A Mother

The snow settled. Esther watched, head tilted to the sky, forehead pressed against the windowpane. It had gone numb, but she didn’t mind. She was fascinated by the swirling, large flakes of ice drifting to the ground. Sharp breaths of wind forced them this why and that. It was almost as if they were dancing a waltz. Everybody had their coats, hats and scarves on. The school boiler and heating system broke down during lunchtime.

Every time a teacher spoke vapours escaped from out of their mouths. It amused the children: at first. Not long after, they began to complain and the headmaster decided to let them go home. Esther had been waiting for her mother to collect her. The teacher, Mr. Rickman had become annoyed, and then, concerned that Esther’s mother had not arrived to collect her. It happened on many occasions, but this time, given the bad weather she’d need to be collected at the school gates.

“Esther, have you telephoned your mother?”

She stared out the corner of her eye, seeing the teacher as a giant red blur. She turned back to the snow. Mr. Rickman lost patience and went to the receptionist’s office to find the girl’s home number. Esther continued to monitor the snowfall and breathed on the window. She leaned back and felt a sudden pain on her forehead. It tingled. She wrote her name on the glass then rubbed her head. No snow no longer held attention. Somewhere nearby the shouts and thuds of children engaged in a snowball fight could be heard. Esther assumed they would be in the playground. She walked over to the hamster cage and tapped it with her hand. The straw twitched and rocked before Gilbert the class mascot emerged, sniffing. The vague aroma of urine was present. Esther cleaned the cage out that morning. Of all the things she enjoyed about school, she liked Gilbert the hamster the most.

Gilbert took water from his bottle then returned the warmth and seclusion of the straw. Esther tapped her hand once more against the top of the cage. This time Gilbert did not appear. She noticed the water bottle almost empty so took if off carefully and went out of the classroom to the girl’s toilets to fetch some fresh water. Each week the children took it in turn to take the hamster home for the weekend. Esther volunteered the most. For a while, things were okay. One Monday morning, the teacher informed Esther she was no longer permitted to take Gilbert. She was given no explanation and did not ask for one. She knew already. Her mother.

The Grasmere estate where she lived in a top floor flat was housed in a poor neighbourhood. The other children in the class came from slightly better areas. There had been one classmate who came from the next block of flats, opposite Esther’s, but she had gone now. They were never really friends anyway. Esther loathed her neighbourhood and the flat. Every day she walked up and down urine-soaked staircases and across a terminally-grey courtyard and car park and down the lane to school. Many nights she’d been awoken by screams and loud music. The walls were paper-thin. Not far away from the estate, a playground was constructed, and soon taken over by teenagers and weirdos.

One man close by had been arrested for flashing at some kids. Everybody knew where he lived and would set off fireworks inside his letterbox, pissed on his front doorstep or lobbed bricks through his front window. He disappeared eventually. Esther would see the man they called “Beastie” loitering outside the local shop in all his vagrant glory asking for cigarettes and money. After a while, the appearances stopped. Nobody knew what became of him and nobody cared. Everybody was glad they’d gotten rid of the old pervert. Esther wasn’t really too sure about his crimes, she was only eight years old. Neighbours warned her against him and little else.

The pipes groaned when she held the water bottle underneath the taps. It splashed against her coat sleeves. It caught her hands, too. The cold hurt her sensitive hands and she dropped the bottle into the sink. She stepped away from the sink and went to fetch some paper towels from the dispenser. Esther picked up the water bottle with the towels and filled it up. Job done.

As she entered the class room Mr. Rickman looked surprised. He’d thought she’d gone home.

“There was no answer at home, Esther.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll have to give you a lift. Where do you live?”
“Grasmere Avenue.”
“Right. Let me just get my keys from the desk and we’ll get going.”

Esther went over to Gilbert’s cage and re-attached the water bottle. The whole thing rattled and Gilbert investigated. He sniffed around and then nibbled on the dried flakes in his food bowl. The simple life of a school hamster, Esther thought. Must be good. Mr. Rickman returned wrapped up in scarf, coat and hat. He clasped his hands together and stamped his feet.

“Come on then, let’s get you home.”
“Goodbye Gilbert. See you Monday.”

She blew the hamster a kiss then departed. Outside the cold white world rattled her bones. Mr. Rickman’s car was parked furthest away - next to the climbing frame and hop-scotch area. The climbing frame always reminded Esther of a spider. Its bars were now thick and white; the hop-scotch markings, completely buried. Soon, they too, were coated with thick snowflakes. One fluttered into her left eye and the water obscured her vision. She stood and rubbed it. Mr. Rickman glanced back and told her to hurry along. She laughed as his the snow piled on his hat and shoulders. He almost looked like a giant snowman.

The car required two attempts to get the motor running. Esther had never been in such a fancy sports car. The whole interior was immaculately clean. Mr. Rickman revved the engine; it growled and thrilled her. He smiled down.

“Your hat’s full of snow,” she said.
“Yours, too.”

Esther pulled it off and inspected it. She shook it off onto the car floor. Mr. Rickman frowned but there was little he could do. He took off his own hat and threw it onto the back seats.

The roads in the town were mayhem. Lines of traffic waited. The world seemed to have descended into chaos. All for a bit of snow, commented Mr. Rickman. Esther did not understand and enjoyed the now, warm, car.

“What’s the quickest route to Grasmere Avenue, Esther?”
“Dunno. I take the alleyway and the fields.”
“Oh, right. Down near the common and that?”
“Yes.”
“I see.”

The conversation was stilted. Mr. Rickman always felt sorry for the girl. She endured bullying and her home life sounded less than pleasant. Most of the kids said she smelled. Mr. Rickman noted on some occasions she did. Perhaps her clothes were not washed regularly. Esther was a bright enough girl but several teachers noted her slight-withdrawal and lack of friends. Sometimes the other kids let her play with them during games, but she was always the last to be picked to join a particular side during P.E.

“Where could your mum be at this time of day, Esther?”
“Pub, probably.”
Mr. Rickman smirked before he realised she was not joking. He looked ahead into the traffic.
“Which pub?”
“Dunno.”
“Does she go to the pub a lot?”
Esther did not reply. The question scared her.
“Everything alright at home?”
Once more, she did not reply. Mr. Rickman noticed her frown and discontinued with the line of questioning.
“It’s snowed for years,” he said.
“I’ll build a snowman later,” she smiled.
“Really?”
“Yeah, he’ll have to have a spoon for a nose though. We haven’t got any carrots.”

Mr. Rickman felt the compulsion to drive her to the shops and get her some things for the snowman but conduct would not allow it. He had to remain professional.

“I’ve never heard of that, but I suppose it’ll work,” he commented.
“Well I think it’s thick enough for the building of a snowman.”
“Yes.”

The traffic ground to a halt. Esther thought of Gilbert and how he’d be getting on. She thought of asking Mr. Rickman why she was no longer permitted to take him home at weekends, but she felt awkward. He’d not known about it anyway. Miss Glass was the one who’d vetoed it. Mr. Rickman had only taken over the class two months ago due to Miss Glass’ ill-health. Gilbert would be sleeping embedded in his fresh straw. Esther was quite dictatorial with her classmates regarding the upkeep of the cage. The others let her get on with it, the novelty of the pet had worn off for most of them. Samantha the swot took him most weekends. Esther would badger the girl for reports of the weekend’s activities every Monday.

“Have you got a key to get in?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.”
“Gilbert will be alright, won’t he? In the cold.”
“Of course he will. Don’t worry about that! He’s got that lovely warm straw, plenty of food and water. He’ll be warmer than we are.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”

The car turned into Greenwood Crescent and down into the estate. Mr. Rickman noted the sudden change in architecture. Semi-detached houses and gardens gave way to rows upon rows of modern prefab houses laid out like Lego bricks. Ugly grey three-floor apartments were dotted here and there. At the corner of the street, something smashed against the car. A deep thud struck the window. Scattered snow slithered down the windshield. Along with a tiny stone. Mr. Rickman shook his head. Through the thick endless downfall, he saw two teenagers throwing snowballs at each other. They soon vanished in the haze.

“I’ve never been around here before. Which street is yours?”

Esther looked out of the side window and recognised the Greenwood Crescent public house.

“Turn left at the pub and then turn left again…then go down Grasmere Avenue. I’ll show you where I live.”
“Righto.”

Mr. Rickman looked around at the miserable-looking homes and obvious poverty in the area. High above, on a telephone line, a pair of shoes hung down and rocked about in the wind. Esther’s directions were followed and the teacher pulled into a large car park with rows of houses on one side and three blocks of flats on the other. Singular, unconnected walls were placed around of varied lengths.. Each individual brick had a whole cut out of the middle and they resembled climbing frames of an unspectacular and basic form. To Mr. Rickman their purpose seemed unknown. Most of the kids spent hours climbing on them. Nobody else was quite sure what they were there for, other than a measly partition of some abstract kind.

Every year, young kids climbed up on them, and some fell off cutting their arms, legs and heads. The council never did anything about the strange slabs of grey breezeblock.

“Just here,” said Esther.

The car slowed and came to a stop on the edge of snow covered grassy area. Both Esther and Mr. Rickman noted the huge dog shit in the snow. Esther knew what had caused it: Max, the Alsatian, kept by Mr. Jones.

“Well. Hope you have a good evening and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Mr. Rickman.”
“No worries.”
“Are you sure Gilbert will be okay?”
“Esther, he’ll be fine.”
“Okay.”

Esther got out the car and put her hat back on. She stood and waved as Mr. Rickman reversed the car and shot out of the space as fast as he could. For a moment she observed the car park and the houses and the gentle snowfall. She thought it pretty. Thick layers of snow clung to every single thing.

A fierce snap of wind rushed through the stairwell and enveloped Esther. It attacked her entire body without mercy. Shuddered and cursed. A foreign neighbour with a pram descended the stairs. A baby cried in its chair. Snot ran all over its mouth. Esther smiled and waved. The pushchair clanked hard against the steps and reverberated. They passed her. Esther watched them leave, the fierce wind blasted snow up to a metre inside before falling back outside as the door slammed shut. The building was unusually quiet for this time of day, thought Esther. Often the kids would be making a racket or the maintenance worker mopping the stairwell or fixing a light. Every once in a while drug addicts would make temporary homes in the room where the bins were kept.

Esther stopped on the first floor and looked out at the car park. A couple of children were busy piling and rolling snow together in preparation for a snowman. She did not recognise the boys. On the second floor, she rested on the steps and brushed the snow off her feet. Her legs and feet were numb. Esther pulled out the house key from her coat pocket and gripped it tight in her hand until a small, reddish imprint appeared on the palm.

The hallway was dark. Almost pitch black. The heating wasn’t on either. She heard the mumbling of voices and knew the television was on. The living room door was closed. Esther reached up to the hallway light and flicked it. Nothing. She stood underneath the light fixture and noted the absence of a light-bulb. For the moment she kept on her coat and proceeded down the thin, cramped hallway to her bedroom. She took off her coat, slung it on the floor, ran under her bedcovers and shivered. Once in a while she heard cars passing on the road below. Her bedroom window offered a view of several more grey stone tower blocks and a serpentine road. Beyond the flats lay the Common and further away, the woodland.

Esther got out of bed and put on her dressing gown and a woollen hat. She went into the kitchen and noticed the washing machine on. Several cans of super-strong lager sat empty on the counter. She picked them up and threw them in the bin. The smell of alcohol now lingered on her hands. Esther put them underneath the tap and endured the ice cold water until slowly it became warm, then too, hot.

She winced as a tingling sensation covered her hands. They throbbed in a small, yet acute, pain. The kitchen was a mess: cups, pans and utensils were piled everywhere. The bin needed emptying, too. Her mother had never been one for housekeeping. She wasn’t much for anything except getting paralytic. Esther had never met her father and he was never spoken of. Any time she tried, her mother rebutted her or remained cryptic. Once she asked if he was foreign as a boy in her class had a South African mother. He was not foreign.

Esther went back into the hallway and opened the living room door: the entire flat was gripped by cold. A quiz show played on the television. She noticed an upturned ashtray on the carpet - twisted cigarette butts and ash mingled close to the sofa. Her mother’s large feet poked over the edge of the sofa. One slipper had fallen off, leaving one foot bare. Esther entered the room fully and saw her mother fully. She looked asleep. A can of lager was on its side with the alcohol soaked into the carpet. Her face was blue. She stared at her unable to react. Her mother’s hair was matted in vomit. It reminded her of porridge. It was all over. In her hair; on her jumper; it hung off her lips; on the tip of her nose and cheeks. Her eyes were closed. Esther closed hers for a few moments and then opened them again; hoping the scene would disappear. She picked up the remote control next to the fallen ashtray and switched off the television set. Without having realised it, tears already down her cheeks. Her breath spiralled the room was so cold. She noted the pungent smell and retreated towards the door.

“Mum…mum.”

Esther realised it was useless. She understood.

There hadn’t been a phone in the house for months. They’d been disconnected when Esther’s mother couldn’t afford to pay the bill. She went back out into the near dark hallway and into her bedroom. In between gentle sobs, Esther put on her coat, scarf and hat and proceeded out the door to the neighbour’s house. She knocked plenty of times to no avail. Her soft cry began to echo in the stairwell.

Esther walked down each flight, but saw nobody. The only person she knew was Mrs. Cosgrove across the hall. Everybody else was a stranger. Outside the snow had ceased to fall. Esther walked against the brisk wind, head down. Her teeth chattered. As she crossed the car park she slipped and landed on her side. Nobody saw her. Determined not to feel the pain, she got up and refused to let it bother her. Other kids ignored . All around, the world was drowned in white and grey.

By the sides of the road, the snow turned to black mush. The tyre tracks were smeared grey. Esther traipsed to the telephone box at the bottom of the T-junction. She could barely reach the receiver. Like everything else, it was ice cold. Esther’s face burned bright red, her tears were uncontrollable. She remained in the telephone box as the snow once again began to fall.

At first hesitant, Esther moved out of the shelter and took several steps onto the grass. As if against her will she walked down an alleyway toward the common. The field before her stretched out as a great, unspoiled white mass. Only the goalposts offered dimension. The community centre lights shone like cataract-infected eyes. Esther staggered down the embankment and moved out into the field. She walked and then ran and would turn back every now and again to see her footprints. Fresh layers of snow covered them as she went.