Page 46 of When We Are Old

“Okay. But I still haven’t forgiven you.”

She ejected a laugh with too much force into the air. “Maybe I haven’t forgiven you.”

The music pounded from the house; the bricks were almost vibrating. Mrs Eccles from next door shook her head at me as we walked up the path. Great, that would be another bunch of roses tomorrow.

“Okay.” Matthew held my elbow. “I’ll deal with the older kids and get them out. You two sort out the drunk girls.”

I stared in horror at the house. This was not a few friends over for a Saturday night. What the hell would Ma say?

“Uh, okay.” I eyed the front door. I mean no one could make me go in there. I didn’t want to be the grown up anymore.

“Ronnie?”

I stared at Matthew, not really focusing on his face. “She’s gone too far this time.”

His eyebrows pulled together. “It’s okay, we can sort it all out. There’s no need for this to be a big thing.”

“This is my fault though; she doesn’t respect me.”

“Ronnie, it’s fine.” Leaning in, he planted a kiss on my head. “Don’t overreact, you’re an amazing mum.”

I laughed but it twisted and knotted.

He reached into my pocket and grabbed out the keys. “Angela? We will need to ring parents and get them to come and pick up their kids.”

“Oh God.” I shrivelled up into my coat. “I’m going to have to tell parents that their underage kids got drunk in my house while I left them all unsupervised to go out with my new boyfriend.”

Acid clawed up my throat. Ange stepped forward and got straight in my face. “Stop it. It’s just a party. All children do this. You did, didn’t you, when you were growing up?”

My expression answered for me.

“Oh yes, of course, your mother.” She grinned. “Well, I assure you this is all quite normal. Although, I have to say I’m surprised. I read an article in the paper the other day that said youngsters today weren’t into recreational substances the way that we were.”

“Recreational substances?” I squeaked.

“Oh yes, I read that too,” Matthew said.

Were they going to have a full-on chat about a scrap of journalism while teenagers did God knows what in my house?

Pulling up those big girl panties, relishing the familiar snap of the elastic as it bolstered my resolve, I grabbed my keys out of Matthew's hand and marched for the shiny red door.

Oh, sweet shit. About fifteen rather large teenagers stood in the kitchen. The smell of cigarette smoke wafted from the direction of the lounge, and upstairs someone was banging on a door so hard I don’t know how it remained attached to the doorframe.

“Okay. Ange, with me. Matthew.” I pointed to the kitchen. “Those people shouldn’t be leaning against my mother’s cabinets.”

“Yes, boss.”

I placed my foot on the bottom stair, but then paused. “Make sure they can all get home though.”

He saluted me and turned for the kitchen and the last thing I could hear as Ange and I ran up the stairs was, “Right, what are you lot all doing in here?” Which stopped the chatter and laughter quicker than a fire alarm going off.

“Mum.” Hannah's face tracked with black streaks from her eyes down to her chin.

“What’s going on?” I grabbed her by the shoulders, just stopping myself from shaking the air out of her. Instead I went for a tight and supportive squeeze, encouraged by parenting books the world over.

“Annabelle is really drunk, Mum. She got cross because, uh, because…”

Automatically I glanced to the side where a pale-faced Jackson slumped against the wall of Hannah’s bedroom. “You. Out of there.” I turned back for Hannah. “It’s okay. You will be able to fix it, it’s just an argument.”