‘YOU!’
It takes all of Matt’s strength to hold her back.
‘Mamma! Cosa fai?’
Donna and Annie stand there silently in awe.
‘This the boy from newspaper. Why? Why you sell story?’
Richie shields his face, cowering as he’s attacked by vegetables.
‘The newspapers were not very accurate, ma’am. They twisted my words and manipulated our friendship.’
‘What friendship? If you both friends, when a newspaper ring you, you tell them it is stronzo of you to comment like you know this girl. You respect her family!’
‘Yes but …’
Matt and I look at each other when she says this, wondering where such clarity on the situation came from, wondering when this man ever became as big of a problem as he did. I stand back to hear Gia so vehemently defend our family. Maybe it was never about her and me. Maybe it was always about bigger pictures: little people, a home, a family. Richie looks at me for help. I just smile as Gia responds with a gesture so crude that I cup my hand over my mouth to keep the laughter in. Richie goes a whiter shade of pale. Donna cheers her on.
‘I don’t care to hear this. She had bambini, she have husband now. You are selling your story for the money? You make my Matteo sound like common thug. I am feeling sorry for you.’
Richie is lost for words while Matt sidles up to her, trying to curl her offending finger back into her palm. Richie turns back to me.
‘Babe, honestly I’m so sorry. I came here today to talk and see if there was anything I could do to make it up to you.’
Could he cook? Maybe I could put him in a pinny and go up against McCoy. Money. Money would also be good. I think I also bought him an MP3 player for his eighteenth birthday using my wages from working Saturdays at WHSmith. Could I have that back?
‘Gia’s right. Just …’
But I’m not sure what to say. Gia’s breath down my neck, Matt glaring, ready to pounce, I am silent. I loved you once. Fairytale, nonsensical love that made you listen to Al Green thinking your life could be condensed into a song. Little girl love. But after you, I met someone else. Life became a full-on musical, sometimes the numbers are fast and furious, sometimes they are slow and they drag, in between are the moments of drama that make the air cloud with despair. And it’s a work unfinished, still in progress. So thank you for cutting me off when you did. A year sooner may have been better, given me that year to snog randoms and enjoy being a fresher a bit more but then hell, I never would have met Matt. Hannah would never have been made. So thank you for being someone I used to care about. You are just a man in a cheap T-shirt with a paunch.
‘Just … vaffanculo!’
Matt chuckles to himself as Gia begins to wave courgettes in Richie’s face again. I’m assuming she wasn’t inviting him in for a cup of tea.
‘Seriously, lady, I have no idea who you are, this has nothing to do with you.’
And this. This is where it all kicks off.
‘I AM GIA CAMPBELL! This is my family!’
And Richie starts to edge towards the gate, tripping backwards over the dodgy loose stone as Gia chases him out and starts to follow him down the pavement.
‘I see you here again … ti taglio i testicoli e li faccio in una zuppa!’
I hear nothing in that sentence bar the word for soup and testicles. Matt follows her out on to the pavement but Richie feels the idiotic need to have one last jab.
‘Like mother, like son.’
And this is when Gia’s eyes turn a funny shade of black like she’s been inhabited by a force unknown to this world. Richie sees it. He runs. Gia chases. Holding her courgettes. With exceptional speed given she’s in velour house slippers. Matt chases Gia. I chase Matt. I watch as Richie’s body turns the corner past the mini-mart and stand there outside Louisiana Crispy Chicken on the High Street as he weaves through the crowd from matchstick, to pin, to dot, Gia gesticulating wildly behind him as he half gallops, half trips into the Tesco Metro. Goodbye, Richie Colman. Really, goodbye.
CHAPTER TWENTY-oNE
‘Really, Vernon? Well, first we’re going to fry off this onion until it’s translucent and the smell is starting to develop.’
Vernon doesn’t look too impressed. Well, that would be the case when Vernon is being played by a microwave and the tasting panel are a jar of spatulas. I stir my empty pan and look up to the kitchen wall. I hear laughing come at me from behind with its very best North West accent.
‘So what goes in now, love? Is that garrrlic? Lovely.’
‘You sound Cornish.’
Never mind that he is also two foot shorter than Vernon Kay. Ben punches me on the arm.
‘So Vernon Kay, why not Dermot? At least there’d be someone interesting to look at then.’
I don’t know why Vernon. The fact is McCoy has handpicked everything from presenter to jingly music to set colours and even though I got to choose what we will be cooking, I’ll just be the filler in the middle to make Tommy McCoy look like the fantastic, all-singing, wunderkind celebrity he is. Luella says not to worry but that doesn’t mean every day when I have two minutes to myself, I’m not talking to the microwave. Sometimes the bread bin. I shrug as Ben picks up the pile of DVDs from beside me. Luella sends one every day for inspiration and to help me ‘form my own sense of brand’ she says. At the moment, she wants to hype me up as a female Nigel Slater with kids but without the poncy foodie vocab, the facial hair, or the orgasmic expressions over freshly roasted cuts of meat.
‘Hot Guys Who Cook – this sounds like porn. Good porn. Are they naked?’
‘No, but you can have it. Have worked out I’m most definitely not a hot guy who cooks.’
He takes that and some early Delia – back when she used to only wear red jumpers in her conservatory – and a show involving Aussie blokes cooking in their swimwear, an eclectic mix, but that has always been Ben. He locks an arm into mine and puts a head on my shoulder. He looks different today. The clothes are always impeccable, the right side of fashion victim with the blazer and vintage jeans, but the face is a little more hopeful. I’ve only seen him a couple of times since the whole situation with Mum. Adam took it upon himself to be counsel in that matter, medicating him with liquor and, bless him, accompanying him to gay bars to help him feel better, even having the gall to complain when he wasn’t hit on.
The fact was, I didn’t know what to say to him because my feelings about the matter were still mixed. No way was I ready to accommodate more brothers in my life, but neither did I know what side of the fence I sat on. I didn’t quite hate her, all my initial anger had been replaced by more important emotions, yet I wasn’t quite ready to stand there with open arms and welcome her back into my life. I felt nothing, literally nothing about the situation, which was worse than probably feeling hate. So I hugged Ben and furnished him with love and doleful looks and left it to Adam and his bilious rage to help him get over his mother-based woes. And maybe, just maybe, it’s worked. Today he radiates an energy that is very old Ben. But then you would if you’d also just graduated with a 2.1 from Queen Mary and Westfield. I brim over with pride.
‘That’s a very chic outfit, sis.’
‘You sound surprised.’
‘Frankly, I am. Where from?’
‘Oasis trousers, M&S top.’
‘M&S? How mumsy.’
I push his shoulder slightly as he helps me rearrange my belt, making sure it sits on my waist rather than being something my tits are perched on.
‘So, you? You’re all right?’
He nods without uttering a word. We don’t have to mention her on today of all days but I need to know this isn’t a façade; that underneath the thought of our mother doesn’t bubble away and itch at his psyche. He grabs my face and plants a kiss on my cheek.
‘I thought I needed a mother. I don’t.’
His answer seems very definite, for which I’m glad, though I suspect this will not be the end of his need to grasp some se
nse of belonging to her as a child. Still, for now, he’s resigned himself to the fact our family works without her. The kids burst in as we smile and embrace. I hope to good god they didn’t hear the part about not needing a mother. Many an argument about picking up toys would love that tagged on the end. The boys have a present wrapped up in newspaper.
‘We wrapped it ourselves.’
It shows, given the newspaper has been coloured in and stuck together with dinosaur stickers. Ben opens it up as the boys look on. A box of Uncle Ben’s rice. We all laugh, the boys look very proud of themselves as Ben holds it close to his chest.
‘I will treasure this for ever.’
Thanks, boys, because now I realise I’m a dinner down tomorrow. And that in the congratulatory present stakes, I have let Ben down quite badly, dragging him along to the kids’ school play to sit amongst the video cameras and proud parent types. However, the boys look quite amusing in their matching grey tracksuits and patchwork handbag masks.
‘Let’s play Quidditch, Uncle Ben!’
I look over curiously at Ben, who shrugs his shoulders. The boys ’fess up.
‘Uncle Ben showed us. You can do it with the hoover and a tennis ball.’
I shake my head. ‘No time for Quidditch! Shoes on.’
They leave, running past Gia who stands behind her with a handbag and the biggest camera known to man.
‘Gia, looking glamorous as always.’
Always a sucker for a compliment, she bows her head and smiles. In her hands, a copy of last week’s The Sun that she seems to have surgically attached to her. She urges Ben to come and have a look at her newfound fame: a picture of her chasing Richie Colman down the road, with Matt and I in tow looking like we’re practising for a 4x4 relay down my local parade of shops. Still, Gia is quite happy to be in print and has shown the article to everyone who has walked through the door.
CAMPBELL MAFIA MOTHER-IN-LAW
Ben’s eyes open widely as he whispers out the side of his mouth.
‘Jesus, is she chasing him with a dildo?’
I half choke, half nudge him with my elbow.
‘It’s a courgette.’
‘Well, whatever gets you off.’
Gia looks curiously at Ben, who just grabs her by the shoulders and gives her perm a kiss.
‘Well, I think it’s brilliant you gave him what for. Never liked him.’
‘I went out with him for four years!’
‘Well, I always thought he was slightly homophobic and he had awful taste in shoes.’
The latter I cannot argue with. I look at the picture – Luella’s biggest bugbear about it is that Matt and I seem to be standing outside a fried chicken takeaway looking worryingly out of breath. A bit of cropping and this picture could ruin us, she says. But to be honest, I’m not sure if it didn’t do the very opposite. After chasing my ex down the street, we got Gia home and it was only then we realised why she had been staying with us for so long. It was neither to impart cooking wisdom nor rearrange my spice jars, but to fiercely protect and look after a small little family unit she had grown quite fond of. While she may always have her doubts about Matt and myself, she believed in our family and her goal was to hold together what ratty newspaper articles would wish to set asunder – all with the power of a couple of courgettes. So she’s been here to prop us up, lend support, cook her little heart out. And I think I like it; I feel it’s marked a shift in our relationship. Her validating my family makes me believe for the first time in nine years that maybe she doesn’t hate me too much.
‘Ta-dah!’
Hannah suddenly makes an entrance in the kitchen, looking far too old in her hula outfit. Matt went protective father figure and vetoed coconut shells on an eight-year-old whereas I vetoed the thermal vest under the coconut shells to save Hannah’s street cred, so we have settled for a house plant that has been stapled onto an old swimming costume, that she now wears with black plimsolls, sport socks, and a lei that Matt wore on a stag do and smells a little of cider. Ben grabs Hannah, declaring her the most beautiful hula dancer in the land. I fiddle with earrings and change bags and my rhino sex shop masks while Ben watches on.
‘So the boys are elephants? Cute.’
With Matt meeting us at school, I arrive in good time (very unlike me) so that we don’t draw too much attention to ourselves and can nab the best seats. Dad isn’t coming to avoid a repeat of last year when he fell asleep and left a wet patch on Matt’s shoulder. Adam would rather pull teeth. I’ve positioned us centre left so I can see the children through a column of curtain-less space before they go on stage and have a good escape route should Millie decide to wail her way through the performance. As soon as Donna sees us, she scoots over.
‘I’ve got some Piriton in my bag? Doped Alesha up so she won’t get too moody.’
I decline the offer of soft baby drugs as Ben reaches over for air kissing. The parents arrange themselves as I would have guessed. The Tyrrells and Jordans together second row from the front so they can look over the teachers’ shoulders and be party to gossip and flaunt their dedicated parent act. Hugh ‘Huge’ Tyrrell might as well have brought the BBC wildlife division with him for the size of the camera he has propped on his equally large shoulder. Paula has Greg Jordan in tow, the sort you can tell plays tennis in Cliff Richard polyester shorts and pulls his ankle socks up so they’re just under his kneecaps. Out of all of them, Greg is the only one to gesture hello by saluting me like a Girl Guide. I salute back. Parents like me, the Liquorice Allsorts who come with babies, cameras that don’t work, and don’t feel important enough to go too near the front, fill the middle. Pooja’s mum always waves with both hands, still in dusky pink fleece; Billy Tate’s mother, who I know doesn’t use tampons, comes over and we have a chat about McCoy; and I also get to chat to Eve Lingham, mother of Alfie who called Jake a pube. She’s got large corkscrew curls and a fondness for maxi dresses in a bid to make her look like a trendy earth mama. To prove this, she embraces me and tells me a lot of the mums at school are really behind me. I shake my head and tell her it’s a storm in a teacup. She returns with looks that either suggests I’m crazy, this thing is huge and you’re going to get steamrolled, or that I’m trying to be politely modest.
The rest of the parents are best described as a motley crew. I always like the dads in the work overalls, the ones who bring aunts, uncles, and second cousins, the couples obviously mid-separation who sit seats apart.
And then you get to the back of the school hall, the mothers with even younger babies who are trying to breastfeed using the school polyester curtains as cover and the au pairs who reserve two seats for parents who will no doubt be late and slip in when they can. And the nameless few, not paps I think, as Mrs Whittaker stands there by the door with a big stick (really, I’m told it’s a prop for the play) making sure. One woman keeps looking over at me and smiling. She’s pretty in a fresh, sprightly way which makes me think she’s not a mother or has had plastic surgery. When Matt comes in, he’s obviously run a fair bit as his hair is frizzy, his tie skewed over his right shoulder. He pats Millie on the head and goes in for a well done hug with Ben.
‘So how’s it been? The vultures out yet?’
He stares over at the Tyrrell/Jordan collective as he says it. Vultures being not far off given the cardigan Jen Tyrrell wears, with its bizarre feathered cuffs and collar. We had anticipated a bit of a free for all after her and Donna’s altercation but so far everything has remained decidedly civil. There have been looks, and we’ve had to trap Donna into a seat by the wall so she can’t go anywhere, but there are no asides, no nasty remarks. Even the other parents do not seem to be too concerned about me; they smile and whisper but not in a necessarily malicious way. Just in a way to make me think I need to check my teeth.
There are actually more comments directed towards single mothers, play away fathers, and one mother rumoured to be profiteering from running special masseuse services out of her front room (not in my kids’ class; sh
e used the local rags to advertise her wares and got found out by another dad – small world etc.). So, me cooking on national television and looking like I’ve spent a few bob on some better fitting clothes actually isn’t that big of a deal. And for some reason, this is actually quite comforting to me.
In actual fact, the biggest thing to explode that evening is the homemade volcano at the back of the stage. Clifton Primary has gone all out this year with the lights, the papier-mâché backdrops, and baking powder volcanoes.
It’s a sweet if completely nonsensical play. Two of the eldest children narrate in the style of a Julia Donaldson book about a giraffe who’s tall and feels left out and is befriended by a dolphin who shows him the world and they become good friends etc. I’m not sure how Attenborough would deal with the biological inaccuracies, but hell, these animals talk, sing, and wear masks made out of Primark handbags. Ciara does a good job of being the dolphin, wearing a silver swimming cap with fins made out of said handbag. Hannah does a commendable hula number and Matt takes a million and one photos while I simply sit and stare at the poor girl whose mother made her hula skirt out of a green plastic bag through which you can see her pastel pink knickers. When my boys come on, I hold my breath waiting for them to start charging at the stage. A narrator starts:
‘The giraffe was unhappy, misunderstood,
But those old baboons were just up to no good.
They wanted giraffe!
They wanted her out!
They didn’t understand what she was about.
So dolphin told the rhinos,
All wrinkly and grey,
Souper Mum Page 24
