I wasn’t keen on spending any more time with the girl than was strictly necessary, but I’d been taught never to turn down an apology. So I thanked her and accepted her invitation graciously.
‘I guess I could come over. . .’
That afternoon, she gifted me a sticker book and a Jackie magazine. I accepted those graciously too.
By the time we were in Mrs Coates’ form, I hadn’t punched anyone for years and was even spelling ‘colour’ with a ‘u’. But not everything was changed for the better.
‘What does your daddy do?’ was a recurring question to which I had no answer. While the ritual of making Father’s Day cards in Art was an activity I dreaded every time June rolled around.
But Miss Blythe, Sophie doesn’t have a dad. . .
Yes, I do. Else how would I have been born?
Not having a father was one thing. Having a mother came with its own bank of problems.
Mine wasn’t like the other mums. She didn’t bake cupcakes or attend coffee mornings. Her job meant she couldn’t come to school shows or help out at fundraisers. My classmates’ mothers were homemakers who went to the theatre and out to dinner with their husbands in the evening. My mother worked in an accountancy office and spent the evenings reading in bed.
When you’re eleven, being different isn’t a good thing.
‘Your ma’s a wonderful woman, Sophie Brennan,’ Matty told me one time when I’d gone moaning about her to him. ‘Makes the best apple crumble I’ve ever tasted. Pretty good at Gin Rummy too,’ he added when I looked less than impressed.
‘Can’t be that good. I always beat her.’
‘Only because she lets you.’
I shuffled around, looked at my feet.
‘I just wish she could be more like everyone else.’
‘Have you ever considered perhaps they’d do well to try and be more like her?’
I told him, not really. No.
‘How many of your friends’ pampered mammies do you think could put food on the table and raise their kids by themselves the way she has?’ he asked. ‘How many of them have her determination? Even half her imagination?’
‘I just wish—’
He put a hand on my shoulder.
‘You’ll see things differently when you’re older.’
‘Maybe,’ I answered. But I doubted I would.
Then while he was in Ireland, something happened to make his prediction come true.
Lucy Allen, a girl from school who lived close by, turned up one Saturday afternoon full of tears. Like her face was melting,my mother said afterwards.
‘Have you seen Mozart?’ she sobbed.
Mozart was her dachshund, an old guy with a limp and a lung condition that made him wheeze like a chain-smoker.
‘We were in the park and I lost him. My parents’ll kill me if I go home without him.’
My mother came up behind me, already shrugging on her coat.
‘We’ll help you look,’ she said. ‘Go get your shoes on, Sophie.’
Lucy sniffled.