by Sophie Duffy
Bob is at the ready with his camcorder. Yet again I have forgotten our camera. And I’ve given up with my phone because whenever Imo spots it she screams till she has it in her chubby little hands, desperate to try and cram it into her mouth. So I will have to rely on my memory but sadly it’s not what it was. Though some things can never be forgotten.
At last the members of Class 12 file in, subdued, heads down. Only last year they still looked out for their parents, grinning and waving. Now they are on that cusp, feeling the burden of embarrassment. The girls blush and the boys slyly nudge each other. I want Rachel to be small again, wriggling on my lap, sucking her thumb and twiddling a strand of my hair. I knew what I was doing then – now it’s all... scary... the teenage road ahead. I was a hopeless teenager.
Mr Jackson, Rachel’s most hated teacher to date, welcomes us all to the assembly and tells us they’ve been learning about different types of family. I inwardly groan, wondering what sort of Pandora’s box he has opened. They start with a few poems, haikus to be more specific. I’m not sure the Japanese had Penge in mind when they were first thought of but there you go.
Next up is the drama. The usual suspects have been chosen for this – the gobby, confident ones whose pushy parents send them to Stagecoach, an appearance on the X Factor glittering in the distance. And the token special needs kid – in this case Danny, one of the best escapologists since Houdini but so cute with his dark curls that he always gets the ‘ah’ Factor.
Then there’s the kids like Rachel, the quiet, average, keep-your-head-down-and-stay-out-of-trouble kid. She never gets the roles, never quite gets her turn in the sunshine, always shunted to one side in the shade of ordinariness. But today Rachel gets to hold up an A2 portrait of her family. And this is where I squirm. Rachel, hidden behind her picture, is mute. Mr Jackson motions at Rachel to lower it. After a very long pause, she does as she’s told and her red face glows for all to see. Absolute silence so we get the best chance at hearing her whispered description of her own modern family.
‘This is my family.’ She coughs. I send positive vibes to her in the hope she’ll take heart. But my telepathy fails. She coughs again and after a nudge from Jessica who has sidled up to her friend, she finally gets going.
‘This is my grandmother Dorota. She is a size 20 and comes from Poland. She has bright red hair. She likes bingo and the dogs. This is her husband, my grandfather, Roland. He likes whatever she likes.’
Laughter from audience, which deepens Rachel’s redness if that’s at all possible. Another nudge from Jessica coupled with an encouraging nod from Mr Jackson, which Rachel accepts like a lifeline.
‘This is my other grandfather who lives in Worthing. He has a new friend. She is a lady. She has a tattoo.’ Rachel points out the captured faded dolphin, ‘even though she is really old, at least fifty.’
More sniggers.
‘This is my dad. He used to be a plumber but now he’s a vicar.’
People turn to stare at Steve who pulls that eyes-to-heaven look. Rachel is now in the zone, oblivious to the reactions of the parents and children and teachers all of whom are listening intently. She is talking to a parallel, unseen audience. This method works for her because for the first time in her life she has lost all sense of stage fright and has found her rhythm. Her voice is now so well-projected that it bounces off the climbing frame at the back of the hall and ricochets all around us.
‘This is my cousin Jeremy who plays the cello and lives with us when his parents don’t want him. This is my sister Olivia who likes cleaning toilets. This is my baby sister Imogen who takes up lots of my mum’s time and this is my Mum. She does everything for us but she gets sad when she remembers my brother. He died when he was a baby. Oh yes, and this is my Uncle Martin. He lived with us for a bit because his wife kicked him out for getting off with his student and then my mum kicked him out because he had a fight with Jessica’s dad.’ All eyes switch to Bob whose camcorder is getting every last detail of this soliloquy so it need never be forgotten though even my memory is up to recording this moment for eternity. ‘Oh yeah and Uncle Martin got arrested for breaking and entering and my dad had to go and get him out of the nick on New Year’s Eve. That’s my family.’
And that was the story according to Rachel.
Silence. Followed by a few outbreaks of applause. Gradually every member of the audience and all of Rachel’s classmates join in. Olivia has leapt off Steve’s lap and is jumping up and down. Even Imo is clapping, grinning wildly though she has no idea why, worshipping her big sister because she is just that: her big sister.
‘Thank you, Rachel, for that... improvised description. It was... colourful and... enlightening,’ Mr Jackson falters, smiling weakly, unsure if he should have intervened or whether this is quite possibly the best assembly he has ever done as the audience are still clapping like it’s the last night of the proms. I look around, wondering if someone will whip out a Union Jack.
As the response winds down, the rest of the assembly continues, passing by without my attention as all I can do is stare at my knees. Knees that could one day go the way of my mother’s if I keep on scrubbing the nave. I should be proud that my eldest child has received such accolades, but despite Rachel’s words that I do everything, I can’t help but wonder what must all the other mums think of my parenting skills, hearing our family summed up like that.
But then Steve nudges me, slyly, and I look up and see what he can see. Rachel has lost her customary glumness. She has lost her redness. Instead there is a pink sheen to her cheeks. And on her lips, if I’m not mistaken, is the merest, slightest, coyest, sweetest smile.
As Class 12 are shepherded out and back to their classroom by a visibly relieved Mr Jackson, the audience disperse. We shuffle out of the hall and emerge into the chill of the playground. We stand around for a bit chatting to various parents, mainly parents who have railroaded Steve, their shepherd, giving him parish updates or what would under other circumstances be classed as gossip. Olivia hops around with various other small children while Imo gets heavier in my arms. Tamarine and Bob catch up with us as we get rid of the last pushy mother. And Bob apologises for hitting Martin.
‘You’ve got nothing to be sorry for,’ I tell him emphatically.
This clears the air, Bob brightening a little, and fortunately Steve doesn’t bring up the idea of turning the other cheek. But, being Steve, he does find something encouraging to say: ‘Jessica did a great job of helping out Rachel.’
‘She’s good deep down,’ Bob acknowledges, grudgingly.
‘She’s good all round,’ I tell Bob. Despite the ball-kicking against my garden wall. ‘Always cheerful, kind to others, which is really rare in this day and age.’
Tamarine stoops to pick up a crisp packet that has fluttered alongside us. She does that trick where you make an empty crisp packet into a ball and puts it in a nearby bin. ‘The rubbish in this country is disgrace,’ she says.
‘I couldn’t agree more.’
Before I can warm to the subject, Tamarine says something surprising. ‘Jessica is not happy girl. I think she want her mother.’
‘You’re her mother,’ Bob says, putting his arm around Tamarine’s tiny waist. She looks nothing like Jessica’s mother but I know exactly what he is saying and I am taken aback that Bob could say something so lovely.
But Tamarine is not easily won over. ‘I am not her mother,’ she says sadly. ‘I do her mother’s job but that does not change me to her mother.’
‘Come on, Tam... ’ Bob says, giving her a squeeze.
‘She want Jackie.’
I look at Steve. I have no idea what to say. He seizes control. ‘How about getting in touch with Jackie?’ he suggests. ‘Maybe it’s time they had some contact. I could have a chat with Jessica if you like. You know, all four of us round your kitchen table?’
‘You’re alright, Steve,’ Bob says, tightening up. ‘This is family stuff. We’ll sort it out. Jess is fine. Just a phase.’ He pull
s Tamarine closer to him and steers her away. Tamarine smiles a silent thank you at us and goes with her husband to his clean car, parked on the yellow zigzags. Normally I’d say something to anyone selfishly stupid enough to park on the yellow zigzags but now is not an appropriate moment so I let it pass, let them pass, Bob driving off at a skid while we strap our two girls into their seats of the Espace.
I’ll have a word with Rachel, see if she knows anything. My Rachel.
Evening comes round quickly and I manage a few words with Rachel in between baths and stories and spellings. She says Jessica is fine, just going all soppy over Jeremy. Though she did say Jess had received a letter from Jackie, which Bob knows nothing about. Apparently she gets to the post first every day, in case of letters arriving from her mother, in case Bob would hide them from her. Which, knowing Bob, he most probably would. And one day there was a letter, which she snapped up. Apparently Tamarine saw her and asked her who it was from. Jessica said it was from a friend and Tamarine let it go. But, knowing Tamarine, she most probably knew it was from Jackie.
‘Don’t worry, Mum,’ Rachel says. ‘It’s fine. Jessica’s fine. You worry too much. And before you say anything about today, don’t. It’s all good.’
‘And is everything alright between you and Jess? Only you haven’t been playing with her much lately.’
‘We don’t play. We’re not kids.’
‘Well, you haven’t been... hanging out with her much lately.’
‘All she like talks about is Jeremy.’
‘Ah, well, I can sympathise with that. My friends were always falling for Uncle Martin.’
‘Really?’ Rachel sounds amazed. She obviously can’t see anything physically attractive about her Uncle Martin. But then I never could either. He was always enough to turn my stomach. I can’t ever remember feeling pride that my friends found him fit. That Alice swooned whenever he deigned to speak to her. It was just embarrassing.
I manage to get in a very quick hug before Rachel picks up the opening bars of Eastenders and ducks away at top speed.
As I’m doing the last bit of clearing up in the kitchen before heading for bed, I open the back door. Let in some of the London evening. A train crashes past, lit up. People’s heads are visible, floating like decapitated ghouls, and I wonder, as I often do, where they are going, what type of life they are leading. Are there mothers on there who have left their children? Why did Jackie leave Jessica? And is she regretting it? What mother wouldn’t regret a decision of that magnitude? Maybe she wants Jessica back? Does she deserve another chance?
The front door goes and I feel a cold blast of air run through the house from front to back, Steve appearing in its wake, framed by the kitchen doorway, taking off his hat and scarf. He smiles, seeing me standing there at the other end of the kitchen. He makes his way around the table towards me. Holds me. I practise my breathing.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he says, releasing his grip a little. ‘I’ve lost my mobile. I’ve spent ages looking for it.’
‘Maybe you left it in the vestry when you went in earlier.’
‘Maybe,’ he says. He kisses me on the cheek.
I feel his bristles. Breathe in his Steve smell. It’s been a long time since I’ve thought about him, Steve, the man, my husband. We push each other to the back of the queue. Just as well we’re British and good at waiting patiently.
But some men can’t wait around forever.
‘You should pray to that saint of lost things. What’s he called... St Tony?’
‘Have you ever considered an Alpha course, Vick?’
‘Ha, ha.’
‘Anyway, they’re a curse, mobile phones. I’d be much better off without one.’ His expression changes then, as he forgets his phone and notices me, Vicky. ‘You’re freezing,’ he says. ‘You’ll get a chill with that door open.’
‘A chill? How Victorian.’
He tenses, slightly, and after a few more seconds he lets me go, leaving me by the back door to go and fill up the kettle for his usual night time cup of Ovaltine. How 1950s.
‘How was the Alpha?’ I make myself ask him. The good wife. The curate’s wife.
‘Good,’ he says, shoulders all relaxed again. ‘We had a latecomer.’
‘Anyone I know?’
‘That Polish woman who asked about baptism. Karolina. With the hair. She decided she wanted to do an Alpha after all. Said she had questions that she needed answering. I said I couldn’t promise – ’
‘She never said.’
He ignores my interruption and concentrates on measuring out his Ovaltine. ‘Do you want one?’ he asks kindly, sweetly.
I look at him, his hand hovering by a mug, waiting for my answer. How exactly has our life ended up here, like this? Where did this moment come from?
‘No, thanks. I think I’ll go to bed. I’m really tired all of sudden.’
He smiles his understanding smile and instead of welcoming his sympathy, I feel wretched. Confused. What do I care if Karolina goes on an Alpha course? What does it matter to me? Why do I feel... what do I feel? Did I think she was becoming my friend? She’s not exactly friend material. And since when have I been good with friends?
The kettle boils and, despite the steam filling the kitchen, the icy blast rushes inside, wrapping itself around me. I shut the door and turn the key in the lock. There’s a change in the wind. A cold front moving in. I don’t like it.
Thoughts for the Day: Did I ever draw a picture of my first family: Mum, Dad, Martin, me? Did it get put on a fridge or tacked to a wall? Did it get slipped between the pages of a book to be kept as a memory of the way things were? And did it show how things really were? A distracted mother and father more interested in soil than soap. My tyrant of a brother. And me, gawky, buck-toothed, Vicky-Love. Where is that picture? Branded on my brain for eternity.
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Sunday 2nd March Mothering Sunday Fourth Sunday of Lent
I am woken up by heavy breathing. It is Olivia who has carried a cup of tea on a saucer all the way upstairs and is currently placing it, without spilling a drop (that’s my girl) on my bedside table. My first thought is how could Steve be so reckless, allowing a three-year-old to risk a scalding? My second thought is how sweet, my daughter has brought me a cup of tea. And I make myself hold onto that second thought. My sweet daughter. I sit myself up and realise that Steve is actually still in bed beside me.
‘I did it all myself, Mummy,’ she breathes. ‘Drink up.’
‘What about me, darling?’ asks Steve, jokey-serious, coming to. ‘Don’t I get one?’
‘It’s Mother’s Day, Daddy.’
‘You’re right.’ He kisses me on the head, that way of his, almost clunky and slightly jarring, but meant with affection. ‘How about we wake Rachel and make some breakfast for everyone?’ He doesn’t suggest breakfast in bed because he knows I can’t bear the crumbs but Olivia is already beaming at the prospect of a chore and is out the room before Steve can swing his legs to the floor. As I listen to them, to Olivia’s excited whispers, Rachel’s unusually ebullient voice, to the three of them clomping down the stairs, as I sit up in the bigness of our bed, drinking my tea, relishing each simple hot sip, I wish I could always feel like this, contented and peaceful. I wish I didn’t live in the past... or somewhere in the future where a life of tranquillity must surely be lying in wait for me to catch up and join in. Why can’t I live in the moment? Cherish each second of this life? Not even now, this morning, Mother’s Day. I only managed a minute or so but now I’m aware, as always, of those who aren’t here. And of those who will be joining us later.
Church. Looking round the congregation I can see mothers who are usually checking their watches wondering if they have to leave early to put on the potatoes. Today they are more relaxed, knowing they will be taken out to lunch or at the very least have lunch cooked for them. I, on the other hand, had the bright idea of asking people over and cooking lunch myself. I thought it would be nice to share the day with the o
ther mothers in my life, namely Claudia and Dorota. This obviously means catering for Jeremy and Roland as well but both of these I am looking forward to having back in the house. But it also means Martin. Because if I didn’t let Claudia know I’d invited him she might have snuck in Charles Dickens. I slip out early and enjoy a half hour of silence, alone in the house, my house, peeling parsnips to go with a beef casserole that is already slowly cooking, praise be to God.
A crash at the door lets me know my silence has been massacred. Martin. And he’s not alone. Please, no, not Melanie. No. A man’s cough. A familiar cough. Dad?
I rush out to the hall, wiping my hands on my apron and see Dad, standing there while Martin helps him out of his coat, taking care with the wrist.
‘Dad. What a lovely surprise,’ I give him a kiss. Pat hasn’t managed to get rid of the potting shed scent yet.
‘We’ve been down the off-licence.’ He gently shrugs me off, his usual way, no fuss, straightening his cuffs. ‘Shocking prices but there’s a nice bottle of fizzy wine.’
Martin hands it over. ‘Champagne, Vicky-Love. Get your laughing gear around that.’
I mutter a thank you and lead the way to the kitchen where I sit Dad down and he fills me in on the surprise, that it was Martin’s idea to fetch him for lunch. I am immediately suspicious of my brother’s motives and yet begrudgingly thankful to have Dad here, where I can see him for myself, not via Pat’s colourful descriptions down the telephone.
I hand him the peeler and a heap of carrots. ‘Reckon your wrist is up to that?
Dad doesn’t answer, turns the peeler over in his good hand as if it’s a new invention, something he has heard about but never actually seen. I rummage around in the drawer and find another, which I present to Martin. ‘You can do it between you while I make us a coffee.’
‘I’ll have a brown ale if you’ve got one,’ Dad says.
