Are You My Mother? Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Louise Voss
whipped a Sherbet Dib-Dab from the corner shop as a kid, for fear of being caught. Over time, I began to wonder if it was my innocence which appealed to him; my malleability, the way that I could blend, chameleon-like, into most situations. I never embarrassed him in front of his friends, and rarely gave him a hard time about his impossible unreliability. That I let him get away with it makes me sound like a total wimp, and perhaps I was. He was the only serious boyfriend I’d ever had; my first true love.
On the night of The Man on The Train, we were supposed to be meeting at seven o’clock, outside the main entrance of the Royal Albert Hall. The gig started at seven thirty sharp, with no support act, so this was a vain attempt on my part to get him there on time. I’d tried to get Stella to be on standby, in case of a no-show from Gavin, but she wasn’t interested, especially when I let it slip that the tickets were really expensive.
‘ How much? And the who ?’ she said, predictably. ‘Never heard of ‘em.’
‘ Yes you have, Dad used to play their records constantly: surely you remember - “I Can See For Miles”? “My Generation”? “Magic Bus”?’
But Stella just shook her head and looked at me as if I was mad. ‘Emma, I was nine years old when Dad died. I was into Take That, not some crumbly old bunch of hippies that he liked.’
‘ Mods, Stella, they were Mods.’
‘ Whatever. Enjoy the gig. I hope Gav turns up on time.’
‘ He’d better,’ I said, doubtfully. ‘I’ve drummed it into his peanut brain that he absolutely has to be there otherwise I will kill him. Surely he won’t dare stand me up.’ Famous last words.
I loved The Who, although Dad’s predilection for the band was the main reason I wanted to be at the gig so badly. One of his lifelong ambitions was to see them play live, and he’d never achieved it, so I felt as if I was going on his behalf. I supposed this made me rather more emotional than I would have been under normal circumstances. The fact that I also had heinous PMT didn’t help, either. My breasts were practically fizzing with hormones, and before Gavin was even late, little stabs of irritation were already shooting around my brain, fighting for supremacy with delayed shock from the encounter on the tube.
When I finally arrived at ten to seven, the first thing I did was dive into the Ladies and wash my hands, lathering them with so much soap that the whole sink filled up with cheap off-white bubbles. I would have given anything for a nail brush, but had to content myself with rubbing my now-clean hands with paper towels until the paper flaked off and disintegrated. I imagined it taking away the clammy stench of the train man’s dirt-sticky hands, but I still felt tainted. In the mirror above the sink, I looked greyish. The other women in the toilets seemed to be giving me a wide berth, and I wondered if the man’s undesirability had rubbed off on me, too.
Feeling marginally better, I trailed back outside to wait for Gavin. There were hundreds of people milling about; mostly thirty and forty year old ex-Mods who’d dug out their target t-shirts and moth-eaten parkas for the occasion. The Royal Albert Hall loomed above us, dignified and ornate. If a building could look disgusted, then that was its expression. If it was up to me, it said, in the elegant curve of its walls and the soft red decorated brick, none of you riffraff would be allowed in. Crinolines for the ladies and top hats for the gentlemen, please. Not you grubby youths in your anoraks .
As I stood waiting, I listed in my head the reason that I loved Gavin. Every Valentine’s Day for four years he’d sent me red roses. He cried at soppy movies, his bristly head drooping on my shoulder. He listened endlessly to the sorry sagas of my trials with Stella’s teenage upbringing, and offered to num-chuck anybody who she might be having trouble with at school, teachers included. He bemoaned the rapid
On the night of The Man on The Train, we were supposed to be meeting at seven o’clock, outside the main entrance of the Royal Albert Hall. The gig started at seven thirty sharp, with no support act, so this was a vain attempt on my part to get him there on time. I’d tried to get Stella to be on standby, in case of a no-show from Gavin, but she wasn’t interested, especially when I let it slip that the tickets were really expensive.
‘ How much? And the who ?’ she said, predictably. ‘Never heard of ‘em.’
‘ Yes you have, Dad used to play their records constantly: surely you remember - “I Can See For Miles”? “My Generation”? “Magic Bus”?’
But Stella just shook her head and looked at me as if I was mad. ‘Emma, I was nine years old when Dad died. I was into Take That, not some crumbly old bunch of hippies that he liked.’
‘ Mods, Stella, they were Mods.’
‘ Whatever. Enjoy the gig. I hope Gav turns up on time.’
‘ He’d better,’ I said, doubtfully. ‘I’ve drummed it into his peanut brain that he absolutely has to be there otherwise I will kill him. Surely he won’t dare stand me up.’ Famous last words.
I loved The Who, although Dad’s predilection for the band was the main reason I wanted to be at the gig so badly. One of his lifelong ambitions was to see them play live, and he’d never achieved it, so I felt as if I was going on his behalf. I supposed this made me rather more emotional than I would have been under normal circumstances. The fact that I also had heinous PMT didn’t help, either. My breasts were practically fizzing with hormones, and before Gavin was even late, little stabs of irritation were already shooting around my brain, fighting for supremacy with delayed shock from the encounter on the tube.
When I finally arrived at ten to seven, the first thing I did was dive into the Ladies and wash my hands, lathering them with so much soap that the whole sink filled up with cheap off-white bubbles. I would have given anything for a nail brush, but had to content myself with rubbing my now-clean hands with paper towels until the paper flaked off and disintegrated. I imagined it taking away the clammy stench of the train man’s dirt-sticky hands, but I still felt tainted. In the mirror above the sink, I looked greyish. The other women in the toilets seemed to be giving me a wide berth, and I wondered if the man’s undesirability had rubbed off on me, too.
Feeling marginally better, I trailed back outside to wait for Gavin. There were hundreds of people milling about; mostly thirty and forty year old ex-Mods who’d dug out their target t-shirts and moth-eaten parkas for the occasion. The Royal Albert Hall loomed above us, dignified and ornate. If a building could look disgusted, then that was its expression. If it was up to me, it said, in the elegant curve of its walls and the soft red decorated brick, none of you riffraff would be allowed in. Crinolines for the ladies and top hats for the gentlemen, please. Not you grubby youths in your anoraks .
As I stood waiting, I listed in my head the reason that I loved Gavin. Every Valentine’s Day for four years he’d sent me red roses. He cried at soppy movies, his bristly head drooping on my shoulder. He listened endlessly to the sorry sagas of my trials with Stella’s teenage upbringing, and offered to num-chuck anybody who she might be having trouble with at school, teachers included. He bemoaned the rapid