Standing at the front door as her mother slips into heels, she is curious. Eager to learn more. ‘Can I come and hear you sing tonight, Mummy?’ She wants to see more of her mother’s other life, that life she had before.
Since leaving Dad, Mum has been forced to go back to that life. Jennie is reminded every day how hard it is for Mum to make enough money to keep them, to feed them; how this is the only thing she can do, the only job she can get. But Jennie can’t understand why Mum complains about having to sing, like it is a burden. She always says how much she loves it, how much she misses it. Why isn’t she happy she is doing it again?
Mum beams a smile at her. ‘Of course you can come, little Jens. I would love to have you there.’
The late afternoon sun lends a mottled green glow to the air as they walk together across the park to the pub where Mum sings.
Jennie hasn’t been to this pub at night before. It’s already crowded when they arrive. A chaos of men surrounds her as she walks beside Mum through the bar. It is saturated with male noise and laughter. She chokes on the stench of beer and smoke that flavours the air. It is like walking through a murky damp fog and she is relieved when Mum leads her down the short staircase into the safety of the Ladies Lounge. Taking her hand, Mum moves her across the lounge to a table close to the stage, just near the toilets.
“Right, I need a beer.” Mum doesn’t sit down and seems distracted “What do you want, Jen?”
“Can I please have a raspberry lemonade?”
Busy scanning the room, Mum doesn’t seem to hear her.
Jennie touches her hand. “Can I please have some chips too?”
“What?” Mum looks at Jennie as if she has forgotten she is there. “Oh, yes of course. Now, make sure you don’t talk to anyone. I’ll be just there,” She points back up to the bar, “and I’ll be back in a minute.”
Left alone, Jennie has a chance to look around her. There are no other kids, just tables of grown-ups, husbands and wives she guesses, all here to watch Mum. A twinge of worry nudges her.
Returning with their drinks and a wooden bowl full of potato chips, Mum finally sits down and sips her beer.
‘Are you scared, Mummy?’ She watches her mother closely.
‘What would I be scared of, Jen?’ Mum smiles and reaches up a hand to push her fringe back.
‘Of singing in front of all these people. Are you scared?’
How on earth can Mum stand up and sing in front of this crowd of strangers?
‘Of course not. I love singing, Jen. I love entertaining. Remember, I was on the stage when I was sixteen. It was my life before I met your father and got married. Before I had you. You know that.’ Mum gives her familiar too-bright smile then stares down into her beer.
Again, Jennie wonders why Mum complains about doing this. It doesn’t make sense.
Four men appear on stage. Two busy themselves adjusting guitar straps, plugging in cords, fiddling with knobs and strings. A third man fastens an accordion across his chest, pressing keys and squeezing the box in and out. It sounds like a sick cat. The fourth man settles himself behind the drum kit, tripping his drumsticks lightly across the tight skins and cymbals.
Taking a final sip of beer, Mum fiddles again with her fringe, stands up and straightens her dress. Pulling her shoulders back, her low-cut bright pink dress shows everyone the top of her pale breasts.
‘Do I look alright, Jen?’ Mum presents herself, hands out, head up.
‘Yes, Mummy. You look beautiful.’ Jennie truly means it but wishes Mum would cover herself.
The music starts. Mum’s rich voice rumbles out of her. It always surprises Jennie that this deep, loud voice belongs to the small frame of her mother. Glancing up at the men at the bar, she watches them, watching her mother. Shifting her gaze back to Mum, she follows her fluttering free hand, swaying, keeping time with the music. The gentle floating movements add an extra dimension to the song, something Jennie has never seen before. It makes her mother’s singing suggest something more than just the words and music.
Jennie scans the room again to study Mum’s audience. She makes up stories for each of them. The couples sitting near her become spies, working for other hotels, trying to see why this hotel makes more money. Those men at the bar are retired army generals and captains who suffered during the war and drink because they are in pain. She imagines their terrible hidden injuries – the brutal scars that have shredded the skin on their legs, scorched and blackened their backs, a grim reminder of the bullets and bombs they faced in battle. To the Greek and Italian men, she gives wives and babies they have been forced to leave behind to board the big ships that carry them to Australia, to make enough money to bring those abandoned families to this wonderful new country. Most of the stories come from books she has read, movies she has seen, even what she knows of the kids at school. It keeps her amused as Mum’s singing provides a familiar soundtrack.
Six songs and Mum is back.
‘Well, Jen, what did you think? How did I sound?’ Mum slips into the chair and picks up the beer that is waiting for her.
Who put it there?
‘You were perfect, Mummy. You always sound perfect.’ She lies to keep her mother happy.
‘I wasn’t too sure about that last number. Did you notice whether they,’ Mum sweeps her free hand across at the crowd around them, ‘liked it?’
Jennie nods. She can’t remember what that last song was. She had been too distracted by the imagined lives she had given the audience.
‘Right. I need another beer.’ Mum puts the now empty glass on the table.
‘Have you finished?’ Disappointed, Jennie wants the night to go on.
‘No. That was just the first set. We still have two more to go. Do you want another raspberry?’
‘Yes please, Mummy.’
Keeping her head up and putting her smile in place, Mum moves back to the bar with quick dainty steps. She nods at everyone she passes, but doesn’t stop until she reaches the bar, where the waiting men part to let her stand among them. She orders a drink, and Jennie keeps a close watch on a man, a stranger, who is sliding his hand up and down her mother’s back. She waits for Mum to tell him off, push his hand away, and is surprised when she leans back into his hand and giggles.
Slipping the damp cardboard coaster from under Mum’s empty glass, Jennie folds it in half and starts to tear it apart. She slowly strips each layer free, focusing on keeping the layers intact.
‘It’s a big crowd tonight. This is good.’ Mum is back, drinks in hand.
She puts the raspberry in front of Jennie, sits down and slurps the top of her beer.
They drink together in silence. Mum’s wandering eyes search the room as she empties her glass. As if on cue, when she puts the glass down, the band returns to the stage.
‘Wish me luck, Jen. The second set is where we can lose them.’
Bending over, Mum gives her a dot of a kiss on the cheek, leaving behind a greasy smudge of red lipstick.
Using the back of her hand, Jennie wipes it off, but a slight beer scent lingers behind.
The guitar strums the music to life. Mum’s voice and body again work in harmony, luring the crowd, tempting them, entrancing them.
Half listening to Mum, watching the crowd, Jennie feels a sudden urge to go to the toilet. She isn’t sure whether to walk the few short feet to the Ladies bathroom or wait for Mum to finish and come with her. She had forgotten to ask. But the pressure on her bladder, like it usually does, increases quickly. She is forced to make a decision. Pushing her chair back slowly she stands up and, keeping her head down, crosses the stained carpet and pushes the toilet door open.
Swinging the door open to go back to her seat Jennie sees a rumpled skinny old-looking man is now sitting at the table directly opposite hers. His face is turned towards the toilet, towards her. His small, slightly bulging green eyes track her as she makes her way back across the floor.
Why is he looking at her like that?
Sitting down, she checks under the table to see if she has toilet paper stuck to her shoe or if she has accidentally wet her dress, but she can’t find a reason for his interest. Despite herself she steals a peek at him. His shoulders are stooped, and he is wrapped in a wrinkled shiny blue suit that looks a size too big. His skin reminds her of milk chocolate. His face, moustache and lips are all too thin. A sparse thatch of grey-brown hair is slicked down hard on his scalp. He looks oily and shabby. The slender cigarette burning in the ashtray in front of him curls smoke around his face, while he drums the creased fingers of one hand softly on the table.
Their eyes meet. He stares at her boldly. Her face flames and she looks away. She picks up the damp coaster again, tearing at it, ripping it into random jagged pieces. Fighting to stay focused on Mum’s singing, the invisible magnet of his gaze refuses to let her go. She picks up her glass and ice clinks hollowly against the bottom. When did she finish her drink?
Giving in to curiosity, she looks across at his table again. Scanning him quickly, to get it over with, she sees both of his hands are now under the table. It looks like he is fiddling with something.
What is he doing under there? Is he getting something out of his pocket. Another cigarette? Matches? Coins for a drink?
Nervously, she slides down slightly in her seat to see what his hands are doing. What is he holding under there? The light under the table is dim. It takes her a second to focus, for it to become clear.
The zipper of his suit pants is down and his hands are wrapped around something slender, brown and fleshy. He is slowly, rhythmically, pulling on it. His fingertips stroke it, drag it down and stretch it out. It looks like a soft, thin thumb, but with no nail at the end. Instead it is covered by a loose flap of skin.
Jennie is captured, held fast by the scene under the table. She knows what is in his hands. But why is he doing that with it here at the hotel? No one is supposed to see those parts of you. Yet here he is, right in front of everyone, playing with it, showing it to her. No one else sees what he is doing and, sitting there alone amongst a sea of strangers, she doesn’t know what to do. Transfixed by those gentle movements, her stomach flickers. She knows she should look away, but she can’t. She knows he knows she is watching him. He has her trapped.
A swell of loud clapping jolts her. The spell, his spell, is broken. She sits up and shakes her head. Her cheeks burn. The flitter of a grim little smile wriggles his upper lip before she can tear her eyes away. Time stands still and she retreats to an empty space inside her.
A movement, a soft sound, brings her back.
“They love me, Jen. Look! Your mother has definitely still got it.” Mum’s eyes sparkle as she beams out across the room, before settling once more in the chair opposite Jennie.
She watches Mum as if from a gaping distance. It feels like a stranger has suddenly appeared at the table with a drink in her hand.
‘What did you think of that last number?’ Mum drinks greedily then juts her chin towards Jennie.
Jennie doesn’t answer. She can’t. What just happened?
‘Jennifer! Did you hear me? Did you think that last song went well?’ She demands an answer.
All Jennie can focus on is the thin strip of foam on her mother’s top lip. She fights an urge to reach across and wipe it off. She grips the sides of her chair. She has to give Mum something.
‘Oh, um… yes, Mummy.’
‘Was I loud enough? You know that guitarist thinks he’s the star and always turns up his bloody amplifier. He should realise that everyone is just here to see me.’ Mum arches an eyebrow and taps her red polished nails on the table.
Jennie struggles to bring her thoughts together. Should she tell Mum what happened? What she has seen? What she has done?
A sense of shame grazes her. Why did she look? He must have thought she wanted to watch. That’s why he didn’t stop.
Mum keeps talking but Jennie fades her to a background hum. A deep ache of guilt grips her. Why didn’t she look away? What is wrong with her?
She knows she can’t tell Mum. She can’t tell anyone.
But is he still there? Will he give her secret away?
She sneaks a look, but he is gone, vanished. All that is left is an empty chair and a line of unbroken ash in the ashtray.
Mum keeps on at her, prodding her, poking at her with questions about the audience. What they thought of her singing; was her voice steady, clear, which songs worked, which did they like, was the guitarist too loud. She doesn’t stop. Forced now to listen and nod, a slow awakening brings Jennie to life. Of course. That is why Mum was so happy to bring her here tonight. She is here to be her mother’s eyes and ears, to be the watcher of this audience, to tell her mother what she wants to hear. The only thing she can hear.
That she is perfect. The star of the night.
Mum is deaf to any other version of who she is.
At the pub, here tonight, Mum is standing firmly back in her old life. Before Dad, before Jennie. This is not a burden for Mum. Why does she ever complain? This is where she wants to be. And there is no room here for anyone else. Jennie realises that the burden in Mum’s life must be her. Now she knows she can’t tell Mum anything about what happened, about her shame in being an audience of one to something disturbing, something too big for her to carry. Of course she can’t share it, this will be a weight she will have to bear alone.
