Souper Mum

by Kristen Bailey

  Matt mouths the word ‘irked’ back at me questioningly. I shrug my shoulders back at him.

  ‘So he just assumed you to be some chav mother who doesn’t give a toss about her kids and feeds them crap. That sort?’

  ‘Ummm, I guess. I’m not sure I’d put it …’

  ‘So you’ve got four kids, right? Hannah, Jake, Ted, and Lily.’

  ‘Actually, it’s Millie.’

  ‘And so what sorts of things do you usually cook for them?’

  ‘Oh … bit of everything. Pasta’s big here … rice, potatoes, soups …’

  It’s the open-ended question to beat all open-ended questions. We run the gamut of every kind of dish here from beans on toast to full-on roast dinners to everything else that’s improvised in between.

  ‘And tonight, what they having?’

  ‘My dad’s cooking his chilli.’

  ‘So … you’re not cooking?’

  ‘Errrm, yeah?’

  ‘And little Lily’s having chilli too? Ain’t she a bit young for that?’

  ‘Her name’s Millie. Errrm, no. She’ll get whatever’s in the freezer, maybe. Then some milk, I suppose.’

  He pauses for a while amidst all his scribbling and rustling of papers.

  ‘So you breastfeed?’

  Huh? What has that got to do with anything? He’s asking me about my breasts. I blush and pat down on pieces of paper on the table searching for answers.

  ‘Well, Millie, yes.’

  ‘You breastfed all of them?’

  ‘Well, the twins it was harder because I had a problem with clogged nipples so I …’

  The colour from Matt’s face drains at this point. I look up at the ceiling. Matt points at things on our piece of paper that I should be bringing up. The fact is, I don’t have control of this interview at all. My arse is firmly in the back seat.

  ‘That’s great, and is there anything else you want to tell Tommy McCoy?’

  Christ, there’s a lot but I’m not sure if it’s suitable for print. I just want this to stop. I see Hannah’s eyes from this morning and if that’s what a bit of media attention gives you, then I don’t have any need for it whatsoever. I don’t need my checked shirt image to be plastered across any more papers, I don’t need my kids harassed or my husband having to sort my mess out. I’ve realised I’ve left a sizeable pause as I think these things through.

  ‘I guess I don’t want to draw this situation out any more. Tommy McCoy is free to do his show and I’m sure many people can benefit from his expertise but we’re OK in this house. We are really shocked to be receiving so much attention on this so we’d ask our privacy just be respected especially as we have young kids.’

  Matt does a thumbs up again, a bit more slowly this time since the nipples comment. There is no sound at the other end of the line. Has he fallen asleep? There’s a few mumbled ‘hmmms’ as I hear him writing.

  ‘So do you have any idea which publication you will submit this interview to?’

  Again, no response.

  ‘Do you think this will put an end to all the news stories? It’s been pretty crazy.’

  He hasn’t heard me. Not one bit. He also may be eating as I hear gums smacking against each other in the background. And something that sounds like a pelican crossing? Wait, is it a pelican crossing? He’s driving?

  ‘We’ll send the money on to you, Mrs Campbell, in the next couple of days. Thanks again.’

  ‘But I didn’t give you my …’

  And then he hangs up. Matt waits for me to respond. I hold the phone knowing that has not gone as planned. Not one little bit.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I’m sitting in the kitchen looking at the clock on our wall that hasn’t quite sat right ever since Jake flew a toy helicopter into it. It could be nine, it could be ten. It might be the middle of the night for all I know. In my hands, the remnants of Dad’s chilli, which I eat with a teaspoon and a bag of ready salted crisps. There is something wonderfully gutsy about my dad’s chilli, the way the heat hits the back of your mouth then spreads to the rest of your torso. Covering the table are articles that he has expertly cut out of today’s rags that strangely look like some primary school collage project. Yet all I see are pictures of me: in the shirt I’ve now thrown out, lips pursed, and hair on end, fifteen times over. Matt comes in holding empty cups of milk and Millie’s blankie slung over his shoulder. He opens the cupboard above the fridge and gets out a dusty bottle of gin and pours it into two mugs, then comes to sit next to me.

  ‘How are the kids?’ I ask.

  ‘They’re OK. Hannah asked me some more questions. I think she got the brunt of it at school.’

  Matt puts his hand in mine as he arranges the articles on the table. I down a bit of what I thought was gin. It may be a liquor Adam brought back from his last stag do that might have Hungarian roots. It scorches the insides of my throat and I wonder if it might help me get the gloss paint off the garage floor. Matt has no problem necking his as he approaches the sink to wash up. He holds up a frying pan with some unnamed yellow mass on it. I do my best to reassure him.

  ‘Not vomit. It was the beginnings of an omelette.’

  The twins’ lunch that in my current state had turned into cheesy scrambled eggs that had turned into primrose-coloured inedible goop when I had to separate them after a fight about the scraps of grated cheese on the chopping board. Cheese: the epicentre of many arguments in this house. You have more than me! Who didn’t cover it properly? Ask Mummy to cut a chunk for you, don’t just bite into it! Matt prods at the goop curiously and slides his Marigolds on. Dare I say it, I am a little turned on.

  ‘How do I make this all right for her?’

  Matt shrugs his shoulders and moves on to the dinner plates. The twins have taken the news of my supermarket showdown quite well, water off little boys’ backs. But I was always more worried about Hannah: our sensitive soul. I think spending the first two years of your life in a student bedsit might do that to you. I spoke to her when she came back from school but my explanations fell short of what she had actually heard. According to Lisa and Zara, I was going crazy and she would have to live in a home while I was driven off in a white van. When I explained my supermarket antics, I then rather surprisingly got told off. Apparently, I had always told my kids to never answer back. I should just walk away.

  ‘Well, Mummy was naughty and should have walked away. But I didn’t. And now, see? I’m all over the papers. So this should teach you all that it is always better to walk away.’

  Again, she didn’t look convinced. Neither was I. Will lacking, I just pulled her head to my chest as she lay on her bed and told her things would be all right. It’d all go away soon. I hoped.

  ‘Well, did you hear what your dad told the twins to say if anyone started badmouthing them?’

  I give Matt a suspicious look, rather like the one I’m giving the big purple lump on the chair next to me. Poo or Play-Doh? No, uneaten kidney beans – that would be Ted.

  ‘Well, he said that if anyone says anything bad about them then that means they’re just jealous because their own mothers gave them up for adoption since they were too ugly, and they were only adopted because the orphanage ran out of babies.’

  Several hairs on my head feel tight, like they might be turning grey. Matt’s shoulders shudder as he swears at our spaceless and uneven draining board.

  ‘Maybe you should have come back at McCoy with that one, eh?’

  I laugh, noticing some lettuce smeared under the table like wallpaper. That would be Jake.

  ‘Was work OK? Did anyone call you up about it?’

  ‘Please. Half of them don’t even know I’m married nor have the time to watch the news. I wouldn’t worry.’

  I pause for a moment thinking whether that inferred he hid me from society like some Elephant Man secret. Matt and I don’t even wear rings. We did. Cheap ones we bought from a goth shop in Leeds town centre for the purpose of our wedding. But there wasn’t even an
engagement ring. The proposal had happened in my Headingley flat, in my bed. I was distraught with morning sickness and worry and Matt had become this permanent fixture in the flat nursing me back to normality. I couldn’t stomach anything except Sprite and Haribo up to this point so Matt used to come by with fruit and vitamins, worried our baby would come out looking like a gummy bear. Hannah was going to happen, this much we knew, but the how and why was uncertain. The why was an amalgamation of Matt’s lapsed Catholic guilt and me determined to not be some lost teen mother. But there was also a weird concoction of emotion that despite not being ready, this was a good thing. Despite an innate hesitancy to refer to the religious, a blessing, if you will. It never felt like the wrong thing to do. This was never going to be a mistake. So when Matt approached the underside of my duvet that morning, me a little green around the gills, I saw a plate with an assortment of crackers and fruit slices and a pick-‘n’-mix jelly ring on top. I assumed it to be there for decorative purposes until I saw Matt’s blue-grey eyes, bright like wet pebbles. Let’s get married. I want you to be my wife. There was, as there often is with us, little messing around. I was a big bag of hormones. I was also excited, like any twenty-year-old would be to be on the receiving end of a proposal, filled to the brim with fear of the unknown so my gut, apart from wanting to retch, told me yes. I nodded and accepted and the next week we went one rung up on the ring stakes and bought a couple of stainless steel bands. Three months later, Matt’s became too tight, I lost mine down the sink, or in the sink, or next to it? That bit I couldn’t remember. Since then we’ve never replaced them, mortgage and bills taking priority. It does make me wonder if women at work think he’s available. Does he talk about his kids? Does he talk about me? I know that Matt is not the type to have our faces paraded around on a mouse mat or screensaver.

  ‘Thank you for today. I did lose it in the middle there.’

  ‘Hey, you know. You’re only my wife.’

  I pause again. Does that make me a chore, an obligation as opposed to helping me because his love for me has overpowered him so?

  ‘I think it’ll die down and we can get back to normal. I told Hannah what to do if she gets any more stick at school.’

  I furrow my brow at him.

  ‘So did I. What did you say?’

  ‘That if anyone said anything bad at school, then she should walk away.’

  ‘Ditto.’

  Then a look. That look that makes me wonder if we do and say the same thing now because living together for so long has finely tuned our algorithms in the same way women who live communally always menstruate at the same time. It’s what we do. Nine years later and you fall into rhythms where you know how things best work. We prop each other up (usually in this kitchen). We get through it. Of course, the other explanation is that our spirits are intertwined in some way. I watch as he stares at my reflection in the kitchen window and smiles. One or the other.

  In our small moment, a knock on the back door gets our attention and we both turn tentatively to see who it might be. A well-groomed head and skinny jeans peers through and I smile.

  ‘Ben! Crikey, mate, you scared the crap out of me.’

  He punches Matt on the shoulder then heads towards me with one of his hugs. Good Ben hugs are what got me through my A-Levels. Ben is the antithesis to man lad Adam. He drapes his shoulder bag over one of the chairs and rolls up the sleeves of his yellow V-neck jumper with leather elbow patches.

  ‘You silly bint. A checked shirt for one.’

  I glare at him as he steals my crisps.

  ‘How goes it?’

  I shrug and collapse into my chair.

  ‘Just been round Dad’s, he filled me in.’

  I turn my nostrils up and stuff my face full of mince.

  ‘And what do you think?’

  ‘I think it is hilarious. But you were also surprisingly eloquent for one so hormonal. I am almost proud.’

  He comes to sit down next to me, resting his head on my shoulder as he examines the patchwork of black and white which is now my kitchen table.

  ‘You know Dad said there was a bloke with a big camera outside before?’

  Matt hears this and scampers with soapy hands into the living room.

  ‘He asked Dad what was in his bag and Dad told him jars of Tommy McCoy sauces.’

  Ben laughs. I don’t.

  ‘But I wouldn’t worry. Dad gave him an earful, told him to sling his hook. And we checked, you didn’t make the news again. Your space was filled by twin pandas in a Beijing zoo … so maybe this is it.’

  I bob my head through the door to see Matt twitch the curtains, inspecting cars and lamp posts and double locking the front door. A little nervy but relaxed by Ben’s last sentence. Just as I thought; the proliferation of extinct species, war, and Beyoncé have made for far more interesting news. I am beyond relieved. Ben chokes slightly as he takes a sip from my mug.

  ‘Anti-freeze? Times can’t be that hard, sis.’

  I point to the cupboard that he then filters through and finds an even older bottle of Kahlua.

  ‘But you’re OK? I was chatting to Dad before and he said you’d taken a bit of a beating. It’s all been a bit savage.’

  I shrug and he hugs me again. The Kahlua is so old it won’t even leave the bottle.

  ‘You did good though. I mean, you’re semi-famous, halfway up the Z-List. Almost as famous as the woman who threw that cat in the wheelie bin.’

  I smile. Ben’s ambition is to be on some sort of list as his career progresses – though hopefully, his fame could be attributed to something far more worthy than a supermarket rant. He turns his attention to some old wine in the fridge.

  ‘You could be the new face of Bird’s Eye. I think you’ve done them some fine promotional work. You could be Captain Bird’s Eye’s wife – put all those gay rumours to rest.’

  And for once this evening, I laugh heartily and from the bosom. I can picture it now. Me in nautical stripes and a hat, maybe a little bolero style jacket with gold tassles, serving my kids fish fingers on our makeshift ship. Bless you, Ben, with your trendy trainers and 80s Morrissey haircut. I put my arms out for another hug and he comes over to let me rest my head against his stupidly flat and non-existent stomach.

  ‘I think we should have a toast. To celebrity mediocrity and the fact that next week no one will know who you are.’

  He smiles and raises a glass to me, before realising he might have poured himself a glass of old red wine vinegar and spraying it across the kitchen floor.

  That night, sleep is wanting. I have crazy dreams that involve Tommy McCoy juggling jam doughnuts. My kids love him and tell me they want to go and live with him but I say no – they should live with me for ever in my house made of fish fingers. It means that every half hour I wake up in some feverish delirium asking Matt if he’s up but roll over to find him with his tongue hanging out, his shoulders framed around the duvet. The kids sleep through tonight and seem to have recovered from whatever virus they were suffering from, and Ben is downstairs on the sofa watching television, hopefully not some late night call-in porn show. I desperately want to close my eyes and sleep but something’s wrong. Not sure what it is.

  Then at 6.36 a.m. (I know because that’s the time glowing on the clock next to the bed) I sense a figure standing by the bed. My first thoughts are vomit, pee, or nightmare so I roll over and put an arm out to pat a head but instead get a handful of denim. I look up and pull the duvet up in fright to see Ben standing there. At first I ponder whether he’s having one of his infamous sleepwalking episodes (we once found him in the shed) but he kneels next to the bed.

  ‘Jools, you better come.’

  ‘What the hell, Ben? Is it the kids?’

  He shakes his head and I tiptoe out of bed, pull on my bathrobe and slippers, and follow him down the stairs. Outside is that navy-blue twilight hour where you know everyone, everywhere is asleep except for you and you secretly hate them for it. He leads me into the living ro
om where there’s a selection of chocolate bar wrappers, Adam, and the morning papers.

  ‘Hon, what you doing here? Aren’t you working tomorrow? You really should get some sleep.’

  ‘I’ll call in sick if I have to. You … you should sit down.’

  The TV screen is still buzzing. I notice someone has also been rolling cigarettes on a children’s encyclopaedia.

  ‘I went down to the petrol station to get the first editions of the morning papers and …’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘You should have a look at The Express.’

  I dig through the papers to find my face on the front page, a picture of me from Facebook – a night out, I think. No, a hen night in London for Annie. I look ridiculous in one of the baby pink shirt her sisters made us all wear that was far too small for me and my milk-bearing bosoms. Not only that, but I am far too drunk on cheap cocktails and someone is waving a plastic penis in my face. The headline – THE TRUTH BEHIND THE SAINSBURY’S MUM. I quickly see I have taken up pages four and five with an exclusive interview by Johnno Elswood. And I read, every word making my eyes crease up with horror.

  ‘When asked about payment for the interview, Mrs Campbell was flippant about the suggested fee with a reply of “whatever”. She then went on to say she wasn’t “some chav mother who doesn’t give a toss about her kids and feeds them crap” but did say that she was going to feed her baby “whatever was in the freezer” – presumably more fish fingers? Maybe that’s why little Lily Campbell’s hair is so orange? Although reticent to talk about McCoy, one only has to go to her Facebook page to see she has proclaimed him to be a “dickhead”. Colourful language from someone with young children.’

  Adam has his head cradled in his hands.

  ‘But … I never …’

  The paper creases in my hands as I read on.

  ‘… when probed, Mrs Campbell also had quite lax views about breastfeeding, which the WHO recommend in children at least until six months of age. But this is hardly surprising behaviour from someone whose idea of nutrition involves a stodgy loaf of white bread. As a mother who had her first child when she was barely out of her teens, one baulks that she is the epitome of what young mothers are in this country: someone who has no problem bringing children into this world but has little to no idea on how to raise them in a healthy environment.’