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MARGARET (
pause.): Rosie’s told me, Jackie.
JACKIE (
terrified.): I wasn’t going to —
MARGARET: No, I expect you had another date planned when you were going to tell me that you’d like Rosie back. Or perhaps you were just going to tell me over the phone.
JACKIE: . . . You need time, to decide . . . in the summer —
MARGARET: It’s not my decision. It’s Rosie’s. And she’s made her mind up. (
Pause.) I knew she’d say it one day. Like one of those fairy tales.
JACKIE: You haven’t told her!
MARGARET: Of course not. She still thinks you’re big sister, that’s why it’s so magical to her.
JACKIE: We were running along this dazzling beach. I thought, is that what I’ve missed?
MARGARET: Years and years and years you’ve lost, Jackie. Birthdays and first snowman and learning to ride a bicycle and new front teeth. You can’t pull them back.
JACKIE: I can make up for it — somehow —
MARGARET: You can’t. Those are my years.
JACKIE: She must remember — I visited!
MARGARET: Treats, she’s had with you. A day here and there. That never fooled her. But I let it fool you. I’m the woman who sat up all night with the sick child, who didn’t mind all her best crockery getting broken over the years.
JACKIE: Mummy . . .
MARGARET (
long pause. Cool): What time’s your train?
JACKIE: 9:45 — no — I could get the 10:45.
MARGARET: You mustn’t miss your meeting.
JACKIE: It would give us another hour. I wish we weren’t in your office! (
Panics.) Where’s Rosie gone?
MARGARET: Are you going to catch that train, or stay here? You can’t do both.
Pause.
Jackie agonises.
MARGARET: I’ll phone you a taxi. (
Margaret dials, waits, the line is engaged.)
JACKIE (
quietly): You know Mummy, the Gallery and everything, I couldn’t have done it without you. You can’t be a mother and then cancel Christmas to be in New York.
MARGARET: (
telephone connects) Taxi to East Croydon station please, immediately. British Microwaves, front entrance. (
Puts receiver down.)
JACKIE: Come and stay, show me how you do things, how Rosie would like her room decorated.
MARGARET: No Jackie, I shall just put a label around Rosie’s neck, and send her Red Star. (
Doesn’t look at Jackie any more, busies herself with papers.) It’s gone nine. I wonder where Mr Reece is?
Jackie runs out of the room.
Charlotte Keatley,
My Mother Said I Never Should (Bloomsbury, 2014)