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She shakes off my hand and runs into the road, but I manage to drag her back onto the pavement. This clearly doesn’t please her at all. She’s very drunk and making no sense, and I can hardly hear her above the storm.
Then, as I’m trying to bundle her back onto the lawn in the direction of the house, a car appears in the street. It slows to a halt and I watch with a sinking heart as it turns into Pru’s driveway.
Oh, hell! Just what we need!
I renew my efforts to get Irene inside, panic making me more determined, and luckily, she seems to have given up her fight for freedom now, allowing me to guide her across the lawn towards the house.
At last, I manage to get her inside, falling back on the front door with relief.
But not before Pru has taken in the disturbing scene.
And no doubt made her judgement...
*****
Irene stumbles up the stairs to her room, and I follow her, peeking into Bertie’s room on the way. To my relief, he’s fast asleep. He must have slept through the whole debacle outside on the lawn.
In Irene’s room, I close her door and turn to face her. ‘What on earth were youdoingout there, Irene?’ I whisper, determined Bertie won’t be disturbed but equally desperate to get some answers as she flops onto her bed. ‘You’re absolutely soaked through. Don’t go to sleep yet!’
I’m filled with fear and panic at the thought of Pru having been a witness to my stepmother’s unedifying little display in the garden. And it’s making me angrier with Irene than I normally would be. The smell of alcohol hangs in the room, making me feel nauseous.
She’s now flat out on her bed, eyes closed, mumbling phrases I can’t make out– although bizarrely, I keep thinking I hear the word ‘ice-cream’– and somehow, I have to get her out of her wet clothes.
In the end, it’s fairly easy. Irene is sleepy now, like a ragdoll, and she doesn’t resist as I pull off her outer layer. Thankfully, her T-shirt and knickers are bone dry, so I strip off her wet socks and she falls back onto the bed. I manoeuvre her legs into place, pull the duvet over her and switch off the bedside light.
‘What did you mean about ice-cream?’ I ask her.
She looks at me, trying to focus on my face. ‘Thought I heard the ice-cream van so I went out. Lois loved ice-cream from the ice-cream man when she was little.’
‘Did she?’ I smile sadly at her. ‘It’s a bit late for the ice-cream van to come by now.’
She mumbles something indecipherable, and I realise there’s absolutely no point trying to get any sense out of her right now.
Even before I reach the door, she’s snoring gently...
*****
I wake at six, my eyes scratchy and sore after just a few hours’ sleep. And instantly the scenes that kept me awake long into the night, tumble into my head.
Irene standing on the front lawn, waving her arms about and shouting, and me trying to drag her back from the road. Pru and her husband, Alan, arriving home. Pru getting out of the car and staring over at Irene, drunk and causing a disturbance. Getting Irene back inside at last and her falling into a drunken sleep...
It’s all so unfair on Bertie.
He deserves a stable home with a stable mum who can be relied upon to care for him properly. All of which is sadly lacking in his life right now.
How long can this go on for before something terrible happens?
Exhausted and tearful and feeling like I’m reaching the end of my tether, I get out of bed and pull on my dressing-gown. Then I walk determinedly along to Irene’s room. Without bothering to knock– she’ll be sleeping off last night’s binge– I just barge on in.
Sure enough, she’s lying on her back, apparently dead to the world. But when I cross to the bed and stand over her, hands on hips, she opens one eye. ‘What’s the matter, Clara?’ she mumbles, rolling onto her side to face me and clutching her head with a groan.
‘You’rethe matter, Irene,’ I hiss, and both her eyes spring open. ‘It’s high time you started thinking about Bertie. He’s yourson, for God’s sake. And against all the odds, he actually loves you. But we’re in danger of losing him if you don’t sort yourself out and start taking responsibility for yourself.’
‘What?’ She looks bleary-eyed and confused. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘I’m talking about Pru last night, seeing you wandering around on the front lawn, drunk as a skunk and making a really shameful show of yourself.’
‘Pru?’
