Free Being Lara by Lola Jaye Page B

last, the bed belonged solely to Pat. That first night should have brought with it an elation that she could finally spread herself across the bed in any shape she desired and hum herself to sleep without facing the wrath of her sister. Instead, Pat felt a strong and unexpected sense of loneliness and isolation. Two of her older brothers had already left home after marrying in quick succession, with only one remaining—and he was out most of the time, too. So it was just Pat and her mother most days, their relationship slightly strengthened by the absence of others and a shared love of baking. Of course, she could never beat her mum’s soda bread, but she one day hoped to perfect the Madeira cake in all its glory.
    One day Pat was called into the kitchen by her mum, the smell of cigarette smoke and fresh bread wafting in the air around them.
    â€œSo what are we going to do with you then?” said her mother.
    Pat ran her nose just above the newly baked bread, which sat invitingly on the table.
    â€œSmells good, Mum.”
    â€œYes, it does.”
    â€œShall we bake something for later?”
    â€œMaybe. Don’t you get sick of baking all the time?”
    â€œI love it!” she said. Actually, she didn’t “love” it as much as she enjoyed the time spent with her mother—and of course the end product.
    â€œI know you don’t want to spend your time in the kitchen. You’re different from me and your sister. I’ve always known it, always known you were a special one. The only one out of my kids who wanted to go places.”
    This was news to Pat, who’d only ever seen herself as one of five kids, the youngest and at times a nuisance. Just there. She’d basically assumed everyone else, including her mother, had that view, too.
    Her mother gazed at her expectantly, waiting for an answer to the question “So what d’ya see yourself doing, Pat?”
    By now, most of Pat’s friends were married with a kid, some even on their second, and part of her at times envied that security, of knowing where life was heading, the direction it would take and its ultimate destination. But at the same time, she still felt an incompleteness she was unable to fathom. She was not yet a woman, but no longer a child. It didn’t help that at nineteen, she’d never even kissed a man before. Pat wasn’t a “plain” girl like Gerry’s daughter next door (as her mother liked to put it); she was just at times painfully shy, introverted and wary of people she’d never met before … or anyone from North London. Plus, if men were anything like her dad or her brothers, she was probably best off without them anyway.
    â€œYou want to learn to type?” asked her mother. “Mavis’s daughter does it and gets a good wage. You know … if getting wed isn’t for you.”
    Pat appreciated her mother’s attempt at understanding, but felt unsure of how to answer. No real aspirations had ever hit her, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d really sat down and assessed her future. She liked to sing and that was it. One thing she felt clear on though; she would always try to be happy in everything she did and not become like her siblings who seemed to be permanently angry with life and quick to blame others. She also hoped never to be the type to run away at the first sight of hardship, like her dad.
    â€œI’ve heard you, you know.”
    â€œHeard me?” asked Pat.
    â€œSinging. Since the kids left it’s been easier. You’ve got a pretty good voice.”
    Pat wasn’t sure whether to feel embarrassed or pleased that her mother had noticed the singing.
    â€œThank you…” she said tentatively, as her mother bent down to the oven.
    Pat’s confidence in her voice grew over the years, but she’d yet to sing a full song in front of anyone. A job at Mr. Roach’s quiet paper shop afforded