Page 6

Chapter four

Root cause analysis: a systematic approach to identify the underlying causes of problems or failures, in order to implement appropriate preventative solutions.

O n Saturday morning my phone rings just as I’m starting to think about getting out of bed. I glance at the screen. It’s my mother. I pick up, stretching lazily. “Alright, Mum?”

“Hullo, love.” Mum’s familiar voice chimes down the phone. Her Burnley accent, like mine, has been watered down over the years, but is still identifiable in the flatness of the vowel sounds and the occasional Lancastrianism. “I’ve a job for your clever little fingers.”

“That sounds terrible,” I retort and she snorts. "Did you drop an earring down a sewer grate? If so, pass." I pause. “Everything alright?”

“Don't worry, love, there’s nowt wrong. I need an extra pair of hands is all. See, Margie down the road were panicking about the favour boxes for her Ellie’s wedding tomorrow and I said I’d help, and I’ve only now seen how much work it’s likely to be.

There’s no way our Sue and I'll get it all done before the wedding planner needs them this evening.” She still uses the Lancastrian contraction of the word ‘the’ into a glottal ‘t’ sound.

So did I, until people at uni down south started making fun of me.

It's odd sometimes, to think of the things I've given away and changed, all for people I care nothing about and won't be meeting again.

"Charlie?"

"Sorry, Mum. Of course. I'll pop over now. Um, do you think we'll be done by two? Three at the latest? I have a date later."

She pauses for a minute. Then, "Charlie! You sure kept that quiet."

"It's pretty new," I say defensively. "There's not a lot to tell yet."

"Okay," she says easily, but I know I'll be getting questions later. "Run over now and we'll get started. You'll be home well in time for your big date."

"It's not a big date," I grumble, but she's already put the phone down.

I park across from Mum's terraced house in Crumpsall about twenty minutes later. I have to mount the curb so that other drivers can get past on the narrow street, my wheels scratching noisily in the grit.

Mum and I moved from Burnley to this area of north Manchester when I was five, out of my grandparents’ house. She’s never told me the full story of why we don't talk to them, but the bits and pieces I now know suggest that she had good reason.

I wave at old Mr Zhang, who lives a few doors down. He waves back, though his yappy little spaniel drags him around the corner before I have time to call out a greeting.

I'm buffeted by the confusing mix of air freshener and freshly-baked bread as I open the door to Mum's house. "I'm home," I shout through the doorway, using my foot to nudge her sandals aside, towards the overflowing shoe rack.

"Come in, love," she calls from the living room.

I nip in and… "Oh wow." The living room is usually pretty cramped anyway, and Mum's decorating style is, to put it lightly, busy. She likes anything cute, dainty and colourful, and there's a story attached to each ornament.

Today, she's cleared all the usual decorations off the oval coffee table and both the side tables, and they're all stood neatly on spotless hearth. In their place is a literal mountain of bags and baskets. Mum's hovering over them, peering into each one with a cheery look on her face.

"Jee-z, Mum," I say as I clamber over the clutter to kiss her cheek, remembering at the very last minute not to 'take the Lord's name in vain'. "What's all this?"

Mum gives me a bright smile. Her sharp features would look stern, if not for the permanently sunny expression on her face.

She'd only come up to the bridge of my nose while standing on her tiptoes, and there's a cardigan around her thin shoulders despite the warm weather.

Her long bob is the same cinnamon brown as my hair, and there's barely a hint of grey in it despite her being in her mid-fifties now.

"I told you, Charlie, Margie's Ellie gets married tomorrow, and they needed a hand with the favour boxes. "

"Why didn't… What did she… How many people are going to this bloody thing?” I demand.

“Around a hundred-fifty,” Mum tells me serenely. “They’ve a big family, on both sides.”

“And why isn’t Margie doing this herself?”

Mum shrugs. “She’s busy. Or she forgot. But she were in such a state when she called over earlier, I couldn’t hardly have said no.”

“Mum,” I sigh. The whole neighbourhood knows that if you need a last minute favour, Natalie Rust is the one to ask.

She directs me onto a seat on the couch, and plonks a plastic box full of small multicoloured beads into my lap. “I couldn’t well have let Ellie’s wedding get ruined, now, could I? Now come make yourself useful, love, and start with these. Sue’s on her way down.”

“What am I even doing with them?” I ask plaintively.

I suspect Mum would have ignored me, but Sue bustles in from upstairs, in a fluffy grey housecoat. Her long grey hair is tied back in an elegant ponytail. “Oh hello, Charlie!” She makes her way over to give me a hug. She smells like lavender and cigarettes.

I give her a kiss on the cheek, and wordlessly gesture at the madness surrounding us. She rolls her eyes heavenward and shakes her head.

Sue’s been in Mum’s life for the past seven or eight years, and I’ve known about her more or less since the beginning of their relationship.

I wish I could say that I’d been as clued in to Mum being bi as she’d been to me being gay, but it had been a massive surprise when she’d told me she was with Sue.

I’d taken a while to warm up to the tall, soft-spoken woman, but it was mainly because I’d never had to share Mum’s attention before.

I’m still not sure we’re as close as we could be, but we’re comfortable in each other’s company, and I do think Mum’s happier with her, so I’m glad she’s where she is.

“There you are,” Mum says, accepting a quick peck on the cheek from her partner. “Now listen, and this’ll be over quick. You take one of these small cardboard boxes, and…”

It was not over quick.

Mum eventually puzzles out how to construct and fill each favour box, but it’s a while before we figure out an efficient way to work so that we’re not constantly in each other’s way.

Sue wanders off to make us a brew, and we suddenly find another basket containing tiny bottles filled with glitter, and so we have to gingerly reopen the twenty or so favour boxes that we’ve already completed, and figure out how to fit in this extra item.

I’m pretty close to swearing at this point.

“So, Charlie,” Mum says lightly. She’d not even batted an eyelid at the setback. “This lad you’re dating. What’s he like then?”

“Ugh, Mum,” I grump, but I’ve never learned to keep secrets from my mother, so I fill her in on the two dates as we work. She listens, nods in the right places, and doesn’t interrupt. Her hands don’t stop moving, but they do slow as she regards me closely.

“Hm,” she says when I finish.

“What do you mean, ‘hm’?” I ask irritably. “Mum, we’re never going to finish if we don’t speed up.” Sue must be harvesting tea leaves, because it can’t take this long to make tea.

Mum raises one eyebrow. “Come on now, love. I know when you’re holding things back.”

“I haven’t!”

“Charlie.” She fixed me with a gimlet eye. “You’ve described every fact about your dates with this Luke. I could retrace your steps and recreate every meal and drink you had. But you’ve said nowt about what he’s like, or how you felt. I asked about the lad and you gave me an engineering report.”

This is what I mean about never being able to keep secrets from Mum.

Loads of people underestimate her when they first meet her, a small, friendly lady with a regional accent, working in the local library.

What they don’t know is that she’s probably read every single book in there, and then some.

More importantly, to my knowledge, no one has been able to get anything past her in the past thirty years.

Sue and I sometimes joke that she’s psychic.

I scowl at her. “Okay. He’s tall. Blond. Pretty good-looking, if you like the type.”

“Charlie.”

I give up. “I like him,” I confess. “Even though it’s just been two dates. He seems nice. But I’m not getting my hopes up. That’s just a recipe for disappointment.”

“Disappointment,” she echoes. It’s not a question.

I stare at the half-constructed favour box in my hand. “You know I’m not one to get ahead of myself,” I say nonchalantly. “We’ll just have to see how this plays out.”

She puts her own half-done favour box aside now, and I nearly throw my hands up in exasperation. We’re still going to be doing this at midnight, and I’m going to miss my date. The look in Mum’s eyes, though, makes me stop as well.

“I’m sorry, love,” Mum sighs. “I’ve been hoping you’d have worked through this in your own time, but I think you're wanting a small push.”

“Work through what?”

“This tripe you’ve been talking,” Mum says bluntly. “About disappointment and not getting ahead of yourself.”

“I don’t want to get into this,” I start, but for maybe the first time ever, Mum speaks over me.

“No, Charlie. You’re never this cagey about a date, so I know this Luke doesn’t feel like just any other lad. So we’re talking about it, or I know you won’t give him a chance. Don’t let your father walking out on us make you run away from someone you actually like.”

I take three deep breaths, like she’s always reminded me to do, because just the mention of it sends a jolt of rage through me. It still works; my heartbeat slows enough for me to reply. “I don’t let him make me do anything.”

“Charlie.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, because looking at the pity on her face is unbearable. “What do you want me to say, Mum? It’s not news to me; I know already. But I can’t not think about it, every time things go well, and it’s the worst it’s ever been, because…"

"Because?"