Diva

For Terry Wakefield, the final straw came one night when he awoke to find his wife standing in the freezing cold kitchen, wearing only her underwear and holding a heavy metal pan high above her head. She claimed Mrs Davidson was trying to tunnel through from the house next door, and she wanted to be prepared for when she surfaced through the dirty lino floor.

The following day, Alyson came home from school to find the house unusually quiet. Her mother was slumped in an armchair, her eyes staring blankly into the middle distance and a near-empty bottle of vodka beside her chair.

‘Where’s Dad?’ asked Alyson, an ominous feeling creeping over her.

Lynn glanced up at Alyson. She looked exhausted, huge purple bags under her bloodshot eyes. ‘He’s gone.’

Alyson swallowed. Her father had left before – so many times that she’d lost count. Often he’d disappear for days at a time and there would be furious rows when he got back, her mother crying and screaming and drinking, while Alyson and her brother huddled together at the top of the stairs, longing for them to stop. But this time there was something different in Lynn Wakefield’s tone, an air of finality.

‘He’s taken Scott with him,’ she confirmed resignedly, picking up the vodka bottle and swallowing the final dregs.

From then on, it was just the two of them. Alyson never heard anything more from her father and grew to deeply resent him, furious at the way he’d abandoned them to struggle, choosing her brother over her and splitting up their family.

Alyson had had to grow up very quickly, learning to care for herself and her mother, ensuring she was always presentable for school lest the teachers became suspicious. One of the kids in her class had been taken away by social services, and for nine-year-old Alyson that seemed every bit as terrifying as being snatched by the Child Catcher. She was determined to avoid the same fate; after all, her mother was all she had left now.

Lynn Wakefield gave up looking for work when her husband left, the pair of them getting by on benefits and disability payments. There was barely enough to cover bills and food, let alone any money for extras like school trips or new clothes. Alyson dressed as cheaply as she could, buying clothes from charity shops and wearing them until they were threadbare. She wasn’t like the other kids, with fashionable outfits and designer trainers. She was different, obviously so, and was ostracized accordingly.

She began working as soon as she was old enough – a paper round, babysitting for the neighbours’ kids, then glass collecting at the local pub when she hit sixteen. Every penny she earned she took home to her mum, to help pay the heating or the water or whichever bill was coming through the letterbox stamped ‘Final Demand’ that week.

Sometimes, in her rare, quiet moments, she secretly dreamed of getting out; of escaping and going far, far away, like an adventurer in a fairytale. But in reality, she couldn’t see an end to this life. There was no time to think about her own dreams and ambitions, to consider what she wanted from the future. She was too busy fighting tooth and nail to keep everything together – school, work, home. She couldn’t stop for a second. If she did, she might break.

‘Alyson?’

Alyson jumped as her shift manager’s voice cut into her thoughts.

‘Yeah?’

‘I really hate to ask, but Carmen’s just rung in sick and I wondered if there was any chance of you covering for her tomorrow night?’ Helen bit her lip and looked pleadingly at Alyson.

Briefly Alyson thought about the English essay that was due in two days’ time, and the French verbs she was supposed to learn by tomorrow. She was a good student, bright and hard-working, but her troubled home life meant she couldn’t always finish her work on time or study as hard as she wanted for that exam. Her teachers got frustrated that she wasn’t reaching her full potential, but Alyson simply bowed her head and took their criticism, unwilling to go into details about her problems.

‘Sure,’ she told Helen, with a little shrug of her shoulders. Schoolwork could wait – they badly needed the extra money.

‘Great!’ Helen smiled gratefully at her, before disappearing back through the double doors into the restaurant.

It was raining lightly when Alyson climbed wearily off the night bus and set off through the darkness towards her house. It was almost one a.m., and the dank drizzle for which Manchester was renowned only added to her bleak mood. She was exhausted, longing to collapse into bed, but she dragged her aching body one step at a time through the deserted streets.

She lived in a small two-up two-down, just one of many on an estate with identical rows of red-brick terraces, built at the turn of the century for Oldham’s millworkers. Each opened directly onto the street in front, with a small yard out back and a narrow lane running behind. Beyond lay the rugged moorland, stretching for miles, but currently invisible in the blackness of the night.

Alyson slipped the key into the lock and opened the front door, surprised to find that the house was dark. Her mother was usually waiting up for her, watching TV or dozing in an armchair. With a strange sense of foreboding, Alyson flicked on the light and hurried through to the kitchen.

The first thing she saw was her mother’s red and white pills, scattered across the old, cracked lino. Her eyes followed the trail, refusing to take in what she was seeing. Lynn Wakefield lay slumped on the floor, her eyes closed and the pill bottle clutched in her hand.

The neon striplights at the hospital were harsh and draining, making it impossible to know whether it was night or day. Her mother was comfortable, they told her. Critical but stable. As yet, Alyson hadn’t been allowed to see her.

She’d been asked question after question, filled out form after form.

‘Who’s her next of kin?’ asked the young, male nurse, who’d introduced himself as Martin.

‘I am,’ Alyson answered clearly.

‘Is she married? We notice she’s wearing a wedding ring …’

‘He’s gone,’ Alyson said, and her voice was hard. ‘I don’t know where he is.’

The nurse looked at her sceptically. ‘Well, if you manage to think of anything, let us know. A contact number for your father would be very helpful.’

Alyson remained mute. Her father had been out of their lives for so long and she wasn’t about to invite him back again. I’m the one who looks after her, Alyson thought fiercely. I’m the one who’s cared for her every day for the past eight years. He doesn’t deserve any part of this.

Martin left, and for the next few hours she remained ignored, seated on a hard plastic chair in an endless white corridor, her head in her hands. She had no idea how long she kept up the vigil. She was on the verge of dozing off, her exhausted body finally running out of energy, when she heard a voice that made her think she was hallucinating.

‘Ally?’

Her head shot up. There was only one person who’d ever called her that.

Terry Wakefield stood in front of her, and he had the good grace to look embarrassed. Alyson stared at him in disbelief. He looked older than she remembered; his hair had grown thinner, the lines on his face etched deeper. Beside him was a tall, lanky guy that Alyson barely recognized – her brother, Scott. She hadn’t seen him since he was six years old, and he’d altered almost beyond recognition, becoming a sulky, sullen teenager with pale-blond hair and a bored expression. He looked as though he’d rather be anywhere but there – in the hospital, visiting the sick mother who was a stranger to him.

‘How … What the hell are you doing here?’ Alyson burst out. Her voice was anguished, a strangled cry.

Her father’s forehead creased anxiously. ‘They contacted me … The doctors. How is she?’

‘Like you even care,’ Alyson spat. ‘How did they get your number? I never gave them it.’

‘They found it …’ Terry began awkwardly. ‘In your mother’s things.’

Alyson felt a slow, heavy, sinking feeling in her stomach, as though she’d just eaten a pile of lead.

‘We kept in touch, now and again,’ her father continued. ‘Sometimes I sent her some money … when she was struggling.’

Alyson felt sick. Her mother and father were still in contact, yet her father had never once asked to see her, her mother keeping silent about the clandestine meetings. And all the time she’d been slaving away, working until she dropped, her mother had failed to mention the extra money Terry Wakefield had given her. She’d probably spent it on alcohol, or something ridiculous from QVC, Alyson thought furiously.

‘Why didn’t you help me?’ Alyson demanded. Her voice was growing louder, more hysterical. ‘Why didn’t you want to see me?’ The room was spinning.

‘Ally …’

Her father stepped towards her, but at that moment a white-coated figure appeared from her mother’s room.

‘I’m Dr Chaudhry,’ he introduced himself, shaking hands with the three of them. ‘Would you like to come in now?’

They followed him through; Alyson went first, shocked to see her mother looking so small and fragile in the hospital bed. She was hooked up to all manner of machines, an IV tube attached to the back of her hand. She was sleeping right now, the machines around her beeping at regular intervals.

‘Please, take a seat, all of you,’ suggested Dr Chaudhry. They sat down, her brother rolling his eyes and sighing like this was all a big inconvenience.

‘I understand you’re her primary carer,’ he said, turning to Alyson. He looked tired but patient, and his dark-brown eyes were kind.

‘Yes, that’s correct,’ she said determinedly.

‘It’s a lot of responsibility for someone so young.’