Letters to Mams

Dear Tom's Mam, 

Tom says you like my parrot hat the best, even though it made you sad. I'm sorry  your Freddy died. Tom told me how Freddy would steal grapes or raisins then swear about it,  and you'd laugh and call him a potty mouth. Sometimes, you call Tom a potty mouth, but  you never freak out or throw things at him, don't throw things at all, and you never wake  Tom up in the night to tell him how much trouble he is and call him a stupid fucker. You  never blame Tom for Freddy being gone.  

Tom said you call me the hat girl in a nice way. And you like that I always say Mrs  Stephenson and thank, and how you can tell I'll go far one day. Once, you gave me a  chocolate biscuit; you probably thought that was nothing because you were handing them  round, but it made me think that maybe you're a mam I could love.  

But then you said how much fun my silly hats are—so colourful. They suit your  personality, and that made me think of Aunty Irene calling Mam colourful, before she called  her crazy, before she called her bloody insane. I think maybe I'm too old for daft hats. 

Dear Mam, 

I hate you. 

Dear Lena's Mam, 

I never saw you peeping over our garden wall to watch me practising katas. Lena told  me you said I should enter competitions or something, that you like doing your yoga in the  garden, said you love outside too, that you don't like sitting in front of the telly, and you don't  make her stay in her room watching the rain, don't even mind too much if her clothes get all muddy, don't shout if there's footprints on the kitchen floor, and if she cleans it up without  being told she gets to choose a flavour from the pop man, and I thought, that's a mam I could  love. 

But then Lena told me how you were watching my mam doing that thing with the  green paint—naked—and you said that family aren't right, somebody should do something. I  think maybe my bedroom's the best place for karate. 

Dear Mam, 

I hate you. Tom's mam lent me a book. It says I have to write you letters but not send  them.  

Dear Katie's Mam, 

I guess Katie told you that she explained to me all about periods and showed me the  things in your bathroom, and told be the proper names—not fanny rags and painters, and she  showed me the pink flowered bag you bought her. 

When you came to talk to my mam, 'because I know you've not been well', and you  never whispered loony or nutter and you never covered your nose or pulled faces at the state  of our kitchen, and you brought me a yellow flowered bag, stuffed full, and said just a few  supplies for emergencies. We all have spells when we struggle, that's when I thought that's a  mam I could love.  

But then you said, blood's thicker than water and it will all come right in the end. 

Dear Mam, 

I hate you. The book says I should write down the things you do and how they make  me feel, but thinking about it makes my skin go tight like a gecko's, like I'll split in two and  leave part of me on the floor with all the other mess. Would I grow bigger then, like Charlie?  I love my lizard. He isn't a beady-eyed little bastard. He listens to me and never says a thing.  Not a single rotten shitty pissy thing. 

Dear Mrs Jones, 

Thanks for picking me up from the hospital. I thought I had enough bus fare, but it's  gone up, and then I got hot chocolate from the machine, didn't even think about it, just 

wanted to get out of that room, because Mam was saying, 'go on have a game.' Why do they  even have a stupid pool table there anyway, and that smelly man was picking up the balls  and stroking them like they were hamsters or rats or something and that woman walking past  humming and humming and Mam with that stupid glassy-eyed grin. I'll try to tell my teacher  about our situation like you said, but my Aunty Irene is keeping an eye on me, so really I'm  okay. 

Katie was telling me how you and Mr Jones take her to play pool at that big family  pub on the corner. Then you all have roast dinner, but the Yorkshire puds aren't as good as  the ones you make. Katie says she likes them best cold with golden syrup on. Sounds real  good that.  

Dear Mam, 

I hate coming to that weird place. I hate the way everyone looks crazy or miserable,  and they say things to me like they know me. They don't know me. I hate the way you  showed all your teeth, all your big yellow teeth, when you smiled today. That wasn't a proper  smile. It didn't even look like you. But then you looked at me, and I thought you saw me for  a minute and I saw someone I remembered, from a long time ago. Or maybe it was someone  from a dream. 

I had jam and bread for tea. When did you buy plum jam? It's okay that. I'm scared  sometimes, but the jam's okay. 

Dear Mrs Greene, 

Thank you for the birthday cake. I never had cake with carrots in before but I like it a  lot, especially the tangy icing. The Sesame Seed snaps are good too. I had some for breakfast  this morning. Most of all, thank you for letting Lena sleep over. We had the best time. 

Dear Mam, 

I haven't visited for a few days because I did some house cleaning and the nurses said  you'll be home soon. I know I'm not supposed to have people over, but I've been on my own  for ages now, and Aunty Irene gave permission because it was a special occasion. I mainly  cleaned my room but did some stuff in the kitchen too. There was only washing up liquid  and vinegar to clean with—Mrs Greene said to use the vinegar. It worked okay but made the house smell like a chippy. The hoover conked out but Mr Jones fixed it for us and it works  better than ever. Aunty Irene called round on the way to bingo. Said I'm doing a grand job— will have the place like a palace by the time you're back if I keep it up. Toast is good, doesn't  make much washing up. I had six slices tonight.  

You won't mess things up when you come home, will you? I'll make toast for us both  if you don't mess everything up. 

Dear Mrs Stephenson, 

Thank you very much for the parrot scarf. And for the light-catcher you helped Tom  make. Mam says thank you too. I think she might let me hang it up in the kitchen window.  That would look nice I think. 

Dear Mam, 

The doctor says it will take time, but can you try? Can you at least look at the nice  things people sent? Can you not wear that holey old grey cardigan all the time and those  manky slippers? Aunty Irene brought you some new pink ones. Does everything have to be  ugly and grey and broken?  

Dear Mrs Jones, 

Thank you for bringing us fish and chips. Mam looked pleased when she saw you got  scallops. She likes those. 

Dear Mam, 

I don't know if you like the sun-catcher, but I'm glad you didn't make me take it  down. 

Dear Mam, 

I bought plum jam. I don't know if you noticed.  

Dear Mam,  

I'm thinking one day I'll learn how to make Yorkshire puddings. And we'll have them  with golden syrup. Maybe Katie's mam will teach me. Maybe she'll teach us both.

Dear Mam, 

I keep thinking about these letters. If you were to look under Worry Bear, you'd find  them. His arm fell off again but I sewed it back on better this time. I'm kinda glad I never  threw him away, even though he's only got one eye and his nose is wonky. All of him is  wonky and knackered. I was supposed to burn the letters, but that would be like when you  burned the stuff Dad left behind and the garden swing went up in flames. I used to like  sitting out there and watching the world go up and down, up and down.  There are things I miss too, Mam. Things I miss a lot. 

Love Anna.