was ready. I've always liked a drink, from when I was sixteen, even before I started going out with Charlo. I don't remember when I stopped liking it and started needing it. It crept up on me, I suppose. My father was never a big drinker and my mother doesn't drink at all.
(—Do you ever remember Daddy being drunk? I ask my sisters.
—No, says Carmel.
—Never, says Denise.)
Years ago, I had to drown the alcohol with coke or blackcurrant. Now I prefer orange juice, but I'll drink anything. I don't know when I started being like that. I don't know when I became an alco. My children have gone without good food because of my drinking. My children have suffered because of my drinking. But I have it under control. I've been taking back some of the day. I don't drink now until after Jack has gone to bed. I've been doing that for three months, a week and three days. It isn't easy. I stay out of the house; I bring him to the park. I put the bottles in the shed in the back and throw the key into the long grass around the edges of the back garden. I bought the lock and key especially for that, for locking away the bottle. The idea just came into my head. I threw out the spare key, threw it in the bin on bin day. I put a family-pack of crisps back on the supermarket shelf to make up the money for the lock. It's only a small one; I could probably break it. But I won't. I'm proud of it. I search for the key after Jack's in bed. It can take ages but I always find it. In the rain and dark and the cold. I find it. But I don't mind once he's in bed. Sometimes I put him to bed a bit early. I don't enjoy it, the drinking. I don't remember when I did. I need it. I shake. My head goes; I have small blackouts. I start sweating patches of sweat. Yes! Yes! cries the girl, we all need a drink; that's a bit from a little book I used to read with Jack. I laughed and cried when I read it the first time. It gave me a fright; it seemed to be laughing at me. A little girl climbing up on a chair to get to the sink. A little girl with yellow hair, a green skirt and blue shoes. I used to drink all day. I had gin in my coffee in the mornings. Before Charlo died. Before I threw him out. He wasn't to blame for it. We always drank a lot together. It's only when you're alone that you begin to notice what you're doing. I went off the rails altogether when Charlo died. For a while; I don't remember. It's different now though. I'm coping with it, thinking about it. Deciding. I made Jack go to bed early last night. I put the kitchen clock forward so Leanne couldn't point out that it wasn't his bedtime — because she would — and I ended up having to send her up early as well. I remembered to put the clock back to its proper hour after she'd gone. A few months ago I wouldn't have remembered.
Progress.
I'd love to tell Nicola about it. She knows already; she's not stupid. She can see and smell. But I'd love to say it to her. I think I'd stop then. It would keep me on my toes, knowing that somebody knew what I was up to. Especially Nicola. Sometimes I forget she's my daughter, I want her to love me so much. It feels like the other way round; I'm the child. It's so reassuring just being in the same room as her. I calm down; I don't grab at the glass. I'd like to sleep in her bed sometimes but I never could.
I'd like to go to Alcoholics Anonymous but I don't have the time. I don't know if there's one local. I don't know how to find out; I can't ask. I can't ask the priest, the one that calls round every couple of months — every two months, drinking tea and eating cake with the deserted wives of the parish. Anyway, he stopped calling after Charlo got killed; I wasn't a deserted wife any more. And I wouldn't trust him as far as I'd throw him. The looks he gave me when he was talking about faith and the Blessed Virgin, it wasn't my tea he was after, or my biscuits. It isn't only the bishops who like to get their exercise.
Sometimes though, I'll take looks from
(—Do you ever remember Daddy being drunk? I ask my sisters.
—No, says Carmel.
—Never, says Denise.)
Years ago, I had to drown the alcohol with coke or blackcurrant. Now I prefer orange juice, but I'll drink anything. I don't know when I started being like that. I don't know when I became an alco. My children have gone without good food because of my drinking. My children have suffered because of my drinking. But I have it under control. I've been taking back some of the day. I don't drink now until after Jack has gone to bed. I've been doing that for three months, a week and three days. It isn't easy. I stay out of the house; I bring him to the park. I put the bottles in the shed in the back and throw the key into the long grass around the edges of the back garden. I bought the lock and key especially for that, for locking away the bottle. The idea just came into my head. I threw out the spare key, threw it in the bin on bin day. I put a family-pack of crisps back on the supermarket shelf to make up the money for the lock. It's only a small one; I could probably break it. But I won't. I'm proud of it. I search for the key after Jack's in bed. It can take ages but I always find it. In the rain and dark and the cold. I find it. But I don't mind once he's in bed. Sometimes I put him to bed a bit early. I don't enjoy it, the drinking. I don't remember when I did. I need it. I shake. My head goes; I have small blackouts. I start sweating patches of sweat. Yes! Yes! cries the girl, we all need a drink; that's a bit from a little book I used to read with Jack. I laughed and cried when I read it the first time. It gave me a fright; it seemed to be laughing at me. A little girl climbing up on a chair to get to the sink. A little girl with yellow hair, a green skirt and blue shoes. I used to drink all day. I had gin in my coffee in the mornings. Before Charlo died. Before I threw him out. He wasn't to blame for it. We always drank a lot together. It's only when you're alone that you begin to notice what you're doing. I went off the rails altogether when Charlo died. For a while; I don't remember. It's different now though. I'm coping with it, thinking about it. Deciding. I made Jack go to bed early last night. I put the kitchen clock forward so Leanne couldn't point out that it wasn't his bedtime — because she would — and I ended up having to send her up early as well. I remembered to put the clock back to its proper hour after she'd gone. A few months ago I wouldn't have remembered.
Progress.
I'd love to tell Nicola about it. She knows already; she's not stupid. She can see and smell. But I'd love to say it to her. I think I'd stop then. It would keep me on my toes, knowing that somebody knew what I was up to. Especially Nicola. Sometimes I forget she's my daughter, I want her to love me so much. It feels like the other way round; I'm the child. It's so reassuring just being in the same room as her. I calm down; I don't grab at the glass. I'd like to sleep in her bed sometimes but I never could.
I'd like to go to Alcoholics Anonymous but I don't have the time. I don't know if there's one local. I don't know how to find out; I can't ask. I can't ask the priest, the one that calls round every couple of months — every two months, drinking tea and eating cake with the deserted wives of the parish. Anyway, he stopped calling after Charlo got killed; I wasn't a deserted wife any more. And I wouldn't trust him as far as I'd throw him. The looks he gave me when he was talking about faith and the Blessed Virgin, it wasn't my tea he was after, or my biscuits. It isn't only the bishops who like to get their exercise.
Sometimes though, I'll take looks from
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