The Time Bubble Box Set 2, стр. 287

My sister was born in the summer of 1983, by which time ourparents had tied the knot, which society still expected in such circumstancesat that time. Dad was a plumber by trade, and when offered a job back inLiverpool by a former colleague who had set up his own firm, he jumped at thechance. By the time I was born at the dawning of 1986 the family was firmlysettled back up there.

Life was good – for a while, and during my formative years Ihad no reason to suspect my mother might have a problem with alcohol. She wascertainly no different to anyone else of her generation, enjoying a glass ofwine in the evening and having a few in the clubhouse when we used to go oncaravan holidays in Prestatyn. I never questioned any of this at the time – itjust seemed like normal behaviour. The real problems didn’t begin until muchlater.

As I moved towards the end of the first decade of my life Istarted to sense that all was not well at home. Mum and Dad had argued likemost couples do but towards my tenth birthday the rows became more and morebitter. It wasn’t the case that they just weren’t getting on; they had reacheda point where they actively seemed to despise each other.

Then one day in the summer holidays, without warning or anyproper explanation, my mother packed up a suitcase each for me and Rachel, gotus a taxi to Lime Street station, and shipped us off down to Oxford. She saidwe were going to visit grandparents which we often did. But this time we nevercame back.

After a couple of years, when the inevitable divorce hadbeen settled, we were allowed to go back up to Liverpool to stay with Dad a fewtimes a year. The full truth about why my parents had split did not come outuntil many years later. When it did, it was an entirely predictable story.

My father had been having an affair with his mate’s wife –the one who had given him the job in his plumbing firm. My mother had caughtthem both in their bed while Rachel and I had both been at school. He lost morethan his marriage that afternoon. When his mate found out, he got sacked aswell.

The story of him getting caught in the act came back tohaunt me years later. When I caught Rob and Emma at it, I knew how my mothermust have felt.

The three of us stayed in my grandparents’ home for a whileuntil we managed to get the council house on the Iffley Road. From there, mymother began to rebuild her life. She seemed happy enough to begin with,establishing a new social life once Rachel and I were old enough to be leftalone in the late-1990s.

Mum had a few boyfriends back then, but never anythingserious. I remember her saying marriage had been a mistake and that she washappy it just being all us girls together. She was adamant that she had nointention of settling down again.

She got a clerical job at the university which she seemed toenjoy and often went out drinking with her colleagues in Oxford after work.Even then the drinking didn’t seem like any big deal, particularly since I wasout doing it myself by this time and on a much larger scale.

Then Rachel died and everything changed. Mum hit the bottlereally hard. Desperate for help, I called Dad who came down to try and help,the three of us reunited in grief. He seemed genuinely remorseful for his pastbehaviour and the two of them seemed to be getting on much better than theyever had when we had all lived together in Liverpool.

I even harboured hopes that they might get back together butthen came a second, devastating blow that was to put the final nail in thecoffin.

Just six months after Rachel’s death, Dad dropped down deadof a heart attack, just as he and Mum were on the brink of reconciliation. Thetwo of them had gone to see the recently released War of the Worldsmovie at the cinema, but in the foyer he began complaining of chest pains. Bythe time the ambulance arrived, he was dead.

Grief-stricken, I threw all of my energy into my career,working as many hours as I could. I also went through a promiscuous phase,sleeping with random men in desperate attempts to bring temporary respite frommy pain.

For my mother it was far worse. Whilst I still had youth andenergy on my side, she was worn out by it all. Her way of dealing with it wasthrough drink.

I went away a lot, working with the Red Cross abroad, andseeing the world. Every time I came back, Mum had got worse. She lost her joband her friends, and began drinking pretty much all day. I tried to help herand discourage her drinking but she became bitter and defensive, lashing out atme as if it was somehow my fault. It was as if I was to blame, just by beingthe only one of the three of us left alive.

I realise now she was doing it because I was the only oneleft she could rant at. Maybe I shouldn’t have gone away so much and stayed totry and help her, but it was so difficult when she made me feel so unwelcome.

This state of affairs continued for over five years, leadingus to where we were today. During that period, she got worse and worse. Severalyears of serious alcohol abuse on top of a lifetime of drinking took their tollto the extent that, by this New Year, she was in a bad way.

I could see this as soon as I stumbled downstairs, on thisdark and dismal winter’s morning. I had woken up back in my teenage room again,unchanged since the last time I had seen it, but downstairs I was confronted bya completely different scene.

Last time I had seen the kitchen, in the year after mymother’s death, it had been reasonably tidy. Now it was anything but. The sinkwas full