Her mother had run off when she was small. Her father was a bully. She also ran away from as soon as she could. She got a job in an off license when still too young to buy alcohol for herself. It was ok. She was liked. She could work out the best way to spend your money – the highest per cent of alcohol depending on the amount of cash to spend.
She had higher aspirations though.
He was a drug dealer, speed mainly. He claimed to have sold to Bob Dylan once. They met in bright dawn in a service station near junction 14.
It was not a romance really, not a courtship either; more an increasing familiarity that lead to her getting pregnant. When her child would reach the same age that she was when she found herself in this situation, she would spend the year warning her to get home early, not to hang out so long with friends, not to drink too much, demanding to know who she was seeing and generally guarding against the same mistake befalling her daughter.
However, at the time it happened she thought it was the best thing ever.
She painted her flat. She made baby clothes. She nested and planned for their future. Plans that had the rosy glow of wishes.
Then the baby was born.
The baby cried a lot. She didn’t know what for.
The boyfriend rarely came home and rowed when he was. He moved out before the baby’s 1st birthday.
The child grew up, but they didn’t get on. The child was lazy, had no ambition, would never amount to anything… They rarely talked.
She drank a lot and this helped her to forget that it had all come to nought.
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