nag.

He sits up. It takes a minute or so and another couple before the room rights itself. His mother laughing smugly in her armchair doesn’t help in the least.

‘Couldn’ ‘elp it. They jus’ kept buyin’ me drinks.’

‘You’re a grown man Gene; jus’ because they buy ‘em, don’ mean you ‘ave t’drink ‘em.’

He flashes her a look and she grins. This is an old dance that was never as friendly when he was young, back when she was terrified he’d turn out like his father.

‘When ‘ave you ever known me t’say no to a beer, mam?’

‘My point exactly. I’ve ‘ad you ‘ere on Christmas mornin’ with a hangover f’thirty years, migh’ be nice t’see you without f’once.’

‘Nah. S’traditional now.’

They smile at each other, having reached the same outcome they do every time. He picks his tea up and grimaces at the heat of the first sip, while her face sobers.

‘What y’doin’ down ‘ere anyway? You an’ Alex ‘aven’t fallen out, ‘ave you?’

Ah. Alex. He sighs and scrubs at his eye with the heel of his hand, trying to lift the fog in his head.

‘Mam...’

‘She’s lovely, Gene. You better no’ have got off with some tart behind the pub last nigh’ because she don’ deserve that.’ Betty meets his shocked expression with a steely one of her own, looking more like him in that moment than he has any idea about. ‘Don’ give me tha’ look! I know you, lad. I know wha’ you’re like when you’ve ‘ad a few. Dunno when t’stop – an’ I’m tellin’ you righ’ now, that lass up there won’ stand for none of that behaviour.’

‘...mam. Stop it. I didn’ get off with any tarts.’ He throws the rest of his tea down his throat, ignoring the burn. Pain might wake him up a bit anyway. ‘Alex ain’t me girlfriend. She’s jus’ me DI.’

‘Bollocks.’

He winces slightly, like he does every time she swears. It doesn’t happen often.

‘It’s true.’

Betty holds a level gaze at him without saying a word. He shifts a little but doesn’t elaborate; he’s familiar with his mother’s interrogation techniques by now. For her part, she’s waiting for him to speak, yes, but also just looking at him. It’s been six months since she saw him.

‘Gene.’

A glance at her.

‘You’ve been workin’ with Ray and Chris f’r about thirteen years an’ you’ve never brought one o’them here f’Christmas.’

‘Christ, why would I?’

‘No’ even Sam an’ he were your best mate.’

‘He ‘ad Annie. Ray an’ Chris ‘ave got family. Alex hasn’t got anyone. ’ It sounds a bit weak even to his ears. ‘She’s a pain in the arse, anyway.’

‘A pain in the arse you decided to lumber yourself with over Christmas.’

He sighs. He really should have seen this coming but he hadn’t. He’d been too taken with the idea of a couple of nights away with Alex, away from the rest of CID and the pressures of work and the tongues that wag.

‘I’m ‘er boss, mam. It ain’ that easy. An’ I’m not jokin’ when I say she’s a bloody fruitcake.’

‘Beau’iful fruitcake. You always did like ‘em dark. I’ll never know why you married a blonde.’

‘Mam.’

‘I’m jus’ sayin’!’

They sit in companionable silence for a minute. He realises that he’s listening to hear if she’s awake yet and doesn’t notice his mother watching him again.

Six months since she’s seen him and he looks tired. Hungover, of course. But more than that; it’s even more obvious at the moment that he’s been letting work get to him. He doesn’t have the same verve he used to; she’s lost count of the times he used to barrel in for Sunday lunch, a grin plastered all over his face and bouncing around because of some lowlife he collared during the week. She misses that, misses him looking happy. Of course, she rarely sees him now but she has the feeling that even if she did still see him every week, there’d be far less spring in his step.

There was a hint of it last night though. Those brief moments when Alex had bossed him around as they left – that was far more like the son she used to see.

‘Wan’ t’go wake ‘er up?’

‘Nah, let ‘er sleep. She’s worse than me when she’s ‘ad a few.’

‘Go out drinkin’ with ‘er a lot, then?’

‘...well, she’s a mate. An’ it’s good f’the team, goin’ out together.’

‘You an’ your bloody team. Can’t marry your team, Gene.’

He looks shocked again, so shocked that it actually rouses him a little from his fugue, makes him ignore the headache for a minute. ‘Is that wha’ this is about? You reckon I shoul’ get married again?’

Betty is serene with her teacup and saucer, sipping without looking at him. ‘It suited you. Some blokes are made for it son, an’ you’re one of ‘em.’

He bristles. He likes his lone wolf image. For one thing, it makes it easy to pull. ‘If I’m made f’r it, ‘ow come it didn’ work before?’

A valid point, he feels.

‘Because she was never righ’ for you. An’ because you took her f’r granted an’ always put your job first.’ She sighs and puts her cup down finally, looking at him seriously. ‘Look Gene, I’ve said this t’you before. An’ I wouldn’ bring it up on Christmas, only it’s the only time I get t’see you now. I know it’s not your fault, I know you’re busy. But jus’ let me say it an’ then I’ll shut up.’

He looks down at the ground and doesn’t object. He rarely denies his mother anything. She doesn’t ask him for much and anyway, after the life she’s had he reckons she deserves it.

‘You can’ live jus’ f’your job, son. You’re very good at it an’ I know you ‘elp a lot of people. But you ‘ave to ‘elp yourself as well, else you’ll never get anywhere. Ten years from now, you’ll be in the same place, doin’ the same stuff.’

‘I’ll be retired in ten years, mam.’

‘Like ‘ell you will. You’ll find a way ‘round that, you know you will. You ain’t never goin’ t’retire, not unless somethin’ comes along to make you.’

‘Might get shot.’

‘Don’ say that! Nearly killed me last time you did. ’

For the first time, Betty’s face cracks a little and he wishes he hadn’t made such a careless remark.

‘Sorry.’

‘...mother shouldn’ outlive ‘er kids.’

‘I know.’

His eyes travel up to the mantelpiece, lock onto the black and white stare of Stuart, looking down on them. He can only hold it for a few heartbeats and then he has to look away.

‘So all I’m sayin’ is – bloody hell son, I dunno. I only met her f’r ten minutes. Bu’ she seems to ‘ave the measure o’you and she still came up ‘ere when you asked her. It’s no’ my business what you an’ her get up to outside o’work. I’m jus’ tellin’ you not to be the pig-‘eaded bugger you normally are an’ don’ spoil it jus’ f’the sake of it. If you like ‘er an’ she likes you, give ‘er a chance.’

Her smile is back, cheeky and knowing.

‘You never know, you migh’ even enjoy it.’

He rolls his eyes but he’s smiling too, just a little. He knows he’d enjoy it. He’s completely willing to give Alex a chance, at least to a degree. He never plans to let anyone under his defences but sometimes it just happens. Sam, last time. In a platonic way, obviously. And he’d enjoyed that too because he does like it when there’s someone around who’s an equal to him, no matter how much he complains about it.

Sam had been ideal. Because Sam was a bloke; he could be a mate and they could get pissed together, there was no girly emotional talk, he knew he could look after himself in a fight. Never had to pull Sam out of a crook’s meat freezer. But with her – she talks a good fight and even puts one up sometimes. He certainly remembers the time she outright punched him in the face. Sometimes though, she does need rescuing. And that’s the problem. Because while Sam was ideal because their friendship was uncomplicated, Alex is ideal because...because sometimes she needs him. And Gene likes being needed.

It’s early and he’s too hungover  to process this. So he just scrubs at his eye again and then lights a cigarette.

‘We’ll see, mam.’ He almost adds I don’t think she’s interested, anyway to that but what would be the point? His mother won’t believe it and sometimes, occasionally, he lets himself doubt it too.

‘...any chance of a bacon sarnie?’

‘Cheeky beggar.’ Betty laughs and pulls herself out of her chair. ‘G’on an’ get washed. You look like you’ve been pulled through an ‘edge backwards. Mind you shave an’ all, it’s Christmas. I’ll see if you left anythin’ in the fridge las’ night f’breakfast.’

The late-night fry-up comes back to him and he has the grace to look bashful.

‘Sorry. Got ‘ungry.’

‘Some things never change, lad.’

She stops at the door and looks back at him, rumpled and sleepy on the sofa. There’s a stab of fondness, of relief that he’s home, that softens her face and tone when she speaks.

‘’onestly Gene, sometimes it’s like you never grew up at all.’

His eyes meet hers for a second, two, three.

‘...now move yer backside, I need me sofa back seein’ as we’ve a guest. Come on boy, mush.’