#i forgot to eat i was a wee shaky after

[symphonysiren]

I miss my wife, Tails.

[juliehamill]

Frank prequel: A June Hangover

After reading 'Frank' and 'Jackie' many people have asked to know more about the matriarch 'June', Jackie's mum, and her seemingly distant relationship with her daughter. In the second book, 'Jackie' we find out that she was a successful local singer and popular cabaret act, 'Miss December'. We discover that she surrendered her limelight to become a wife and mother. Furthermore, a deeper secret emerges from her past.

Here she is as a young mum; a short story in a prequel to 'Frank'.

This is a bonus story that will not be part of my next book.

1969

The 'H' tap squeaked as she turned the four pronged handle tightly to stop the drips. She climbed into the bath, the boiling water burning her skin deservedly, she felt. She scrubbed her body red with a hard brush then washed her hair and sunk down deep to rinse it, hoping the water would penetrate and rehydrate. Get her clean.

I have to stop.

Today it changes.

No more.

This is it. Today.

I’m not going to touch it anymore.

She added hotter and hotter water and laid a cloth over her face.

No more drink. No more drink. Dear God please.

She laid in the bath until the water turned cold and her toes and fingers turned wrinkly, then opened the plug and watched the steaming water lower around her. Her body began to cool as she watched it disappear. Reluctantly she stood up and placed a towel under her arms and tucked it tightly around her chest, slightly cruel, slightly edged.

She drew a bottle in the steamed up mirror of the bathroom cabinet.

Is that all there is for me, now?

She rubbed it away to see her reflection.

My face. Branches and cracks.

‘Is that all there is?’ she sang, ‘Then let’s keep dancing.’ Her once beautiful voice croaked, forcing a cough.

She turned away from her reflection, as she often did the morning after. She rubbed cold cream into her cheeks.

Nobody wants to see the state of me, not now. Back then yes - but not now.

She moved away from the mirror into her bedroom and stood staring into the wardrobe meeting the smell of ironed dresses, skirts and blouses, worn and rehung. Closing the dark wood doors, she reached for her dressing gown and buttoned it up over the top of the towel. The buttons were large and easy to close; it was second nature.

Jackie would be at school now. Frank was good for dropping her off early on days like these. Or rather, every day. She smoothed beige foundation all over her face and neck. The powdery cream sank straight into her skin and she patted it to fade out blemishes and lines. All of the broken red veins on her cheekbones and nose were now coloured beige. She added a peach blusher to find the apples of her cheeks, now more pointed corners than plump hills. She applied mascara and a light lipstick. She dabbed her old sweet scent onto the nape of her neck, almost recognising herself. She pointed the hairdryer to the top of her head, switched it on, and sat there, with her eyes closed.

She began to sing over the noise, her scalp burning hot and wet. She drifted back into old thoughts of being photographed for the front page of The Advertiser. ‘Miss December’, as she was known then, before she married Frank McNeill. She cut ribbons for supermarkets, flashed smiles for clicks, as she sauntered around Airdrie in the latest Glasgow gown.

What could I have been? What am I now? I was somebody.

She thought of her life, and last night, sitting like a teenager on her knees, records spread out around the living room carpet, a drink beside her, while Frank and Jackie slept in bed.

‘Breakfast in bed! Kisses for me! You don’t have to say you love me!’ she sang, as she traced a finger over Dusty Springfield admiring her hair and confidence, searching for similarities between them.

People said I sounded like you. I should have been like you. I’ve got to be a mum. I’ve got to be a good mum and a good wife, Dusty.

She reached for the glass to finish the drink.

I won’t drink tomorrow. If I don’t have it in the house I won’t drink it. I’ll finish it now.

She poured herself another drink, this time just vodka, without soda to help me sleep. She leaned back amongst the records.

Why am I drinking on a Thursday night, alone, downstairs in my house? With school in the morning?

Well why can’t I have the odd vodka after Jackie’s bedtime?

This house is spick and span and our Jackie is well cared for.

Frank couldn’t ask for a better home. I had his dinner ready.

No-one can criticise me for that.

I can go without a drink if I want to.

I have before. For lent.

I can do it again.

I won’t drink during the week.

Just at weekends. Thursday is the lead up to the weekend.

Fridays and Saturdays. Maybe Sundays just to finish off a good couple of nights.

Everybody does it. And if they don’t, they’re boring!

That’s what I’ll do. Can’t NOT have a drink in the club. Can’t not have a drink at a party, Dusty. People will look at me funny!

Start fresh on Monday. No drink on Monday. Or in in the week.

There’s no harm in it.

Jackie’s well in bed before I have one so she doesn’t see.

What’s the difference – she doesn’t know.

It won’t affect her. As long as she never sees me drinking it’s okay.

June kept her bottles under the kitchen sink, at the back. Frank never went under the sink as it was all June’s cleaning bottles and cloths under there. There was no need for him to look, no need for him to know.

She switched off the hairdryer and pulled the brush down through her hair. Incredibly, it looked nice, sitting in its usual place, neatly arranged after years of training.

You need to eat.

She headed downstairs to poach an egg. The dinner plates from the night before sat inside the sink. Most of Jackie’s mince was stuck to the plate. June remembered that she had been angry with Jackie for not eating it. She felt a burning regret at forcing cold mince into her daughter’s mouth while she held her nose.

Opening the bin, she scraped it in, vowing never to return to the butcher she got it from. She reached into the cupboard under the sink to get the washing up liquid. She noticed the vodka bottle and was curious to see how much she drank the night before. It was below the usual line, by about an inch. She remembered the ‘one more’, ‘last one’, ‘tiny one’ conversation she’d had with herself. In a rush, she felt the desire to unscrew the top off the bottle and feel it burn down her throat into her empty stomach.

Feeling a slight heat moistening of her brow, she carefully placed the bottle back behind the pipe.

Leaving the washing up liquid beside the sink, she paused to prepare a poached egg on toast, salted it and sat down at the little fold-down formica table to eat. The grandfather clock in the hall chimed two. It was almost time to get the bus to collect Jackie from school.

She cut the slice of toast into tiny pieces and dipped it into the egg yolk. Each piece was held by one prong of the fork. She ate the toast and scraped the egg white into the bin. The noise battered her head. She drank three large glasses of water with two Panadol.

Better get those dishes done before Frank gets home.

June finished wiping down the sink and grabbed her jacket and bag. She walked up to one of the shops that she hadn’t been in for a while and asked for two miniatures. She saw Rainbow Drops by the side of the counter and decided to get a bag for June. Outside, she stood around the corner and tossed back a little bottle in two gulps. As the drink warmed her, her head began to feel sane again, her body less rattled. She threw the empty bottle in her bag. It gave her comfort to know that there was another full one in there, still to drink.

She walked the back road up to school, the second little bottle on her mind. She decided she’d better drink it now, while she was out, so she didn’t have to take it home. She looked around and saw no one, and tilted he second little bottle until it emptied. She felt good, evened out. She began to think she should have eaten a little more toast, but reconciled it against an effort to eat more healthily. As she approached the school gate, Bessie Smith was stubbing out a cigarette on the wall.

‘Hi June!’

‘Hello Bessie, how are you?’

‘I’m fine. Look at you! Always so glamorous for the school pick up! I feel like a right tramp next to you!’

‘Ah don’t be silly now! You always look nice.’

The two mums stood side by side at the gate. June moved around in her bag, keeping the bottles apart.

‘How is Jackie getting on?

‘Ah, she’s thriving, she loves it.’ She put a bottle in her make up bag.

‘That’s great.’

‘How about Vivien - is she enjoying Primary One?’

‘Well it has been a shaky start. I wasn’t sure about the teacher at first if I’m honest with you June – she seems very young to me. Our Vivien was crying every day for the first month and I was worried sick about leaving her. That said, she seems to have settled down a bit now. And she seems to like the school dinners, all right.’

June wasn't really listening, but she had become an expert at filling in answers.

‘Aww the wee soul. We should get them together to play!’

‘Vivien would love that! She loves Jackie!’

Bessie offered June a cigarette and she refused, politely.

‘No, thanks, I don’t smoke, Bessie.’

‘Oh sorry, June. I thought I saw you with a fag at the club a few weeks ago. Just a cheeky fag, was it?’

‘Oh, did I? It must have been! I must have been a bit tiddly and forgot!’ June nudged Bessie and Bessie laughed, reservedly. She lit her cigarette. The classroom door opened. The teacher came out first followed by a snake of four year olds with coats and school bags.

‘Mummy!’ shouted Jackie. ‘Look what I made!’ Jackie held up a piece of paper with lots of different lines, circles and smudges, all different colours. ‘That’s me. That’s Daddy, that’s you. That’s a birdy and that’s a worm!’

‘Oh this is beautiful Jackie!’ replied June, ‘Tell me what is this?’

‘That’s a tractor, chug chug. See? The driver has milk.’

‘Oh, of course! Yes I see. Wow he is thirsty! That's a big glass.’

Wonder if the farmer's got any vodka in his milk.

‘And that’s the sun, and that’s another birdy, and that’s a house, and that’s the washing, and that’s daddy and that’s you and that’s me! And a worm.’

‘Oh I think the worm is my favourite. What a clever girl you are! So talented! Well done for being a good girl. Mummy is very proud of you. Let’s get on our way now.’ A breath of smoke blasted in June’s face.

‘Listen to the manners of Jackie! Are you listening, Vivien? You should speak more like Jackie! Jackie speaks very nicely.’

The little girl stared at the tree, scratching the bark, ignoring her mother. Jackie ran over and stood beside her.

‘Time to go now. Vivien! Vivien! Come on now, time to go. Will we see you and Frank at the club tonight June?’

‘I’m not sure what Frank’s shifts are this weekend, Bessie, but if we can be there we will.’ June lied, she knew they were intending to go, she didn’t know why she couldn’t just say ‘yes’ like other people.

Vivien left Jackie by the tree and ran alongside her mother and the empty pram she was pushing. After a few steps, Vivien climbed in. June ignored the urge to ask why the four year old was still in a pushchair. June walked over to the tree.

‘Come on now darling, let’s go.’

‘Mummy.’

‘Yes baby?’

‘Can we go swimming today?’

‘Ah, not today, Mummy is very tired, Jackie, I have the dinner to make then daddy and I have to go out.’

‘Can I help you do your make up?’

‘We’ll see…’

They began the walk home and June rummaged in her handbag and pulled out the packet of Rainbow Drop sweets she had bought.

‘Look what mummy got you from the shop! Rainbow Drops!’

‘Oh!’ Jackie leaped, and eagerly grabbed them, knocking against June’s bag. A bottle rattled against her keys.

‘What is that noise mummy?

‘Nothing! Take my hand to cross the road.

‘What’s in your bag?’

‘Just Mummy’s door key.’ June looked left and right and crossed the road. There were roadworks and a long reach crane was standing by some half built flats.

‘Look Jackie! Look up at the big crane. Can you see the man?’ As Jackie looked up, distracted, June quickly retrieved the two bottles from her bag. She threw them deftly over a metal railing onto a grass verge where she knew they'd land silently. She continued talking to Jackie about school as Jackie reached her thumb and forefinger into the the bag to taste every colour of rainbow drop.

‘So what else happened at school today?’

‘Stuff.’

‘What stuff?’ June tickled Jackie’s shoulders and she laughed. She had gotten away with it. June laughed. ‘What’s this stuff I hear about every day? ‘Stuff!’ I’ll give you stuff…’

‘Nice to see somebody having fun!’ A couple approached them with an older boy, secondary school age. June wondered if they had seen her throwing the bottles away, they weren’t there when she checked.

‘Hello Patricia! Hello John! Jackie say hello to Mr and Mrs Morrisson and Jim. How is school Jim? You’re out early!’ June felt flushed and queasy.

‘We’re off to the dentist!’, said the Mrs Morrisson, ‘This one needs a filling.’ She nodded to her son. ‘Too many…’ she noticed that Jackie was eating sweets. She cupped her hand to her mouth, ‘Oopsy!’ she said, ‘Well we all need a treat from time to time!’

Jackie giggled at the big woman. June could see a fond glance exchange between them.

‘Still need me to babysit for you tonight, June?’

‘Well if you’re sure it’s no trouble!’

Mr Morrisson scoffed and looked at his watch. Mrs Morrisson scowled at him.

‘It’s no trouble at all. Me and Jackie love our fun!’ She poked her son, ‘You should come with us Jimmy – we have a –‘

‘No thanks.’ Jim scuffed his foot.

‘Better watch our time!’ Mr Morrisson tapped his watch. ‘An appointment to get to.’ He smiled a smile that showed no feeling, his lips tight.

‘Of course. See you later then. About seven.’

‘Seven is great.’

They said goodbye and walked off in opposite directions.

‘You’re never babysitting for them again, are you?’

‘Shoosh! She’ll hear you!’

‘She can’t hear a thing. Baby Jane is sloshed half the time.’

‘Don’t call her that. She’s a lovely woman.’

You’re feeding her drink habit babysitting that poor child every week.’

‘It’s not every week...’

‘Neglecting your own son, you are.’

‘I am not! He comes with us when he wants to.’

‘Anyway, that’s me away for my Friday pint. I’ll see you at dinner. Just leave it hot on the side.’

Mrs Morrisson tutted but allowed her husband to peck her on the cheek. She walked into the dentist with her son, and Mr Morrisson turned down the street, towards the pub.