Writing for Fun
March 2016
Rock Bottom - Jenni Bowers
She felt at rock bottom – life had been so hard and now as she dragged her trolley past the queues of tourists waiting to enter the National Gallery she felt invisible. People looked away, shuffled their feet and held their noses. True she needed a bath but when she'd tried to get into the ladies toilets the attendant had once again refused her entry. 'Get your filthy baggage out of here,' the black lady had shouted.
'It's my country you alien,' Mottie had replied, 'I need to pee and wash just like everyone else.'
'But you have no money and it's 50p a go here you old tramp – clear off.'
She'd long since stopped the tears when so rejected, but now she could feel them just below the surface, threatening to engulf her in her loneliness and despair. She'd had four children but they were in care, she knew not where – the awful time when he'd walked out and left her, unpaid bills reducing her to walking the streets with the children clinging to her coat as she begged relatives to house them for a while until she got straight – to no avail.
True they'd tried to help her leave him in the past but she'd loved the man he used to be, before he started hitting the bottle and her. Family and friends had lost patience and it was too late when finally she asked for support.
Allowing the Social people to take her precious family into care had been gut wrenching and so devastating she had collapsed, finding solace in a bottle, the only 'friends' being street people, who offered her comfort in their shelter under the bridge and wine, the nice 'do-gooder' types who brought food and a few clothes sometimes.
Mottie had tried to get a job at first, even cleaning, you'd never believe what a good job I used to have she thought, if I told you I was a top P A in a good firm of solicitors – well of course she had – she'd tried to get back into that but the agencies all wanted an address and she didn't have one – it was a vicious circle, no address no job – so no income, no home, food, anything.
Well, that was years ago, the children had been adopted apparently, she didn't remember now how that happened, she'd tried to see them and been discouraged, weeping for hours when the realisation that she'd lost them finally sank in – determined to fight but coming up against brick walls every time she attempted to contact them.
She shuffled along but suddenly a young woman stopped in front of her and stared. 'Mum? Is that you?' She looked round, no-one behind her – 'What love?'
The lovely blonde lady repeated the question, 'Is that you, Mottie (mum)?'
Mottie stepped back and stared, well, she's the right age to be my eldest but she's so smartly dressed and talks posh. 'What's your name?' she asked.
'It's Joanne, but it used to be Mary Ann long ago,' the lady replied. 'I've been looking for you – are you Mottie?'
'no, no, go away, leave me alone, girl,' and she scurried off, but the woman followed her.
'Mottie, I know it's you please don't leave me again I need you.'
Mottie turned and asked, 'What do you mean? I never willingly left you, I adored you all but it's too late now, why do you need me? look at me I have nothing to offer you.'
Mary Ann stepped towards her, holding out her hand. 'Mum, Mottie, I've lost a child, I'm heartbroken, only you can understand how I feel, I need you so much.'
The reunion was full of weeping and hugging. Finding each other took months of talking. Mottie was housed in a small flat with a lovely shower room and Mary Ann brought the other children to meet her – sometimes it wasn't a happy meeting as the children had been told various stories about her abandoning them and hurt and recriminations poured out but over the years until her death she was happier and cleaner than she'd been for the past 20 living rough under a bridge in London.