She hadn’t needed to ask if it was about Mo-Maw. Everything about this boy was about his mother. He lived for her in a way that she had never lived for him. It was as though Mo-Maw was a puppeteer, and she had the tangled, knotted strings of him in her hands. She animated every gesture he made: the timid smile, the thrumming nerves, the anxious biting, the worry, the pleasing, the way he made himself smaller in any room he was in, the watchful way he stood on the edge before committing, and the kindness, the big, big love.
Jodie often marvelled at it, but mostly she hated it: the way he gave Mo-Maw love without thought of reward. Or maybe it was that he heaped and heaped it on in the hopes he would get a fraction of it in return, like his love was some undervalued currency. It made her think of the lassies in her Home Economics class who came back after the summer holidays, with their hair in beaded braids and all their tan on the fronts of them, from the burned tip of their noses to the top of their sore-looking thighs. Two weeks in Benidorm and now they spoke of being millionaires, but their newfound wealth was in pesetas, and Jodie knew they were worth just as much as they always had been.
Mungo’s capacity for love frustrated her. His loving wasn’t selflessness; he simply couldn’t help it. Mo-Maw needed so little and he produced too much, so that it all seemed a horrible waste. It was a harvest no one had seeded, and it blossomed from a vine no one had tended. It should have withered years ago, like hers had, like Hamish’s had. Yet Mungo had all this love to give and it lay about him like ripened fruit and nobody bothered to gather it up.
Mrs Campbell had once said Mungo’s forgiveness was biblical, but Jodie didn’t care much for the Bible, she thought it was stupid of him to be so easily exploited. She thought it was a little bit sad, a little bit weak. Her brother had all this love and forgiveness for an elfin wee woman who thought about herself first and last and in between. She was a terrible mother. Jodie didn’t like to say that about another woman, but she was. She was terrible. Hamish knew it. Jodie knew it. She wondered when Mungo would too.
Mungo sighed in a way that shook her bones. She could see the television reflected in his limpid irises; his pupils had expanded, his gaze was unfocused. “I wish you would talk to me, Mungo.”
He answered her without looking at her. “I talk to you every single day.”
“No. I jist wish you would tell me what you are feeling.”
“Feelin’?” He thought about it for a moment, and then said, “I’m hungry again. But I can’t be bothered to get up.”
Jodie shoved him away from her.
He was Mo-Maw’s youngest son, but he was also her confidant, her lady’s maid, and errand boy. He was her one flattering mirror, and her teenage diary, her electric blanket, her doormat. He was her best pal, the dog she hardly walked, and her greatest romance. He was her cheer on a dreich morning, the only laughter in her audience.
Jodie shunted him again but Mungo only grumbled and curled tighter around her.
Her brother was her mother’s minor moon, her warmest sun, and at the exact same time, a tiny satellite that she had forgotten about. He would orbit her for an eternity, even as she, and then he, broke into bits.
Jodie flicked the tip of his nose. “Sputnik.”
“Whut? Shh. I’m watching this.”
Jodie ran her fingers through her brother’s hair. Mungo smelled of a strange new deodorant, something animal and loud. It was the type of scent the boys in her year smothered themselves in, it was full of pheromones and held promises of a fight or a fingering. It didn’t suit him. She sniffed the top of his head.
“Pack it in!” He shifted like he was uncomfortable. As he slowly resettled beside her, he took care to make sure he wasn’t squashing her. Jodie thought about how Mungo had moulded himself so entirely around Mo-Maw, how she had formed him into the exact component piece that she had been missing, and now that she didn’t need him anymore, he was stuck in this weird specific shape. She wondered what lay ahead for her baby brother. What woman would love him now? She hoped for someone who would be grateful for his good looks and reticent ways. Someone who would feel blessed by his quiet attention, who would take all his love and keep it safe. There would be girls who would want to mother him forever, who’d be reduced by the helpless dip of his eyes into some primitive need to cook and clean and care for him. There could be others who would exploit him, who would feel so low about themselves that they would see his love for them as weakness, something he should be punished for.
Mungo’s eyes came back into focus. He turned his head to meet her gaze. He frowned. “Who the fuck are ye staring at?”
“You. Mungo. I like you. You’re good stuff.”
Mungo looked a little surprised.
Jodie returned his attention to the books on the floor. “I know she doesn’t take an interest in you. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t take an interest in yourself.”
“Eugh! What wummin’s magazine did ye get that guff from?” Mungo wiped his thumb on his denims. “Anyhows, I think I’ll just sell speed for Hamish. There’s guid money in it.”
Jodie slapped him in the centre of his chest. He blinked in shock. “Listen, I will cuddle you anytime you want, Mungo. Even if we are eighty-five you can sit on my knee till you break my hips, awright? Just please don’t get tangled up with Hamish.”
Mungo nodded slowly. She could tell it pained him to lie to her.
She dropped the subject of education, hoping that if she left the books where they lay he would start to sniff around them for himself. They sat curled up together and watched the end of EastEnders. And then Jodie ate the rest of her slice of bread cake just to please him. She went to bed and was unable to sleep, shivery with sugar, and feeling guilty about her brother.
* * *