Mum in the Middle

by Jane Wenham-Jones

  ‘Don’t make excuses. He gave them the details.’

  Malcolm crunched down hard on a piece of toast. ‘No sense of loyalty,’ he growled between munches. ‘The little bastard wants to remember who pays his wages. He won’t get a job with the Daily News. A, because he’s an idiot and B, because they’ve just laid off six people and even real reporters can’t get work.’

  He took a mouthful of coffee. ‘Do you know how much they gave him?’

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t think he got anything.’

  ‘Pah!’ Malcolm pushed his cup aside as a huge plate was brought to the table crammed with sausages, bacon, eggs, mushrooms and tomatoes. Malcolm prodded at it with a fork. ‘Then he’s even more stupid than I thought he was,’ he said. ‘Where’s the black pudding?’

  By the time Malcolm had worked his way through what was probably the government’s recommended cholesterol allowance for the next three months and had a second cup of coffee, he was almost benign again.

  ‘In the normal way,’ he told me,’ I’d have demanded half the money and given him a few baby shows to visit and that would have been the end of it.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit hypocritical?’ I asked, shocked. Malcolm shrugged. ‘It’s how it worked in my day.’

  ‘When I tipped the Sun off an Arsenal striker was going to Man City, and the manager was resigning as a result, my local editor chased me down the street threatening to punch my lights out. Made me give him ALL the dosh. But he took me out and got me slaughtered on it when he’d calmed down.’ He gave a guffaw. ‘All a learning curve.’

  I shook my head in disbelief. ‘If you’ve done it yourself, you should be a bit more understanding. Gabriel didn’t intend them to print anything yet – he was just trying to sell them the feature you weren’t interested in, so he’d have some cuttings.’

  Malcolm rolled his eyes. ‘The boy needs to get a grip on the real world. You can’t run a story on hysteria and hearsay. How were your eggs?’

  ‘Pretty good. And brilliant toast. Just too much …’

  Malcolm inspected my plate. I pushed it towards him. ‘Try.’

  He leant out and took a forkful. ‘Not bad at all. Never usually eat scrambled egg out, because my own is so bloody good.’ He used my knife to get the last vestiges onto his fork.

  ‘My kids say mine is the business too,’ I told him.

  He looked at me intently. ‘What’s your secret?’

  ‘Lots of butter, a good splash of milk and cook it slowly …’

  ‘Exactly!’ Malcolm thumped the table in triumph. ‘Michael Winner was an odious man but he knew about food. Apart from scrambled eggs. He said he could do them in a few seconds. Proper scrambled eggs take half an hour.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far–’ I began, but Malcolm had a zealous light in his eye, and was in full flow about foaming butter and the right sort of wooden spoon.

  ‘I just mix it all together first, tip it in and keep stirring,’ I offered.

  Malcolm looked appalled. ‘You need to try mine,’ he said firmly. He stood up. ‘We will arrange it. Now I must go back and see if that boy’s stopped snivelling.’

  He put a twenty-pound note on the table, gestured to the small man I assumed was Stan and picked up his newspaper. Then he looked at me hard. ‘So your boyfriend’s supplied cameras, has he?’

  ‘He’s not–’

  ‘Let my man do his installation. I’ve got a feeling about this. Trust me?’

  I nodded. Realising how much I did.

  ‘Do you think–?’ I began, but Malcolm was already heading for the door.

  ‘Didn’t you want to talk to me about some article?’ I called after him.

  ‘Too late now,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Save it for the next lot of eggs.’

  Chapter 31

  Ben was frying three of them when I got home.

  ‘I’ve just finished the bread,’ he said helpfully. ‘Where’s that bread-maker you used to have? That was good, when you used to make it every night.’

  ‘In a box somewhere.’ I poured boiling water on a lemon teabag. ‘Nobody phoned from the office, did they?’

  ‘I’ve still got to finish some coursework on acoustics and recording techniques.’ Ben looked suddenly woebegone. ‘I think I’m doing the wrong course, Mum.’ My heart sank. The landline extension in the dining room rang. I thought about my computer sitting there and the pile of files. ‘I’ve got to answer that,’ I said.

  Paul, who wouldn’t win prizes for précis at the best of times, was in expansive mood. The clients were pleased with the new office layout in Croydon and my boss was buoyant because he was going out to tender for the contract to furnish the new headquarters of an apparently massive insurance company I’d never heard of.

  It was all hands to the pump, he told me happily, and he was convening a team briefing at 10 a.m. on Friday. He’d email me the spec. Could I possibly do some initial space plans incorporating a visual walk-through?

  Of course I could, I told him, equally brightly. As long as I didn’t sleep …

  By the time I’d put the phone down, taken some deep breaths and reassured myself it was all perfectly achievable as long as I started now and got in a proper day tomorrow, Ben had repaired to the sofa and was eating the last of his fry-up with Jeremy Clarkson.

  ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’ I asked. He shook his head. ‘Talk later,’ he said, eyes not moving from the screen.

  I went back into the dining room, feeling the fluttering in the pit of my stomach I always got when one of my children had a problem.

  I hauled my desktop computer, with its wide screen, from its corner onto the table, recalling wryly my original plan to kit out a proper office in the smallest bedroom or conservatory, with a sofa bed for occasional use. Right now, I couldn’t get through the door of either. Ben’s extraordinary talent for covering every inch of flooring with discarded clothes was being nurtured in one and Tilly’s entire life was stacked in the other.

  While I waited for the larger machine to boot up, I looked at Paul’s email on my laptop. There were hours of work here that somehow had to be done by tomorrow, but I couldn’t complain because we both knew there were other quiet weeks when he wouldn’t comment as I jogged along at a relaxed pace, drawing up two days’ worth of plans over a leisurely five. If I had to work till two in the morning I would – it was our unspoken deal and I hadn’t let him down yet. Although, as I pulled up a blank template, I did wonder why the team meeting couldn’t just as easily be Monday morning instead …

  I wondered afresh as I heard the doorbell ring at lunchtime, and Ben’s voice announcing: ‘through there’. Trying not to groan, I pressed save, glanced at the clock and smiled as kindly as I could as Gabriel appeared in the doorway, looking drained.

  No, Malcolm hadn’t sacked him, he confirmed. In fact Malcolm had told him that perhaps there was a story after all, and that if Gabriel thought he was so clever he should do a proper investigative piece and if he did it properly ‘highly unlikely as that is’ – Gabriel took off Malcolm’s gruff tones – Malcolm would give him a by-line and make a splash of it online.

  I smiled. ‘It’s all bluster with him,’ I said. Clearly the breakfast had put a whole new complexion on things. ‘He cares about you, really.’

  Gabriel looked doubtful.

  ‘And you can’t let him down now he’s given you a second chance,’ I added firmly. ‘Now he’s getting this equipment put in, you might catch the culprit red-handed. Perhaps we could use the other set on Jinni’s house.’ I told him about David bringing the CCTV too.

  Gabriel was immediately agog. ‘When’s it going to be installed?’ he asked eagerly. ‘So are you saying it’s high enough quality to really see whoever’s doing it?’

  ‘So David says!’

  Gabriel nodded. ‘I think it’s some sort of group. Like the kind who used to burn Welsh cottages back in the eighties. I’ve read a lot about that and–’

  ‘I hope not!’
I interrupted, alarmed. ‘I know it’s a nuisance for locals with all the new development and house prices soaring but–’

  ‘At least you can sell up one day and make a fortune,’ put in Ben. ‘When you’re really old and have to retire.’ He grinned, his earlier angst apparently forgotten.

  ‘I rather like it here, as it happens,’ I said, the memory of David’s hands stroking my shoulders giving me a delicious frisson. ‘But I’m disturbed about this–’

  ‘When’s the camera going up?’ Gabriel asked again.

  ‘I’m waiting for a call, but I’m in London Friday, so it will probably be after the weekend now – unless you boys want to go over and help Jinni set the other kit up … But not now!’ I added hastily, remembering Jinni’s plans. ‘She’s busy.’ I began to pour coffee. ‘Let’s sort it on Saturday. Nothing will happen that quickly, will it? These other incidents have been spaced out …’

  Gabriel looked thoughtful. ‘But they do seem to upping the ante now. And the spray paint at the station …’

  ‘Jinni will probably say David is behind that too, to put us off his trail–’

  Gabriel shook his head. ‘I really like Jinni but she’s a bit over the top about this one. He might be fed up with her objections but not to that extent. It doesn’t make sense.’

  I handed him a mug. No it didn’t. I still wondered whether I’d heard the full story. Was it simply hurt pride as Caroline had suggested? Was Jinni jealous that he and I–’

  ‘And he’d hardly offer CCTV …’ Gabriel was saying.

  ‘Jinni thinks that’s a double bluff,’ I told him. ‘Says we won’t catch anyone on it.’

  ‘We should still put it up and see,’ said Ben. ‘Send Jinni a text and see if she does want us to go over.’

  ‘I’ve got to get back.’ Gabriel looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got to keep Genghis happy – he’ll go mad if I’m late.’

  He got up. ‘So Saturday, then?’ he said to Ben. ‘I’ll come round first thing.’

  ‘Not too first.’ Ben lightly punched his arm. ‘Fox tomorrow night?’

  ‘Maybe – if we go late. Think I’ve got to cover some charity fashion show first.’ He pulled a face. ‘I’m getting all the best jobs …’

  ‘Might be some talent …’ Ben laughed. ‘Every cloud, mate. A late one would be good …’

  I listened to them bantering as they went through to the front door. Ben seemed in perfectly good spirits now so I’d ask him about his course later. He’d come to me if it was that bad, I reasoned, torn between maternal duty and anxiety about work. I wondered if Gabriel had told his mother about his problems.

  ‘Is his family being supportive?’ I asked, when Ben poked his head around the door to tell me he was finally going down the town and had I got cash for the bread. Ben shrugged. ‘He’s 24, Mum.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean he doesn’t need someone to talk to!’ I retorted. ‘That’s why he’s coming round here, isn’t it? I’m a sort of surrogate. Which I’m very happy to be but–’ I felt another pang of guilt. ‘Ben, I do want to hear about your difficulties with your course, darling. Even if I can’t be much help.’

  He looked gloomy. ‘I don’t even know if I want to be at uni at all. I wish I’d had a gap year now, and gone travelling and busked.’

  My mind whirred. What about his student loan if he just threw it all in now? Could he go back later? ‘Have you discussed this with your brother?’

  Ben shook his head. ‘Ollie’s got his own problems, hasn’t he?’

  Another bolt of alarm went through me. ‘Has he?’

  Ben gave me an odd look.

  ‘He was worried about money and where to live, but that’s all sorted now. Sam’s parents will be back soon, and Dad and I will try to help too–’ I stopped, silenced by Ben’s expression. ‘Is there something else?’

  Ben shrugged uncomfortably. ‘I dunno. I just get the feeling he’s a bit–’

  ‘A bit what?’

  He shrugged again. ‘What else d’you want me to buy?’

  When it was clear I wasn’t going to force any more out of him, I gave him twenty pounds and a short list and turned back to my computer and the very long list of measurements.

  But my brain kept sliding away to Malcolm and Gabriel’s showdown and Ben’s discontent, and the hint at new worries for Oliver, and if I was honest with myself, the thought of David’s crinkly eyes and dark (apparently un-dyed) brows and what might happen on Saturday …

  I made more coffee, bracing myself for the fact that I’d be coming out in blotches any time soon, and tried to get back to the job in hand. I’d just got rid of a cold-caller wanting to sell me a funeral plan and was absorbed in a new set of drawings when I heard the front door open.

  I stood up, disconcerted by Ben remembering his key for the second time in three days, only to see Oliver appear.

  ‘I told you, Mum,’ he said tightly. ‘We’ve had the first midwife appointment this afternoon.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ I scanned his face for bad news.

  ‘It’s all fine. It was just to take the details.’ Oliver looked as if he had a funeral planned himself. ‘We get a scan next time,’ he said flatly. ‘And then we hear the baby’s heartbeat.’

  ‘That’s lovely! Where’s Sam?’ My own heart was beating a little harder. I wasn’t used to this Oliver.

  ‘In the loo,’ he said. ‘She’s not feeling well.’

  Sam came into the room moments later, looking pale. She smiled weakly. ‘I feel really sick,’ she said. ‘I’m going to lie down.’

  ‘You do that.’ I looked at my son, who also looked nauseous. ‘Both of you go up. I’ll make tea. Peppermint?’

  ‘I can do it.’ Oliver’s voice was sharp.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked him in the kitchen as we stood waiting for the kettle to boil. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  ‘Not really.’

  Chapter 32

  I tried to get back into Personal Storage Units and grapple with the six versus eight drawers conundrum, but I felt knotted inside. I’d never seen Oliver so closed and distant.

  When Ben eventually reappeared with half of what I’d asked him to get, I wasn’t much further forward. I’d had an email from Malcolm – an unusually expansive missive for him – talking about my going for brunch at the weekend and including a link to an interview with a chef who claimed an electric whisk should be employed in pursuit of the perfect scrambled eggs, but not mentioning the debacle with Gabriel at all.

  And a fraught-sounding one from Paul enquiring how things were going. (Very slowly, since you ask …) Oliver and Sam were both still upstairs.

  After a small internal wrestle during which respect for privacy and personal space pitted itself against motherly responsibility and the latter bulldozed its way through, I tapped on the bedroom door. ‘Are you happy with an avocado salad?’ I called to Sam.

  She opened the door in her dressing gown, looking wan. Oliver lay, still in jeans and t-shirt on the top of the duvet. He appeared to be engrossed in his phone.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Tess,’ she said. ‘I should be cooking tonight …’

  ‘It’s no problem,’ I told her, adding brightly: ‘Is everything okay?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Her face lit up. ‘Kerry the midwife was lovely and she said she’d just had another girl in who’d got pregnant being sick. She’d had the norovirus and couldn’t understand why she wasn’t getting any better. By the time she went to the doctor she was three months …’ As Sam chatted on, telling me about blood tests and the date for the first scan, I stole a look past her at my son. He was still intent on his screen, tapping at buttons, showing no interest in the conversation.

  ‘I’ll doing a chicken Caesar for us,’ I said, when Sam had paused for breath. ‘And there’s a quiche.’

  ‘Great,’ he said, without enthusiasm.

  I went back downstairs, unsettled. Had I traumatised him shrieking about the shoes? I heard Ben’s voice when I’d expressed conce
rn for Gabriel. He’s 24, Mum. So would Oliver be in a few months’ time and after that he’d be a father … But I still couldn’t bear his face shut towards mine.

  As I fried croutons in olive oil and shaved off slivers of Parmesan, Ben came to lean in the doorway. ‘Have we got any beers left?’ he asked hopefully.

  I shook my head. ‘But you could open a bottle of wine.’ I forced a smile. ‘I think I could do with one.’

  I looked at the back of his head as he wielded the corkscrew. ‘Have you started your essay yet?’ I asked, knowing he hadn’t. He sighed. ‘Nope. Need to though – it’s twenty per cent of my first year.’ He groaned. ‘And then I’ve got to do stuff for the exams …’

  I looked at him in alarm. ‘When are they?’

  ‘Next week.’

  ‘I didn’t even know he had exams,’ I told Oliver, when Ben was back in front of the TV and my eldest had carried a pile of plates into the kitchen after dinner. ‘This year is galloping past. Did you know he’s thinking of changing his course? Or leaving altogether?’

  My eldest son did not look up from the dishwasher. ‘He’s just freaking out at all the revision he hasn’t done,’ he said. ‘He’s only got two – and one of them is a multiple choice. The rest is practical.’ Oliver straightened up and reached for a bundle of cutlery. ‘He always wants to change course when he has to do any work.’ He looked at me and smiled for the first time that evening. ‘Remember how many times he wanted to leave school when he was doing his A levels?’

  I smiled back and nodded.

  ‘He’s bad at sticking at things,’ Oliver said. ‘He can’t deal with commitment.’ He was abruptly straight-faced again. For a moment he looked as he had done in the bar on St Pancras Station when he’d told me about the baby.

  I stretched clingfilm over the remaining salad. ‘He’s only young,’ I said, struck by the edge to Oliver’s voice. I hesitated for a moment. ‘Is that what’s worrying you?’

  Oliver came back when Ben was in front of the TV and Sam had gone to have a bath. I’d booted up the computer again, but felt too washed out and shaken to concentrate on the plans.