Dont Wake MumShe Worked All Night
I woke up to a silence that seemed to wrap around the flat. Normally, the mornings were anything but quietRichard would be clattering about in the kitchen, frying eggs and bacon while the radio poured out some story or another, hurrying even if he was already late for work. But today, there was none of that bustle, not so much as a hum. The air felt cold. I reached across to where his pillow should beempty, the bed long gone cold.
Richard? My voice sounded small in the silence.
No reply.
I lay there, not wanting to move. Outside, proper November weather smeared grey over the window, sleet trickling down the glass. The old heating pipes moaned. I grabbed my dressing gown, shoved my feet into slippers, and padded to the kitchen. On the table was a note, held down with the salt shaker. Jagged scrawlRichard always wrote like a child rushing through his first sentences.
Hazel, Im leaving. This cant go on. You nag all the time, theres no money, the flat is tiny, the baby wont stop screaming. Ive met someone else. Shes normal, no drama. Ill collect my things later. Dont try to find me. Richard.
I read the note three times. The words wouldnt settle into sense, just a tumble of letters dancing before my eyes. I slumped onto a kitchen chair, buried my face in my hands, and fought for breath. It felt like something heavy had settled on my chest, refusing to budge.
From the bedroom came a muffled noiseMolly was awake. Eight months old, still tiny, only just learned to roll over and back again.
I forced myself to stand, legs numb, and went to her, pulling her close, pressing my face into her head, still warm and sweet with the smell of milk and baby lotion. I sobbed, really sobbed, the way I never did except when I was truly alone.
What are we going to do now, love? I crooned, rocking her gently. What on earth are we going to do?
Molly gave no answer, just sucked her fist, gazing at me with her great serious blue-grey eyes.
Richard turned up a week later. He came with two mates, not looking at me. They packed up his jackets, jeans, tools from the cupboard, the ridiculous old car parts, his holdall full of dumbbells. I stood at the bedroom door, Molly in my arms, and watched as he carried his life out the door.
Richard, I said, barely above a whisper, at least look at your daughter. Youre her father.
He paused, glanced at Molly, then looked away, unmoved.
All right. Take care, he muttered and left.
His friendstwo blokes in matching navy puffersfidgeted awkwardly before following him, dragging bin bags behind them. I stood and listened as their footsteps faded down the communal stairs. Peeking through the net curtains, I watched them load everything into his battered old Land Rover. He got in, didnt glance back, and drove away.
Molly started wailingmaybe I squeezed her too tight, or maybe she already knew something had changed. I gathered myself, soothed her, kissed her head, and trudged to the kitchen to make up a bottle.
Everything after that was a sort of fog. Those first six months, I survived on child support and the odd bit of cash Mum sent, though she was scraping by herself, way out in Bristol. Richard was nowhere to be found, never answered his phone, and eventually changed his number. I went to the council office, filed complaints and forms, but the clerks just shrugged: Best you look for him yourself, love, theres thousands like you.
Neighbours gossiped. Mrs Jenkins from the downstairs flatnosey, always lips pursedwaylaid me by the bins.
So, hes left you, Hazel? They say hes run off with Sandra from accounts. Bit of a looker, keeps herself tidy, no kids. You, dear, youve lost weightneed to look after yourself. Men are visual creatures, you know.
Id say nothing, keep my eyes on the ground, slip past her. What could I say? That I hadnt slept in weeks because Molly was teething and screamed all night? That hairdressers were a luxury when every last penny went on nappies and formula? There were days I barely recognised myself in the mirror.
My circle of friendsnever large to start withshrunk rapidly. At first, they rang with sympathy, came round with casseroles, offered help, but then faded away, swallowed up by their own families and dramas. Only Hannah kept coming. Shed drop in with a bag of her boys old clothes and a sideways hug.
Hang in there, Hazel. Well get through this. Men are all the same, selfish pigs.
Id nod, but inside I wondered how to get through. When youre up for the fifth time in the night, then have to run to the clinic, wash, iron, cleanand then round again. Groundhog day, every day, every month, every year.
When Molly turned one, I realised things had to change. The money was almost gone. Mum sent her last fifty pounds and apologised, voice weary: Im sorry, Hazel, love. I hardly manage. My pension is nothing, pills cost a fortune. I couldnt be cross. There wasnt enough energy left for that.
I remembered Id been handy at sewing back at school. Teachers said I couldve made something out of it, but Id wanted to work at a bank like everyone else. I did a college course, accidentally got pregnant, dropped out, married Richard, and now here I was, alone with a baby, wondering how to feed us both.
Grandmas old Singer sat at the back of my wardrobeancient, with a pedal, still working if you coaxed it. I dusted it off, oiled it, threaded it, and managed to stitch Molly a pair of leggings from an old pillowcase. It was wonky, but did the job. A vest, then a dress followed. When our neighbour, Mrs Parker, spotted Molly in her new outfit, she asked, Hazel, could you take my dress in? Its hanging off me like a sack. I did, she was pleased, slipped me a tenner, and said, Ill be back if youre up for it.
Thats how it started. First the neighbours, then their friends, then friends of friends. I put a card on the local noticeboard: Dressmakingrepairs and alterations. Reasonable rates. The phone rang off the hook. People always needed something fixed or mended, from trousers to party dresses. I took it all on. I bought a second-hand overlocker when I could afford it, learned from magazines and online forums.
Two years later, Richard reappeared. By now, Molly could walk and speak in little sentences. He stumbled in, drunk, without knockingId never got around to changing the lock.
What do you want? I asked, blocking his way to Mollys room, where she was watching CBeebies.
Want to see my daughter, he slurred. Got a right to.
A right? Did you pay a penny? Call, even once? Who are you to her?
Im her dad! he bellowed, and Molly peeped out wide-eyed.
Mum, whos that?
No one, darling. Go back to your cartoons. I shut the door and stared him down. Leave before I call the police.
He left, but the memory lingered. After, Molly kept asking, Why was that man angry? Is he my daddy? Where does he live? Why doesnt he come to see us? I spun stories about a pilot working far away in the north, but she was growing up fast, and even fairy tales started to wear thin.
Then, the ex-mother-in-law, Gloria, appeared, just as Molly turned three. Arrived at the flat with a cake and a plastic doll, made herself at home with tea, fussing: Oh Hazel, you poor dear, how are you getting on? My, Molly is the image of Richardthose same eyes, same brows. Richard and Sandra split up, you know. Maybe you two could?
I saw her out, cake, doll and all.
Please dont return. We want nothing from you. Weve managed on our own and will carry on.
She took it as a personal slight, called Richard, who ranted down the phone. I hung up and blocked him. That was that.
So we got on. I sewed, Molly grew. Money came in fits and starts; some weeks I had more orders than I could manage, others barely anything. I learned to save every penny. Couldnt remember the last time I bought makeup; cut my own hair, bought my clothes in a charity shop and did a bit of tailoring myself. But Molly always looked lovelydresses, skirts, little coats with pompoms. The nursery teachers always gushed, Molly, what a pretty dress! Where did your mum get it? And Molly, proud as punch, replied, She made it!
That February was viciously cold.
The old pipes in our block gave up in bits, so every week there was a paddling pool of rusty water somewhere on the ground floor. The heating in my flat barely worked, so the electric heater gobbled electricity, threatening our budget even more.
Molly caught cold twice that monthfirst a bug, then some odd virus with a high fever. I sat up with her, counting out pennies, worrying about the price of Calpol and antibiotics. Even with a temperature, Molly wanted stories and cuddles. I read aloud, one hand on her back, the other sewing a customers dress for a big council lady, pricking my own fingers, because my eyes were fixed on Mollys damp lashes.
Mum, when Im better, will we go outside? she whispered, lips chapped.
Of course, love. Well build a snowman.
Will Daddy come?
That questiona regular, every few weeksalways knocked me sideways. Id invented countless fibs: Daddys away working, Daddys far up north. But it was getting less convincing as she got older.
Molly, weve talked about this. Daddy lives somewhere else now. Hes got his own life.
Why doesnt he ring? Lucys daddy calls every day. I heard her.
I put my sewing down, climbed under the duvet beside her, and hugged her burning body.
Lucys dad is good to her. Ours ours just isnt good at loving. Nobody taught him.
Does he love me?
Course he does, just in his own way.
Shed sigh, curl up, and fall asleep at last. I stared at the old ceiling, the paint peeling down, and thought: Why me? What have I done to deserve life without a husband, money worries pressing in on all sides?
Then, on the 25th of February, the phone rang as I was feeding Molly her tea. Unknown number, but I somehow knewit was him.
Yes?
Hi, Hazel. Its Richard.
He sounded drunk, smug, as if the last few years hadnt happened and hed only popped out for a pint the night before.
What do you want?
Nothing, really. My mum wants to call you, see Molly at the Mothers Day assembly coming up. Bring presents and that. Let her, yeah?
Something inside me froze.
What?
Mum wants to call over. Shes her nan. Dont make a fuss. Let her bring a box of chocolates and a toy. Whats the problem?
I left the table, out of earshot from Molly, gripping the phone tight so it wouldnt slip from my shaking hands.
Have you lost your mind? I hissed. She hasnt seen Molly in yearsnever called once, never checked if were all right. Suddenly she remembers shes a grandmotherfor a school show! Well, you can bothforget it!
Who do you think youre talking to? he shouted. My mum will come, thats it. Ill bring her, shell watch Molly, shell leave presents. Dont you dare make trouble or Ill show you whats what! Im her dad, I have rights!
What rights, Richard? Did you send money? Did you send a birthday card? Did you even ask after her? Its too late, Richard. Far too late.
Its not too late, he growled. Ill be there tomorrow. Well talk. Youll see.
He hung up. I stood in the hallway, forehead pressed to the cold wall, knees trembling. Then Molly appeared.
Mum, who was that?
No one, sweetheartwrong number. Eat up, your porridge is getting cold.
I forced a smile as Molly eyed me, and knew shed already guessed the truth. Children always do. She kept quiet, because she could see how tired I was.
That night, I lay awake turning things over: five years ago, watching Richard pack his things into that Land Rover, clutching Molly as she slept, vowing to myself never to let him near us again. But here he was again, barging in, bringing his mother, trying to claim what hed long since left behind.
And Gloria, the one whod told me once, Youre not good enough for my Richard, someone else would suit him better. And hed found Sandrathe someone else, but that, too, had fallen through. Now Granny wanted her share of Molly, perhaps to smooth things over.
I slept hardly at all, mind racing through optionscall the police, fit a chain, tell the neighbours to warn me if he came. But I knew the truth: the police wouldnt care; this was just family business.
Next morning, Gloria textedlong, jumbled: Hazel hello, its Richards mum. I want to come see Molly for the Mothers Day assembly, bring her a nice doll, expensive. Richard says youre against it, but please understand, I am her nan. Do reply.
I read it, smirked, and replied, Please dont.
An hour later, another: Hazel, dont be cruel. Im old, my heart is bad, I may not make it another year. Please let me see my granddaughter.
I didnt answer. I switched my phone to silent and buried myself in work. Orders flooded in before Mothers Daydresses, skirts, blouses, party frocks for the daughters and mothers and mothers-in-law. I took every job, never mind I had nothing left to give. Bills didnt wait for anyone.
I worked late into the night, sometimes until two or three, and got up at six to get Molly to nursery, then home again to the sewing table. Some nights I dozed at the machine, waking up with a stiff neck and pins and needles in my arms.
Molly, during those days, became more and more self-sufficientwatching cartoons, drawing stick figures on scrap paper, fussing over her dolls. Sometimes shed come up behind me and hug me tightly. I stroked her head, kissed her crown. Its almost over, love. The showll be soon, and Ill be all yours then.
Mum? Will I have a dress for the assembly? she asked one evening.
Of course, darling. Itll be the nicest dress ever. All your friends will be jealous.
Whats it like?
White, with sparklessomething special, youll see.
When will it be ready?
Soon, I promise. Just let me finish a few things first.
She nodded, slipped away. She went to bed early, just to bring morning closer.
That night, I finally cut out the pieces for her dress. I laid out the white tulle, satin, ribbonmy heartbeat fluttered. This one had to be perfect.
I sewed all night. Needle flying, overlocker buzzing, my head swimmingbut I didnt stop. By dawn, the dress was nearly there, just a few finishing touches left: beads, edges, a matching headband.
On the morning of the assembly, I handed back my last orders, collected the money, bought food and a new pair of pink boots for Molly. She put them on, danced around the living room. Mum, look! Theyre so prettyI want to wear them for the assembly!
And you will, darling. With your new dress.
Is it ready?
Almost. Tomorrow morningits a surprise.
That night, I stitched through until five in the morning. I hung Mollys dress on the wardrobe so shed see it first thing, then shuffled to the kitchen to put the kettle on. No point sleepingless than an hour until it was time to get up again.
I drank my tea, gazing at the pale dawn sky. It was all done. Id finished every order, the dress, everything she needed. For a day, at least, I could take a breath.
At six, Molly burst in. She ran to the dress, tracing the soft skirt, hugging the satin.
Mum she whispered. Its the prettiest dress in the world.
Want to try it on?
Yes!
She spun around and around, a little white cloud in the living room. I smiled, tears welling up from somewhere deep.
We arrived at nursery just ten minutes before the assembly. The cloakroom was full of children and flustered parents, fixing wings, straightening ties. When Molly walked in, people whispered: Where did you get that dress? Must have cost a fortune. Molly announced, Mummy made it!
I could barely keep my eyes open. I sipped water, pinched my arm, but my body screamed for sleep. When the children walked to the hall, I collapsed onto a chair at the backjust a minute, I thought
Everything blurred. The teacher was introducing someone, parents whispered, but I was fast asleep.
I didnt hear when Molly was called. Didnt hear the snide whispersLook, sleeping through her daughters show!, or see the perfectly-coiffed blonde in pink elbow her friend, muttering, Hungover, probably.
Molly stood centre stage, fussed with her dress, and froze. She searched for mefound me, head lolled to one side, dead to the world.
Mum, she called quietly, but I slept on.
Molly, you may begin? prompted the teacher.
She kept her eyes on me, on my tired hands, still raw from the sewing needle. Then, in a clear voice, she said to the whole room,
Dont wake my mum. She worked all night. She was making my dress.
The room fell silentproperly, deeply silent. You could hear traffic outside, someones phone pinging. The blonde snapped her mouth closed, people glanced at one another, suddenly embarrassed.
Molly, in her white, sparkling dress, recited her poem, bright and true. She finished, there was deafening applausesomeone cheered. She curtsied and rushed to me.
I woke to a flurry of little feet. Molly was beaming.
Mum, I did my poem! Did you hear?
I rubbed my eyes, squeezed her tight.
Of course I did, love. You were wonderful.
You were sleeping, she whispered. But thats okay. You were so tired. Shall we go home?
We shall.
We were stopped on the way out by the blonde in pink. Sorry, she said, not meeting my eyes. Your daughter shes lovely. That dress is amazing.
I nodded, not sure what to say. Other mothers came up, asking for sewing quotes, complimenting Molly. I answered on autopilot, all I could think of was sinking into bed.
At home, I collapsed on the sofa and slept until evening. Awoke to Molly stroking my hair.
Mummy, I want pancakes. You promised.
I smiled up at her.
Pancakes it is.
We rattled about in the kitchen, Molly covering herself in flour. She giggled, and the flat felt so much warmer for it.
That night, with Molly asleep, I checked my phone. A text from an unknown number: Hi Hazel, Im Bens mumthe boy who forgot his words at the assembly. Do you sew boys costumes? We loved your daughters dress. Thank you for showing my son not to be so shy. Sending the assembly video, hope all is well.
I watched the video again and again, peeped in on Molly, tucked her in.
Thank you, my darling, I whispered. For being mine.
Outside, the city moved ondoors shutting, dogs barking, cars rumbling in the night. Up here, in our little flat, it was warm at last. And for the first time in years, I didnt feel the weight pressing on my heart.
Life continued. And, for the first time in a very long while, I thoughtmaybe, just maybe, it was beautiful.
