Cuckoo’s Tears – E-podaroK

Dad, Im home! And Im absolutely starving!

Jemma flung her rucksack into the hallway, kicked off her trainers with theatrical flair, and sang out, Hello? Any sign of life in here besides me?

A portly, ginger, exasperated tabby cat emerged from the kitchen, tail flicking in affronted annoyance.

Percy, mate! Wheres Dad? Jemma gave the cat a good scratch behind his ears and padded after him, heading towards her dads study.

But the usual figure of her dad typically found hunched over endless reams of paper and the blinking cursor of a never-ending thesis was conspicuously absent.

Percy! Whats going on, eh? Wheres our resident genius? Jemma gazed at the cat, mystified.

If her dad, Dr. Jonathan Clarke, was planning to go anywhere, he always, always gave Jemma a heads-up. That was their unbreakable pact; one of them must always know where the other is. You just never know, these days!

Dr. Clarke, for all his wafting about the halls of academia, was rather hopeless with the basics of daily existence. Forgetting which stop to get off, mixing up the bus routes, buying far too many sausages at Sainsburys (much to Percys delight) all standard fare. But her school timetable? Her mates numbers? Her stern headteachers number? Jonathan could recite those with the accuracy of a top-level computer, at any hour, jetlag or not.

There were, so far as Jemma had ever been able to fathom, only two things that mattered to her dad in this world. Number one: Jemma herself her place on the pedestal was nonnegotiable. Number two: his beloved physics. Why did Jemma think she was number one? That was easy. When she was born, and her mum decided the domestic life wasnt quite her song, Dad dropped everything and raised her on his own.

Jemma barely remembered her mother at all. Mum left quite musically, given her career when Jemma was all of one. Not that shed seen all that much of her before, just fleeting visits which ended with a fancy doll that Nan would squirrel away, muttering about age-appropriateness and choking hazards. Mum, a soprano of some repute and brimming with grand ambitions, had no intention of sacrificing her apparently priceless existence to nappies and weaning spoons.

Mums talent was considerable, no denying. When the call came to relocate to London the big time! she didnt hesitate. She left a note, a child, and set off to chase standing ovations, assuring everyone in her path that it was all for Jemma.

Jemma, meanwhile, soldiered on. She bumped her head on corners, staged impromptu concerts while teething, and learned to toddle about. She was ever so keen to call someone Mum. Nan put a swift stop to all that; Dad didnt exactly rush into re-marriage, so Jemma came up with her own solution: shed refer to her dad as MumDad. It seemed a perfectly suitable arrangement. He was the one poking his head into her room at ungodly hours, or convincing her to eat just one spoonful of porridge while brandishing a banana or stealthily slipping food into the mouth of a dramatic, wailing child.

Porridge was plainly evil. No matter how it was cooked! In nursery, while classmates solemnly shoveled spoonfuls into their mouths, Jemma was an innovator. She found creative (if messy) means of getting rid of porridge: under flowerpots, inside the toy kettle, even in the snare drum. Eventually, the staff sussed out the main culprit, and had a secret chat with her dad. He fixed it for good from then on, Jemma joined nursery already fed. Her dad crafted legendary pancakes, chocolate sponge, and sultana buns as breakfast, wholly depriving the nation of her porridge-fertilizing genius. The nursery staff called it spoiling the child. Jonathan stood firm: Whats wrong with toast or a scone instead?

This sort of parenting did not spoil Jemma in the least. She adored her dad enough to obey him in everything. Never needed much telling off. A head shake, a mournful sigh, and, Oh, Jemma why did you? and she was penitent, promising improvements as only guilty children can.

Nan, when alive, did not approve these modern methods. Shell be ruined, Johnny! Mark my words!

But how then, Mum? You never caned me or made me kneel on dried peas. You explained things.

Well, once or twice I did break a switch on your back, dont you remember? When you and Peter ran off to swim in the reservoir? I nearly lost my mind!

Jonathan would laugh, You clobbered Peter so hard, he still remembers!

And look at him now Captain in the Navy! Alls well that ends well But that Marina woman always was trouble, shattering friendships, abandoning a child as easily as putting out the cat

Alright, alright, can we not talk about this? What if Jemma hears?

Well, let her!

No, Jonathan insisted. No bad-mouthing her mother. Truth, yes, but no nastiness. She is half her mother, like it or not.

Nan didnt exactly agree, but let it slide. Shed sidestep questions about Jemmas mother with, Ask your dad. He knew her best. Here, have a scone dont pester me!

Nan passed away when Jemma was four. From then on, it was the two of them in a great echoey five-bedroom flat in the heart of Oxford. The place had come from Jemmas grandad long-time director of a local engineering firm, lost to a heart attack during a stressful board meeting, leaving behind a stubborn company and a widow. Nan never fully recovered, grew frail, and died early, fretting that she couldnt keep Jemma properly warm as only a grandparent can.

By seven, Jemma was scrubbing floors and frying eggs; by eight, readying herself for school and preparing breakfast; by ten, she operated as a fully independent unit, with her day mapped out in meticulous detail, splitting chores with Dad. Jemma vacuumed the lounge and bedrooms; the kitchen, Dads study, and the bathrooms were his terrain. Cooking was alternated. The one job Jemma refused to share was caring for Percy. After all, it was she whod brought the scraggly, flea-ridden kitten home if youre offered fates job of looking after someone, you do it properly. All Percys needs were hers alone to handle, though Jonathan did try to spoil the tabby with inadvisable treats, earning gentle reprimands for Percys mounting waistline.

The cat, casting a pitiful glance at Jemma, gave her a tentative tap with his paw.

Whats up, Percy? Hungry again? Right then, lets sort you out. Maybe Dad popped out to Tesco. Where could he be in the middle of the day?

The answer was almost immediate. On the kitchen table lay a note:

Jem, Ive been called in to college. Home late. Percys been fed. If he tells you otherwise, hes lying! Dad xx

All was well. Dad was just at university again. Food, homework, swimming practice all still on schedule.

She snatched her swimsuit off the drying line, stuffed it in her leisure bag, and checked the clock. Shed make it just about.

A letter had arrived the day before, but Jemma hadnt had time to read it. She switched on her computer, shooed Percy off the desk, and clicked her email. But just as she was about to open the message, a loud knock rattled the front door.

The doorbell, decommissioned since she was little (a tactic used to avoid toddler terror at sudden ringing), had never been reinstated. Percy was now the de facto security system, always scurrying to greet anyone audacious enough to knock.

And so he did, dashing past Jemma to the front hall.

Outside stood Mrs. Waters from next door unofficial shoulder to cry on, occasional babysitter, and best mate, never mind the age gap.

Hiya Jemma! Your dad rushed out in a flurry. Im under strict instructions to make sure youre well fed before swimming.

Too late, Aunt Liz! Ive already eaten. Jemma giggled and hugged her.

Elizabeth had been around as long as Jemma could remember. Shed braided her hair for school when Dad failed utterly at it, picked her up from after-school club, taken her to sleep over when Dad had to travel. On the “girl stuff,” Liz was the reigning oracle. No secrets, no awkward silences between them.

Well done, my girl! Liz kissed the top of Jemmas head before stepping back. Hows life? Hows Ben?

Oh, dont even start with Ben! Jemma rolled her eyes, putting the kettle on.

If Aunt Liz was asking, that meant there was time for tea and a natter. Homework could wait.

Liz, ever the multi-tasker, lifted the lid on a pot of soup and scowled.

Whats your dad eating tonight?

Got some frozen fish fingers in the freezer.

Typical. Ill stick some spuds on. Fish fingers may be all very well, but well do your dad proud with mash.

Jonathan adored Lizs mash. Jemma didnt protest, she brewed the tea, and was about to share the thrilling tale of how Ben made an awkward attempt at a post-school kiss before a thunderous hammering shook the door.

Blimey! Who could that be? Liz wiped her hands and went to face the music.

The woman who sailed through the door, high heels and perfume preceding her, was instantly recognisable.

Mum

Jonathan had never hidden the truth about her mother, nor her job, and the two solitary photos that survived were kept in the family album. Just occasionally, Jemma would squint at those photos, wondering if, in the right light, she looked anything like the laughing girl with the striking smile.

Now, the woman in the doorway dropped her expensive bag with a dramatic thud, collapsed theatrically to her knees, and wailed, Darling girl! Its me! Dont you recognise your own mother?

The whole thing rang absurdly like a particularly cringey soap audition. Jemma glanced at Liz, shrugged, and watched the spectacle unfold.

Oh, I know you, alright. Get up the floors cold and not exactly hygienic. I didnt mop today.

Good heavens! You clean the floors yourself?! Mum Miranda sprang up and shook off her pale coat, wrinkling her nose. Honestly, we could always have afforded help, but never once used it. Is your father home?

Hell be back soon.

Splendid! Not that I came for him, sweet, I came for you! Did you get my letter? Never mind Ive brought you loads of presents!

Liz stepped aside to let Miranda through, unacknowledged and apparently invisible to the visitor.

Jemma watched her mum breezily hang up her coat, fuss with her hair in the mirror, and after giving Percy a hostile nudge with her foot start to unpack a dizzying array of designer shopping bags. Percy, sensing a hostile name in the room, became intensely interested in stalking Mirandas tights.

Pack it in! Miranda scolded, shooing at the cat, ignoring her daughters cool stare.

Come here, Percy. Jemma scooped the cat up, retreating, step by step, until she bumped up against Liz. Liz, catching the drift, wrapped an arm warmly around her shoulders.

There there, Jem. Im here.

Mirandas monologue was in full swing as she began to arrange boxes in shiny paper all around the dining table.

I had to guess your size your fathers never been particularly useful with details. If theres anything you dont like, we can exchange it in London. Or you can pick something yourself, anything at all! Is your grandmother not here? She never liked me, of course, but for your sake Im prepared to make an effort.

Jemma froze. Percy squeaked in protest at her tight grip, and Liz gently pried the cat away.

Let him chill in the kitchen, Liz said, easing Jemma onto a chair.

Grans not here.

Jemmas hoarse, emotionless voice didnt stop Miranda.

Then Jemma found her lungs and bellowed, as loudly as she could, Grans gone! Shes been gone for ages! And so have you! Why are you here?

Miranda, taken aback, recovered just as quickly.

I missed you!

No kidding, Mum. It hasnt exactly been months, has it? How old was I when you left?

Oh Jemma, darling! It wasnt leaving, it was circumstances. You couldnt understand the sacrifices. I had to take my chance after all those years of lessons and auditions! To throw it away just because

Jemma cut in, ironically finishing, Just because you had a brat mucking up your plans? No big deal, eh, Mum? Let the child live with Dad and Gran. Familyll cope, right?

Jemma, do we have to argue? Ive come all this way

And? What for? Jemma leaned her cheek into Lizs hand, drawing strength. What is it you actually want?

She was shaking so hard her knees wobbled, standing tall through sheer willpower Nans voice in her head instructing her to keep her chin up. Liz, sensing her struggle, pulled her in tighter.

I want Miranda stepped toward her, reaching out to touch her hair, but Jemma flinched back so quickly she nearly toppled Liz.

Dont touch me. Her voice was suddenly level and strange, enough to worry Liz.

Jem, love, are you

Im fine. Jemma nodded, steadying herself.

Jemma

Could you please stay out of our conversation? Miranda snapped at Liz, annoyed. Who even are you? Jonathans new wife? Lovely. Go tidy up, this place is a tip! My mother-in-law rest her soul wouldve never allowed such chaos, she always kept things spotless!

Liz snorted. Jemma flashed the ghost of a smile in solidarity.

There, youre smiling at me! Miranda chirped, but Jemma sobered instantly.

Not at you! I was laughing at your cheek.

Cheeky Darling, where have you picked up such words?

Did you think I was still playing with rattles? Dad took my education seriously. I can do all sorts. Youd be amazed.

Like what? Tell me! Miranda simpered, hands clasped in a pantomime of concern.

If youre asking Jemma stepped away from Liz and faced her mother directly. For instance, I know you cant take me away. Dads sorted that legally. I stay here, unless I choose otherwise.

But you will want to, wont you? Mirandas eyes darted as if seeking support only to find the room empty of allies.

Jemma, in contrast, had hers.

I think thats enough! Liz declared, steering Jemma into the kitchen. Go on, love, Percys peckish. Well handle things in here.

Jemma obeyed, ignoring Mirandas spluttering, closing the kitchen door behind her as instructed.

Once she was gone, Liz morphed from local mother-hen into full Mama Tiger.

Now listen. Any talk of reappearing relatives affecting Jemma will happen with Jonathan present.

Who do you think you are?! Miranda bristled, hands on hips, unconsciously mimicking Lizs battle stance.

Im the one whos been Mum round here for years, Mother Cuckoo! I helped raise her with Jonathan. And you think Ill let you barge in and smash things up? You want to whisk her off to London, have you even asked if she wants to? Or does her happiness barely register to you?

Shell thank me later!

You dont know anything about her! Tell me: hows she supposed to move in with a stranger? You left before she was a year old. And you honestly think shell swap her soul for a few designer bags? Dont kid yourself. Out! Theres a lovely bench downstairs you can wait on. Now, if youll excuse me, the child needs feeding before training. Some things mothers do, and where theres none, I step in.

Liz took a few deep breaths, prepared to return to the kitchen, but behind her heard a strange sound. She turned to find Miranda sobbing messily into her designer sleeves, black mascara streaks cutting down her cheeks.

What am I supposed to do? Shell never forgive me, will she?

Liz let her sulk for a minute, then handed over a handkerchief.

Pull yourself together! Did you think youd sweep in, after all these years, and shed leap into your arms? Who are you to her? Just a stranger! Want to be a mum? Be prepared for the long haul and dont expect an easy road. If you can start thinking about her, instead of yourself, maybe theres hope. Now, get a grip and go tidy up in the loo, wait in her room, and leave Jemma be. Shes had enough for one day. But before you go, tell me straight: why are you really here?

Miranda drew herself up indignantly, but Lizs glare brooked no foolishness.

Im remarrying. My fiancés brilliant, but cant have children. He knows about Jemma and wants to care for her. He could give her everything best schools, top universities, a world of opportunities!

Shes already happy, Miranda. But how would you know? You never bothered to find out what actually makes your child tick.

I dont know Miranda wandered despondently towards the bathroom.

Dr. Clarke arrived home an hour later to find Miranda sitting on Jemmas bedroom floor, crying quietly, a much-loved baby rattle in her hands the very talisman Jemma took to every swim meet.

You kept it, she murmured. Jonathan knew she meant more than the toy. “Shes so beautiful…”

I know. So why are you really here?

I thought one thing, but whos the dragon lady defending Jemma like a wildcat?

A friend.

Yours?

Ours. Mine, Jemmas. Both.

A fling? Jemma calls her Mum?

What goes on in that head of yours, Miranda? Why always this drama-first, logic-later approach? Liz is happily married, three kids. She helps us out because

Shes a good person?

Exactly.

So Im the villain

Those arent my words.

Will you let me see Jemma?

When have I ever stopped you? Jonathan said quietly. Miranda, uncharacteristically, dropped her gaze. Come if you want. Plenty of room. Maybe one day she’ll want to talk to you.

I hope so Miranda handed him the rattle. I have to go

Shed leave without fanfare. Next time she came to spend time with Jemma, the girl would barely utter a word, choosing instead to accompany Liz on a good English mushrooming ramble through the woods. Finding a small bluebell the very flower Nan had once shown her Jemma would ask:

Did you know this is called ladys tears?

Of course. Why, Jem?

Do you think she really wants me to talk to her? Jemmas meaning was so clear, Liz could only nod.

I think so.

Liz waited while Jemma fiddled with the bluebell, and then offered gently:

Try. If its too hard, remember youll always have your dad. And me. You know that.

Yeah. I do.

Jemma placed the flower softly on the grass, listened, and spread her arms wide.

Typical! Not one owl or cuckoo to be heard when you need to ask a question. Aunt Liz, how long will I live?

Oh, ages, darling! Liz laughed. Long and very, very happily! No woodland birds required to confirm it!

Got it, loud and clear!

Jemma would, eventually, talk to her mother. But it would take years to fix what was broken.