Mam had told him on numerous occasions never to say ‘bollocks’, but as far as he was concerned she couldn’t scold him for what she couldn’t hear. Timothy had a wee chuckle to himself at that he always did when he thought the word. ‘That’s no word for a six year old,’ she’d said.
Timothy forcefully clicked the ‘channel up’ button on the remote for what must have been the bajillionth time that evening, failing again to find a show that pleased him. He sighed heavily, nearly giving an unintentional grunt. Yet another pair of adults sat behind a polished table, stacks of paper before them, ranting on about some sort of fight between one party which was surely in the right and another party which was also very much in the right. The seated adults didn’t seem to pay much mind to the sounds of gunfire and muffled explosions taking place in a window just over the left shoulder of the lady in the teal Hedress.tapped
Two nil, Cheryl, two nil! Look at that, Dad’s missed it and it’s all your fault.
Bollocks
the ‘channel up’ button once more in what would certainly be a futile attempt at locating the cartoon channel, while simultaneously arising from his crisscross applesauce position approximately a meter and a half in front of the screen.
Glaring at the empty spot on the shelf where the biscuits go, he telepathically reminded his mother that seven or a hundred, he is the man of the house and can bloody well say what he likes.
Plus, I’m seven now, Mam.
had been plenty of times in the seven long years of his life when Timothy had felt what Cheryl dubbed ‘frustration’. The most recent was two months prior as he sat in front of a powered off television for nearly three and a half hours awaiting his father’s return so they could watch Ireland take on Estonia in what he’d repeatedly heard called ‘a friendly’. He spent the nearly the entirety of the two hundred five minutes trying to work out why exactly it was called ‘a friendly’ if the players always seemed determined to draw the opponents’ blood with every tackle. On top of that, he’d been trying to work out why it was his dad kept saying ‘the Estonians think they’re a bunch of strong men til time comes to step on the pitch’
I wonder if Cheryl’s finally seen sense, been craving Taytos for ages now.
‘Frustration’ was the only word that he could think of as he slammed oh no, Cheryl’s resting the cupboard door shut about three quarters of the way, catching the handle just in time to softly ease the door back in its Thereframe.
It wasn’t until Cheryl had come home with the shopping that he broke his gaze from the black glass and realised the match was probably nearly done, if not long over. After an articulate back and forth littered with ‘no’s and ‘Dad’s not back yet’s, he finally gave into Cheryl’s insistence that he turn on the telly.
It was a poorly executed stab at the woman’s feelings for him to blame her for what clearly had nothing to do with the outcome of the match, though at the time he felt as though he’d really stuck it to her. He’d felt quite pleased with himself that is until he awoke the next morning and his Dad still wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Timothy checked but didn’t find him in his armchair, the one he usually inhabited the mornings after nights
He moseyed over to the cupboard in the corner of the kitchen, absolutely positive that the second shelf from the bottom held the cheese and oniony essence of what he yearned for so deeply with every ounce of his being.
… phoned from inside and wouldn’t say anything besides ‘it was the other lad’s fault, he’d been egged on’, that sort o’ bollocks…
That was as much as Timothy heard; it’s a very difficult thing for a child to resist the urge of his feet to flee stressful scenarios. The light pitter patter was enough to steal Cheryl’s attention from his mam, and no sooner than he’d buried his face in his duvet did she appear in his doorway.
boy of seven, Timothy had already been through his fair share of turmoil. He had thick skin, at least that’s what Cheryl had told him. She was the one who’d usually shown up to the matches every other Saturday. Timothy knew she was there every time, sitting straight across the pitch from him he on the bench, she in the stands. At the first few matches she’d tried to wave at him or shoot him the odd funny face,
ya don’t like the word, Anita. But that’s just the way he’s done ya, leaving ya in this mess. As if ya’ve not your own troubles to sort out already what with… Ya know… But now he’s left ya with Timothy to manage all on your lonesome. I’ll tell ya what, love I won’t have it.
Fine, he’d settle for frustration. Cheryl probably knew very well he was angry, but if there was one thing she wouldn’t be able to bear more than seeing Anita in that state day in and day out it would be letting Timothy’s feelings get the better of him, leading him to be just like his dad.
Butthem.fora
That’s what Cheryl had told him he felt when she saw his chin drop to his chest. He’d told her it was anger, insisted that he was on the edge of rage what sort of dad forgets the promise he makes his son, especially football the only thing the two have ever had in common? No, frustration was too mild for what he felt. He was upset, angry, indignant.
No, Timothy was all too familiar with the frustration though it hadn’t been even a full year since the first time. Most frequent was the persistent frustration of the other lads on the squad refusing to pass him the ball because he was ‘Maradona with two right hands’ Timothy didn’t know who that was, but the others couldn’t help but inform him that Maradona only scores with his left hand. Whoever said jokes are funnier when they’re not explained clearly hadn’t gotten around to letting the lads know that one always got a chuckle out of
True men don’t get angry, they get frustrated. A lad can’t think or act clearly when he’s angry, and I won’t be having ya make silly mistakes on account of being angry. That’s no way for a lad to be. Definitely no way for a dad to be, mind ya
You do too much as it is, Cheryl. And with Darren shifted, I don’t know how we can afford you anymore… I know you don’t like the money talk but…
Frustration, Timmy.
CherylIknow
Don’t ya say another word about money, Anita. Don’t say another word on it or I’ll do ya in meself. If there’s one thing I know to be true, it’s that I’ve been more a father to Timothy than that Darren’s ever been…
And for the first time, Timothy agreed with Cheryl. The day Dad didn’t come home was the day Timothy realised he had always been the man of the house.
out at the pub. Timothy tiptoed over to the doorway of his parents’ bedroom, only to find the door inches ajar. Knowing better than to cross the threshold, Timothy pressed his ear to the opening and listened as his Cheryl and his mother spoke:
but by match 3 he’d come to the conclusion it was best not to make eye contact. Didn’t need another reason for the lads to take the piss more than they already did.
Timothy felt bad about ignoring Cheryl he knew she meant well and that she just wanted him to feel supported since his mam couldn’t make it. He wasn’t sure if it was out of pity, because Mam had asked her to go, or if she genuinely wanted to cheer him on. Whatever the case was, he didn’t quite like the idea of any of them. He didn’t need Cheryl’s pity, nor did he need anyone’s.
She must be relaying the message to Mam that I’m the world’s best water boy, unmatched by even the fellas in the Premiership. Or maybe it’s me posture, go on Cheryl get a load of these droopy shoulders.
It was five months ago, and he’d been in his room attempting to juggle the ball when he heard his father skulk through the door to the flat it’d hardly been ten seconds since the thump of his boots reached Timothy’s ears that Cheryl began unloading on him:
If Mam had asked Cheryl to come to the matches, well then who in the world would be there looking after her? What if something happened? Much as he loved his Mam, in their world Cheryl was the head of household simply for the fact that she could keep things up and running. Never he mind the fact that she herself could outpace a bowling ball down the Hill of Tara she was the reason the lights stayed on, food was in the fridge, Mam was alive for that matter. If something had happened one of those matchdays while she was sat there staring at him from yards away, neither he nor she would be able to forgive herself.
Supposing Cheryl did in fact want to cheer him on, he couldn’t help but wonder what exactly her game was to that end. By matchday number 4 he figured she would’ve gotten the memo that he was nothing more than a warm body on the lineup.
Oh, ya’ve had a day have ya? Well help yerself to me deepest sympathies, sir. I’d not realised ya’d had one of them, please forgive me I’ve been sat twiddling me thumbs for the last eight hours just waiting for ya to come through the door.
Eejits should’ve realised all they’d done was sentenced me to a season of thighs stuck frozen to a metal bench, knowing damn well we don’t have the dough for the team tracksuit.
Whatever the case may be, Timothy couldn’t for the life of him figure out why she kept coming to the matches. Even his father who’d only nearly shown up for the second match hadn’t made it past the gate to the grounds, something Timothy was never sure if he knew Timothy had seen. Later Darren had said he got caught up on the building site, something about the cement mixer breaking down and him being the only lad on site with the stamina to keep it moving. No, Timothy figured Dad got one glance at him starting on left bench and had turned around, rerouting his evening pubwards.
Look who’s decided to show his face, meanwhile it must’ve been four hours since the final whistle
Much as I doubt that, perhaps it’d do ya some good if ya did. Thinking much as ya do, all that stress at your age can’t be good for ya, love.
Give it a rest Cher, I’ve had a day…
Pity wouldn’t have kept Dad from bludgeoning a random fella at the pub for spilling a drink on his trainers, nor would it have kept the sickness from striking Mam on her birthday. He knew all too well that pity would have no place in his improvement as a footballer; if it had, it would be the last five minutes of each match when the coach let subbed him on to meet the young ones’ league equal play requirement and he didn’t see himself widening any score margins singlehandedly as a result The fact that he was on the best squad in the league was a product of pity already, those in administration having heard about his father’s poor decision making and his mother’s poor health.
Seeing Anita in such a state morning, mid day, evening, night… What’s it all for? Son who’s not even hit a decade of life yet and she’s already having to compose her swan song. It ain’t right, this world does nothing for the good sometimes, I swear by it. Can ya even call what’s become of Darren justice? Where’s the justice in a boy’s father getting arrested amidst his wife’s dying days, and possibly leaving their lad in the hands of the state? Never did care for the message of the writing, but it’s times like these I feel like the cloudy sky is a leafless tree here I am waiting underneath after me nightly beating… Just waiting… ‘Nothing to be done’ is right.
The words had stuck with Timothy, and he often reflected on the statement. He thought about it when he tied his shoes, when he ate carrots. He had been distracted, pondering on it, when the Polish boy on the team had missed the ball and kicked him in the shin at practice one day. Timothy had later told Cheryl that he would’ve been more upset about it if the other boy hadn’t also been a staple on the bench right bench though, Timothy made sure to specify. Wouldn’t’ve let him near my side of the bench, he’d told her to which she’d rapped him on the side of the head.
Yer sounding a mite xenophobic there, Timmy. I worry yer becoming like yer father, with talk like that It’s not because he’s Polish, Cheryl. It’s just… I’ve my side of the bench, and he’s got his. If that’s how ya butter yer toast, I suppose…
Nothing to be done.
What a ripper!
Despite the darkness that then plagued his room in the wake of a broken light, it was clear to Timothy that there was a bright side for once he’d been able to put the ball on target, even if he didn’t realise he’d been aiming for it. As he later told Cheryl, he’d not even realised he had that kind of power in his leg. Perhaps if he’d been able to demonstrate that on the pitch he’d have had a spot on the squad he regularly supplemented. In fact, thinking back on it he realised the means of destruction was probably the only reason Dad hadn’t gotten angry with him over the lamp’s demise
This was Timothy’s thinking anyway, until he remembered that not much had seemed to bother his father anymore at least not over the course of the last year. All the more surprising considering the breaking news hitting the headlines on the home front. Sure, his only son hadn’t been a starter on his football team and Cheryl wouldn’t buy that the cement mixer had been busted thus rendering him the de facto manual mixer but you’d think when a man’s wife is told it’s only a matter of months that he’d do a bit more to make those months count for something.
Timothy heard very clearly as Cheryl muttered something along those lines just several weeks ago, sitting at the breakfast table late one night after Mam had taken her sleeping pills. She had a habit of narrating her journal entries as she wrote them:
He’s a doctor now, would ya believe it! Should’ve known ya’d been off at O’Dockerty’s celebrating yer medicine certification exams maybe now ya can look after yer wife
Oh, I’m way ahead of ya there, mate. I should only hope Timmy doesn’t get that from ya, I was hoping having yer eyes was where the hereditary traits end.
- Listen here, Cheryl. I can’t help it if I’m the only one with the reserve energy to keep the cement mixed when the machine breaks down. Blame genetics for that one.
All at once, Timothy’s ears were overwhelmed by the synchronous sounds of Cheryl’s gasp, his father’s boots hitting the floor by the front door, and his bedside lamp shattering.
Come off it with that, if he’d gotten more of me maybe he’d’ve been on the pitch…
Ya know that ‘terminal’ is what we call the waiting area by for a bus or train or plane, right?
From his spot outside his mam’s bedroom door, he’d been able to hear her crying with Mam he wasn’t sure why they’d been crying about Cheryl’s going on holiday. Considering Timothy himself had only ever been on a train once in his life, he figured it must have been tears of joy or perhaps Cheryl was afraid of flying. Only after she’d left the room to find him mid escape from his spot did he turn and see that there was no trace of a smile upon the caretaker’s face. Well, she had forced a half grin his way, but it was painfully evident that there was nothing but obligation fueling the expression.
Timothy had it in his head that he’d finally get the flat to himself, just he and Mam for the first time since he was in nappies. Of course, that was well before she’d found out she was sick, let alone bedridden. Primarily, he was just glad to have a bit of independence. After all, he was practically an adult you don’t get to be seven years old without learning quite a lot about how the world works. Unbeknownst to him, the learning hadn’t finished he was soon to learn a new definition for a word with which he was already familiar.
Only as he was falling asleep that night did it hit him that Cheryl was using one of her many figures of speech. However, none of them stuck with him quite like the adage that there’s ‘nothing to be done’
What are ya on about love? I’m not going anywhere. Especially not now. Then what are all the tears for? Gonna be missing Mam quite a bit, be thinking about her on the long walk to the gate?
Oh my… Timmy, love… Come here to me.
Right…
Only when he pressed the question did he find out exactly what they’d been crying about, though he wished more than anything he’d not done so. Cheryl, sitting at the breakfast table once again, was wiping her eyes with a balled up tissue that seemed well past the point of absorption.
So where are you going, Cheryl? Big summer holiday planned, eh?
Timothy had hated when Cheryl would make him sit on her lap, but something in her tone had startled him and he complied without considering how it’d affect the appearance of his agency.
understand why it would be that nothing could be done in his Mam’s case. For most of his recent memory Mam had been bedridden and Cheryl was always the one by her side. She’d already tried all the tricks the paracetamol, the lozenges, the tomato soup, even read to her from the books which she had been stacking up by her bedside and been meaning to get through for months prior. Timothy knew he was no math genius, having not the wit nor the willpower to give Bertie Einstein a run for his trainers, let alone his money but it wasn’t adding up. Seemed that the more lozenges and soup Cheryl brought his Mam, the louder her coughs became and the less of the soup she’d been able to keep down.
You always butter my toast, Cheryl…
He could recall her saying it when they’d first gotten the news nine months previous, though at that time it didn’t make sense. Whenever Timothy had been ill, Cheryl would run down to the chemists and buy a packet of paracetamol, some of those disgusting lozenges that worked magic on his throat (though he’d never let Cheryl know that), and tins of tomato soup. More often than not he’d gotten over the ailments in a matter of Hedays.couldn’t
Cheryl’s eyes began to well up again, and Timmy felt uncomfortable seeing her from this close up. Aside from it being a scary word at which to pause and blow one’s nose, the wrinkles on the old lady’s face were not exactly contorting in such a complimentary manner from the boy’s eyes.
Just hear me out, Timmy. Ya see, life is an airport. And death…
Yer mam
Standing over her, he could see how weak she looked. The skin that had always tightly adhered to the high cheekbones he had inherited now drooped and sagged, as did the skin on her arms and hands. The very same with which she used to lift him from his cot as a baby the skin thereupon now resembled the shirt of a person who’s forgotten to remove it before jumping in a pool, then struggles to paddle over to the handrail and rise from the shallow end. That was actually one of Timothy’s favorite things to see at the public pool,
I’m warning ya, Cheryl. I swear to ya Anita’s terminal, seated at the gate with a…
Cheryl couldn’t help it, a new stream flowed from her eyes and the sniffles she’d only ceased moments before as Timothy approached had resumed. She again forced a tearful grin as she said it:
Timothy broke from Cheryl’s frail grip easier than she’d have liked, but more reluctantly than he could have. While she wasn’t exactly a Met Rx world strongest man contestant, Cheryl could have put up a bit more of a fight at least Timothy was hoping she would. The devastating news that your mother is dying would evoke the desire to be held and comforted in almost anyone. It just so happened that in Timothy’s case he wanted the arms that gripped him to be his mother’s.
Knowing yer mam, she’s got a cracker of a book in her hold all. Let go of me Cheryl, let go. Timmy, I Let go!
Well think of life, everything we do in this world and every person we meet, as being a massive hustling bustling airport or coach station. Everyone hangs about, carrying on with life working or having fun.
When adults say ‘terminal’ especially doctors what that means is that someone has a seat at the gate, and it’s only a matter of time before it’s time to board the plane. We’ve gotten a call from the doctor earlier this afternoon and Cheryl, don’t ya dare say it.
- Bit odd, that, Cheryl. I don’t underst
Timothy’s hands were folded in his lap in perfect prayer position, though he hadn’t consciously done this. As his arms and legs began to tremble, he could feel the hands warring with each other, attempting to grip the other as tightly as possible. He wasn’t sure exactly as to where she was going with it, but he had an idea. An idea which he didn’t like. He didn’t like the idea one bit.
Against Cheryl’s wishes and the orders she’d been given, Timothy snuck into his mam’s room as she gently snoozed. The soft hum of the vitals monitoring equipment droned softly, masking the soft thumps of the balls of his feet carrying him towards her bed.
Death is the aeroplane hurtling down the runway. Once it’s up in the air… There’s no bringing it back Cheryl,down. yer scaring me…
Not once had Timothy ever seen Cheryl in this same light. Really it didn’t matter what light he ever saw Cheryl in, there was never a flattering aura when he gazed upon her literally or in his mind. If anything, her answers never made sense and never seemed right. The words she used, the comparisons she drew none of
He’d been reading about India in a book he’d nicked from the bedside stack a few months back, and he quite liked the idea that people were reborn after every life lived. It didn’t make sense to him that people would just die and float past outer space until they reached heaven, it seemed unrealistic. No, it was too long a trip for the soul to take when compared to finding an incoming newborn at a nearby hospital or even a person coming out of a coma
For someone who so rarely left home except in the case of school, football practice and matches, and occasionally to buy milk for his tea as Cheryl preferred hers black as licorice he seldom saw his mam. And for a woman who hadn’t left her bed in nearly three months now, Timothy’s mam had ordered Cheryl that she wanted it this way. Of course, it wasn’t that she didn’t want to see Timothy she wanted nothing more than to do so with every labored breath and struggled attempt to swallow her mashed peas. She didn’t want Timothy to see her. He’d known this the entire time in his heart of hearts, but after the first few weeks of not seeing his mam because of strict instruction to her caretaker, it had become difficult to differentiate the reasons floating through his young mind.
Timothy stood there staring at his sleeping mam for what must have been 500 years, imagining all the major events in his life that he’d go through in the years to come. This was not uncommon for him to do, as he regularly imagined his future and the life he might one day live never until this night had he ever imagined any of these events as being ones which he wouldn’t share with her. Meanwhile for the last who knows how many months, he could have at least been sharing stories about his day with his mam. She could have given him advice to carry forward in his days to come.
Her named rhymes with ‘barrel’ and her body is the shape of one, the cow.
As he leaned over to kiss his mother’s sagging skin, he immediately felt guilt. He liked cows, and he liked milk. It wasn’t fair to cows to besmirch the animal’s pride Nor was it fair for cows to be led to slaughter for the sake of a beef pie, yet Timothy readily admitted to himself that he did quite like beef pies. But never a steak, that was far too much beef for anyone nothing wrong with a chicken dinner and a glass of milk to wash it down. No harm done to the cow there, just squirt squirt squirt and you’ve got a lovely glass of liquid white gold. Sometimes Timothy wished Ireland were more like India.
and if it hadn’t been such poor timing for him to draw the parallel, he probably would have laughed quite heartily at it.
Wiping away tears that had recently inhabited the surface of his eyes, Timothy tiptoed back out of his mother’s room. He hoped his mam would be reborn as a free, wild cow roaming the streets of India or at least the streets in India shown in the pictures of the book. Nobody would see her as a slab of beef to be sliced and tossed in a pie or ground up for a McDonald’s patty, not even as the bringer of milk. Those days would be long past her now that he’d grown up past the point of breastfeeding, there’d never be any need for her to ever be milked again. No, in India they’d see her as a goddess, someone to be revered and praised as she turned every corner. That’s how he had seen her his entire life, the one with all the answers whether they made immediate sense to him or not
Alas, who was it that was always giving him advice and teaching him strange lessons he didn’t feel were relevant? Who was it that was always telling how he felt? Who was it that was always abandoning his mother to watch little boys run around on wet grass while the one she allegedly cared most about sat directly ahead of her? Who was the guard at the gate that was his mother’s bedroom door?
Tea. Bloody tea
The final score of the match was 4 0, and Timothy’s squad once again departed the grounds victorious. Timothy, unfortunately, had no hand in the triumphant result despite his opportunity at an open net a minute into stoppage time. The ball had struck the post off a strike from one of his teammates and fell to his feet with the keeper on the opposite end of the net. In the attempt to seize his opportunity, he went to plant his left foot as he wound up his rocket of a right in form that would have made Roy Keane proud. The highlight of the play came less than a second later as his plant foot gave way beneath him and Timothy ended up hoofing the ball over the bar, landing flat on his hindquarters.
Thinking back on the evening prior, Timothy recalled leaving his boots out by the end table where Cheryl had knocked over her mug while trying to set it on a coaster.
Always so careful not to leave a mark on the furniture, yet when she spills a bit on my boot it’s of no matter to her. Utter bollocks
Alas, Timothy chalked it up to the buses running late or her old age striking her as she took her pre commute toilet trip and jogged onto the pitch at the beckoning of the referee.
This didn’t sit well with Timothy. It hadn’t sat well with him nine months ago when he’d found out his mother was dying, it hadn’t made sense to him five months ago when his father had essentially agreed with his teammates that he was a worthless body on the football pitch, it hadn’t made sense to him two months ago when his father had been arrested for aggravated battery, and it most certainly didn’t make sense to him five weeks ago when his mother died.
As the final whistle had blown, he looked down at his left boot to see about a kilo of sod stuck to the bottom plucking away the dirt and grass, he had the realisation that it had stuck to his boot due to a sticky brown residue. With all the others vacating the pitch to shake hands with one another, Timothy removed his left boot and smelled the bottom.
it had the slightest footing in the realm of logic. She’d allegedly done for his mam what she’d done for him in his times of sickness and yet no result was yielded. Apparently for her, she’d done all she could and arrived at the conclusion that there was ‘nothing to be done’
‘Frustrated’ as all get out, Timothy trudged over to the bench to gather his things, loaded up his bag, and began the march to the bus stop for once, on his lonesome. He spent the entirety of the bus ride home brooding over his missed opportunity, his one shot to prove to everyone he wasn’t there for laughs. Cheryl had made certain he hadn’t been able to do so, countering everything she’d said to him about him having just as much right as anyone to be on the squad. ‘They only play ya for the final five because ya can do in five what takes everyone else an entire match’, what a load of rubbish
It had nearly reached full time, and Timothy was about to be subbed onto the pitch for the final five minutes in which he would inevitably prove to everyone who knew him that he was twice the footballer his father had been with every likelihood of being signed by a youth academy and going pro thereafter. As he stood at the halfway line waiting for a stoppage, he gazed across the pitch at the top row of the stands still no Cheryl to be seen. Normally he wouldn’t have minded if anything, he’d have been pleased that she’d decided not to show, but for as long as he’d known her she’d been a stubborn and determined old lady. It was uncharacteristic of her to change her ways this far along.
What he found when he walked in the door rapidly took him out of his head. Cheryl was sitting in his father’s armchair with her head in her hands. The flat was eerily silent save the soft sobs and sniffles leaving the woman’s mouth and nose even the monitors, which are usually slightly audible from the entrance weren’t going. Timmy’s eyes immediately lock on Cheryl.
As he got off the bus, the frustration mounted Timothy’s face and he crinkled his nose in disgust. Despite the smells of the town rain, bins, the chippy he seemed unable to get the scent of the tea out of his nostrils. Approaching the door to the flat, he convinced himself that a splash of milk in the cup would have made the tea less sticky. Climbing the stairs, he imagined the alternate reality where he took the stairs two at a time to beat Cheryl to the flat, breaking the rules and recounting his goal to his mam.
Timmy… Yer mam…
She trailed off.
He dropped his bag and ran to the forbidden doorway. Looking into the room, he saw the medical equipment was all turned off. The stack of books had been knocked over, all scattered across the floor. In the bed, a lifeless heap what he could only assume had been his mam was covered by a sheet. Despite the absence of a guard, Timothy had no desire to cross the threshold that day.
Standing in the kitchen, void of the crisps he had so desperately craved, he reflected on the last year of his life. It had only taken nine months for him to lose almost everything he’d held dear the mother he loved, the shred of dignity he’d barely had to begin with, the father with whom he had never truly connected, and now the drink with which he would start his days. He struggled to piece together the commonalities of all these events. Well, he struggled for a minute or so while counting up the tiles on the backsplash of the kitchen wall. It took him a whole thirty seconds to come to the conclusion that everything that she had been meant to ‘maintain’, Cheryl had inevitably led awry.
He hadn’t been able to get the smell of tea out of his nose as he stood in the court room as his father was sentenced to five years in prison only a week after that.
Timmy, too, trailed off he ran to his room, once again burying his face deep into the duvet cover. For the first time in months, he wanted to be just like his mam face indistinguishable on account of the sheets that masked it. The inability to breath was the only thing that brought him out of his bedding, though as he lifted his head the odd desire to stop breathing struck him As he took a deep breath of air unimpeded by sheets, he still couldn’t get the scent of the tea out of his nose
He hadn’t been able to get the smell of tea out of his nose as he stood in the court room on the day Cheryl was made his legal guardian a week later, in accordance with his mother’s last request.
Cheryl… Why… what did… how?
Even now, Timothy was unable to rid his senses of the stench of black tea mixed with a hint of chemical fertiliser. It had been over a month since Timothy had drank a cup of tea, and his consumption of milk had nearly tripled. Looking for any excuse to leave the flat where the old woman professionally sat glued to the sofa for eight hours a day, Timothy made trips to the shop nearly every day now that the milk itself was the primary libation no longer a mere addition to what had become his most detested drink.
Timmy… I told ya… there was nothing to be done…
As the salty tears welled and burned his eyes, he turned from the room and walked back to the living room.
only a matter of seconds before he heard stirring coming from what had always been his mother’s bedroom Cheryl had awoken, and Timothy was pleased.
Timothy slammed the cupboard door shut, this time being extra mindful that he didn’t catch it on the way
As far as Timothy was aware, she had failed on every front. What he had previously believed to be rage gradually took hold of him, though he figured he would give her the benefit of the doubt this one final time: Taking two steps back towards the cupboard, he inhaled deeply, doing his best to ignore the odor tattooed on his olfactory nerve which he so deeply despised. Gripping the door of the cupboard, he wished for her own sake that he had just glanced past the cheese and onion crisps he had repeatedly asked her to buy. Swinging the door open, he was sickly delighted to see his initial observation confirmed.
Bollocks
Timothy’s eyes were locked in on the second shelf from the bottom where the Taytos always were when the Taytos were in fact there. He clenched his teeth behind pursed lips, and a fierce scowl crawled across his face. As if on cue, he became aware of the noise coming from the TV an advert for Barry’s Tea.
I’m frustrated.
Itshut.was
And I’ll show ya just how frustrated I am…
Sorry, Mam.
Timmy … What’s all that noise about? Is something bothering ya, love?
He took a second or two before responding, composing and consolidating his thoughts into two words he held to be truer than any he’d ever spoken Only then did he calmly state in a moderately amplified voice:
As his mother lie sick in bed, Cheryl’s primary duty in the home had been to nurture her and keep her going by any means necessary. As Timothy played left bench, her primary duty had been to silently support him in proving the naysayers of the squad to be incorrect. As his father had been out and about, her only duty had been to try to force the man to keep a level head and mind his priorities. As she drank her tea, her sole responsibility had been to not spill it on his boots knowing full well that he had big things to accomplish.