Just Don't Make a Scene, Mum!

by Rosie Rushton

  Her bedroom was rather plush too – what you could see of it under the mountain of magazines, discarded clothes, fluffy toys, CDs and empty Coke cans.Above her pine bed hung some Tibetan wind chimes and on the walls, in between the posters of David Beckham and charts cut out of Heaven Sent magazine, telling you how to get a supermodel figure in seventeen days, were Peruvian wall hangings, Balinese masks, and posters from French vineyards. These were all presents from Chelsea’s sister, Geneva, who spent all her vacations from university backpacking or grape-picking or teaching foreign students how not to speak English.

  On this particular morning, however, Chelsea was certain that nothing in her life would ever be right again. And as was her custom on such occasions, she was having an in-depth conversation with Aardvark, her battered but exceptionally long-suffering teddy bear. She hadn’t named him Aardvark – that had been her linguistically-inclined mother. ‘It was the first thing we ever bought you when you were a baby,’ she had been told a thousand times, ‘and aardvark is the first word in the dictionary,’ Other kids had bears named Ted or Pooh or Paddington, thought Chelsea. But then what could you expect from a mother who named her children after the towns where they were conceived? Geneva, Warwick, Chelsea. Thank heaven they gave up breeding before we moved to Leehampton, thought Chelsea. Just imagine – Lee Gee.

  Chelsea squirted some Pretty Girl volumising spray on to her hair and turned up the volume on her radio. ‘Mo-oh-oh Moan Line, 212 090Ny-aye-ine!

  ‘Oh shut up! You want a moan – I’ll give you moan. It’s her – my mother – your so-called agony aunt. Agony being the operative word.’

  This wretched programme was the last straw – Chelsea had never been so embarrassed in her entire life.

  ‘I bet no other fourteen-year-old has to put up with this public humiliation on a weekly basis. And from their own mother at that. It’s bad enough her being in the paper every five minutes, exhibiting her crinkled kneecaps to the entire universe – but at least my friends only read the horoscopes.’

  Chelsea was referring to an article in the previous week’s Echo, for which her mother was the ebullient features editor. It was called ‘How Old is Too Old for the Mini?’ and carried a large picture, under which ran the caption, ‘Ginny Gee, mother of three, proves that even the over-forties look great in less!’

  ‘I don’t look bad for forty-five, do I?’ Chelsea’s mum had purred.

  ‘You look very good, dear,’ Chelsea’s dad had murmured, raising his eyes only briefly from Gourmet Monthly. (Years of experience had given him an innate awareness of when flattery was called for.)

  ‘Oh stand aside while I vomit,’ Chelsea had muttered.

  ‘Pardon?’ her mother had asked.

  ‘Pretty,’ she had said meekly.

  Indeed, so mortified had Chelsea been by this event that she had been moved to pen a poem on the agonies of exhibitionist parents:

  ODE TO MOTHERS

  Mothers are meant to be rounded

  Gentle and soft and kind

  Mothers are meant to wear sensible things

  Blouses and skirts that are lined

  Mothers should never be ‘trendy’

  It simply just isn’t right

  When skin starts going all saggy

  A mini-skirt just looks A SIGHT!

  She had left this masterpiece in a prominent position to the left of the Chardonnay bottle in the fridge, guessing – correctly – that her mother would head straight for a glass of wine after a hard day scribbling. To date, there had been little reaction. Chelsea felt let down.

  ‘We’ve got Ginny Gee from the Echo here in the studio to help you sort out those blush-inducing, mouth-drying situations,’ chirruped Dean from the confines of Chelsea’s CD/radio.

  Oh great, thought Chelsea. She is a blush-inducing situation. If she cared about my feelings, she’d retire and do Meals-on-Wheels or write books for kids instead of making an exhibition of herself in full view of all my friends. But she just doesn’t care.

  ‘I bet Laura’s mum will let her stay till midnight – but then Laura has a well-balanced and reasonable human being for a mother,’ she informed Aardvark. ‘Perhaps I could get Mrs Turnbull to work on Mum – after all, they are close friends.’

  This idea rather appealed and Chelsea was about to phone her best friend with instructions for priming her mother, when her father called her.

  ‘CHELSEA, WILL YOU COME DOWN HERE AND HELP WITH LUNCH?’

  Oh no – that’s all I need – Dad and his culinary masterpieces, she thought.

  Mr Gee was one of those individuals who thoroughly enjoyed being a New Man. Since Frensham’s Freshfoods had seen fit to dispense with his services as Marketing Manager (Creams and Custards), he was frequently to be found in the kitchen, wrapped in a shiny plastic apron with pots of mustard all over it, creating an exotic dish for supper, or huddled in the cupboard under the stairs where he was busy growing shiitake mushrooms in an old bucket. He had quite a flair for food, he had discovered, although mundane things like egg and chips and beef stew held no appeal for his creative instincts.

  Chelsea sighed. She adored her father; it was just that she didn’t understand him. Her mum went around dressed in what Chelsea deemed to be totally unsuitable clothes, but at least she thought about what she wore. Her father, on the other hand, saw clothes purely as a method of keeping warm and the older and more dilapidated they were, the more he liked them. His current favourite was a sweatshirt with the logo of an inebriated penguin and a pair of suede shoes dating from the seventies.

  ‘CHELSEA, COME ON – I NEED A HAND WITH THE COOKING.’

  Chelsea sighed to herself. ‘Why do I have to get involved in his gourmet creations. Why can’t he just grill a fish finger?’

  ‘CHELSEA! NOW! I NEED YOUR HELP!’

  ‘COMING.’ Course, I blame Mum. If she was here being a proper mother I would be able to have a normal childhood. Warwick’s probably as dippy as he is because of maternal neglect.

  Warwick was her nineteen-year-old brother who had a chinful of acne and a desire to be a tree surgeon. Warwick went through life in a sort of comatose daze which worried Chelsea because, in a few weeks, he was setting off to backpack across Indonesia to look at bamboo forests and banyan trees. ‘It is doubtful,’ Chelsea had told her friends, ‘whether he will make it to Heathrow.’

  Chelsea had asked Warwick what he thought of their exhibitionist parent taking to the airwaves.

  ‘They need the cash,’ he said, peering at what appeared to be a dying twig but which he assured them would one day be a flowering cherry tree. ‘Hold these secateurs, Chelsea.’ So much for brotherly guidance.

  ‘CHELSEA! I AM NOT GOING TO ASK YOU AGAIN.’

  ‘COMING!’ She clomped downstairs, still muttering about the unfairness of life.

  At it again, Chelsea? First sign of madness, that, you know – talking to yourself!’ said her father.

  ‘It’s the only way to get any intelligent conversation round here,’ retorted Chelsea. ‘What’ve I got to do?’

  Her father immediately became businesslike and seized a wooden spoon with fervour.

  ‘Right, we’re going to make Pastel de Chocio and we need to work fast.’

  I like the ‘we’ thought Chelsea. Still, chocolate couldn’t be all bad.

  Her father removed a solidified lump of minced beef from the freezer and examined it with the intensity of a surgeon about to perform microsurgery.

  ‘Where’s the chocolate, then?’ said Chelsea

  ‘It’s not chocolate, silly – it’s a dish from Chile with meat and corn and eggs and black olives and loads of raisins …’

  ‘YUCK! That sounds way repulsive!’ said Chelsea.

  Her father smiled benignly at her. ‘It’s time you were more adventurous, Chelsea – there’s a whole world of flavours out there and all you want is fried chicken and chocolate brownies.You will never educate your palate if you don’t sample a few new dishes.’

 
Chelsea thought it best not to comment.

  ‘Dad …?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What do you think of this radio thing that Mum’s doing? I mean, it’s a bit much, isn’t it?’

  ‘Mmm – what?’ Her dad was peering into the larder and hurling pots of spice over the counter top.

  ‘The radio thing. Dad – can’t you stop her doing it?’

  ‘What on earth for? She loves it. And anyway, she’s really good at that sort of thing. Sorting other people out has always been her forte. She’s a getting-involved sort of person.’ He peered into the depths of the larder. ‘Someone has eaten nearly all the raisins – that’s all I need.’ He glared accusingly at Chelsea.

  ‘Don’t look at me – I expect Warwick’s had them,’ said Chelsea.

  ‘Bother it – they’re an essential ingredient,’ said her father.

  ‘Don’t worry, we can have spaggy bol,’ said Chelsea with relief.

  ‘No, no, this calls for a little initiative,’ said her father with glee. ‘I wonder whether prunes would work as well?’

  Chelsea’s stomach threatened violent action. She decided not to think about it.

  ‘But Dad, I mean – when Mum does all these stupid stunts for the paper, or spouts on the radio about teenage sex and stuff, don’t you just want to die?’

  ‘No, why on earth should I? It’s not me that has to do it. Or take the advice.’ He chuckled at his own wit.

  ‘Actually, I’m rather proud of her,’ he continued, chopping onions. And besides, she enjoys it – in a way, she’s trying to find herself, I think.’

  Just then, Warwick ambled into the kitchen. His tall, scrawny body seemed to be ill at ease with its surroundings and his face wore an expression of permanent bewilderment.

  ‘I’m off to the garden centre,’ he muttered, peering at Chelsea through his glasses. ‘Is that a spot on your face, Chelsea?’

  ‘Oh go pot a seedling!’ snapped Chelsea. Warwick picked up a handful of sliced onion and an olive.

  ‘Your mother said to remind you to get your cholera jab,’ said his father. ‘We don’t want you going down with something nasty in the intestines.’

  Warwick turned pale, replaced the olive and wandered off.

  ‘Switch the stereo on in the sitting-room so I can hear your mother, will you?’ Her dad patiently took another onion from the basket and chopped away methodically. He arranged the meat and eggs and olives in a dish and looked at it in an admiring sort of way.

  Chelsea fled upstairs and flung herself down on the floor. ‘I’m switching it off once this record is over, whether you like it or not,’ Chelsea told Aardvark sternly. ‘I can’t bear to listen to her – she’s bound to go all virtuous and sanctimonious and give little pieces of motherly advice about tampons and boyfriends – and all my friends are sure to be listening. And she is so out of date, you’d just die to hear some of the things she comes out with. Or else she tries to sound so cool and with it – and makes it quite clear to the world at large that she is totally without it.’ ‘And now it’s time to talk to Ginny Gee…’

  ‘Oh no, here we go. She’s on. I’ll turn it off.’ She flicked the controls. Silence reigned. Chelsea bit her fingernails. She turned it on. ‘I can’t – I need to know the worst. I can’t listen. I must listen. Please, please make her be normal. Just this once. Please.’

  Chelsea’s intercession to the Almighty was interrupted by the shrilling of the telephone.

  That better be for me, thought Chelsea. I need to have my mind taken off my tragic home life.

  Chapter Four

  Laura Enlists Chelsea’s Help

  ‘554901 – Chelsea speaking …’

  ‘Hi, Chelsea? It’s me, Laura.’

  Great, thought Chelsea. Now I can get tonight sorted. But Laura had other ideas.

  ‘Listen, I’ve got to talk really fast because if Mum catches me on the phone she’ll do a meltdown. She’s into one of her if-you-devoted-the-time-to-your-schoolwork-that-you-devote-to-talking-you’d-still-be-top-of-the-class bits. I forgot that our history project has to be finished by Monday. Mum thinks I am in my room dealing with the causes and effects of the Peasants’Revolt.’

  ‘Oh no, it’s not this Monday that it has to be done, is it? Can I have a peek at yours?’ pleaded Chelsea. Laura was one of those people who could produce three sides of A4 in ten minutes, even on a subject she knew nothing about. She was what Mrs Hopkirk called a high flyer.

  ‘Yeah, if you like – much good it’ll do you. I’ve done all of two sentences so far. I’ve got far more important things on my mind.You see, your mum’s on…’

  ‘I know, I know,’ Chelsea said, sighing, ‘she’s on On Your Marks. Don’t blame me. It’s awful, it’s gross, but I can’t do a thing about it.You can switch the radio off – I have to live with her.’

  ‘You don’t know when you’re well off. At least your mum knows how to behave and …’

  Chelsea spluttered. ‘Behave? Get real! My mum’s never known how to behave.’

  ‘Well, just try living with mine,’ said Laura. ‘Your mum’s really cool. I mean, she’ll talk about anything – you only have to say “boy” to mine and she turns puce and thinks I’m about to take part in an orgy. She should talk,’ she added ruefully.

  ‘Mine would be so busy minding everyone else’s business, she wouldn’t even notice if I did,’ muttered Chelsea, degunging her left ear with one finger.

  ‘Anyway, what were you going to say?’

  ‘Well, you know you’re supposed to phone in with all these embarrassing situations and stuff? They’re giving away prizes as well – they haven’t said what yet…’

  ‘A day at the Echo with my sainted mother, I bet,’ interrupted Chelsea.

  ‘Oh, that would be brilliant,’ said Laura enthusiastically. ‘I could use it in my book.’

  Some people are easily pleased, thought Chelsea. But then Laura was a very literary sort of person who wrote for the school magazine without being asked to, and read all sorts of erudite books. Chelsea, on the other hand, preferred test tubes to Tolkein any day and would rather create a noxious gas than a clever essay.

  Anyway,’ continued Laura, ‘I was just wondering whether I could phone and get your mum to kinda sort my mum out – you know, with this awful business with the geek Melvyn. Before she makes a complete prat of herself

  ‘Oh come on, Laura, you can’t do that! My mum will recognise your voice, and whose side do you think she’s going to be on? She gets on with your mum like a house on fire.’

  ‘That’s it, you see,’ said Laura triumphantly. ‘If I phone in, using a different name but giving all the details, your mum will guess it’s me. Once she realises the agonies my mother’s behaviour is putting me through, she’ll have a quiet word with her about not ruining my life. Your mum understands things like that. And because my mum thinks yours is the bee’s knees, she’ll take notice and do as she is told.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ muttered Chelsea, whose experience had taught her that people over the age of forty rarely took any notice of anyone.

  Laura sighed. ‘Well, I have to do something, I can’t stand it much longer – I mean slobbering outside the supermarket in full view of all my friends, that was the final straw. I nearly died. I mean, at their age. Anyway, can I come round to your house and phone in? There’s no way I can do it from here. Mum is sure to hear.’

  Chelsea was not convinced that this was a good idea, but she knew Laura well enough by now to know that when she got hold of an idea, she wouldn’t budge. It was easier just to go along with it.

  ‘Well, OK then, but you’ll have to be quick. Tell you what, I’ll dial in, give a false name, and then you’ll be in the queue. But hurry.’

  ‘OK. Thanks.’ Laura sighed again. ‘I do wish I had a normal mum like yours.’

  ‘The word normal is not compatible in the same sentence as any reference to my mother,’ said Chelsea. ‘See you in about five mins.’

  Cha
pter Five

  Jon Fights Back

  Laura was not the only person that Saturday morning who was having parent trouble. Over on Billing Hill, where the houses had names like Chatsworth and Broadlands because their owners wanted to sound as if they lived in stately homes even though their bank balances only ran to mock Georgians with double garages and burglar alarms, Jon Joseph was having a row with his father. Again. Or rather, Mr Joseph was holding forth at some length while Jon watched his podgy lips moving to a background of chart music blaring from his iPod.

  No one would have guessed that Jon and his dad were even distantly related. Mr Joseph was red-faced, rather overweight and inclined to like the sound of his own voice. Jon was lean, angular, and had hair that curled into the nape of his neck – a feature that caused a number of girls at his private school to swoon with delight. His long legs, permanently tanned from weekends spent out on his mountain bike, were another source of female approval.

  ‘Oh, do take those wretched things out of your ears when I am speaking to you,’ his father Henry shouted, wrenching the cord from his ears. ‘I don’t suppose you have heard one word that I have said to you,’ he blustered, his three chins wobbling as he rammed another golf club into his bag.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ retorted Jon,’I’ve heard it all before, a million times. How does it go now – “After all we’ve done for you, all the sacrifices we’ve made, the least you can do is put some effort into your studies.” Oh yes, and then there’s the bit about “God gave you a good brain – try using it,” and “If only I’d had the opportunities you’ve been given.” Have I missed out anything?’

  ‘You can be insufferably rude at times, Jon,’ said his father. ‘You know how much you want to get to Cambridge and …’

  ‘Hang on a minute. I want to get to Cambridge? No way. Isn’t it really a case of you and Mum making your minds up ages ago that nothing but Cambridge will do? That only that way will you have something else to brag about at the golf club and Rotary?’

  His father glared at him. ‘Now look here, Jon …’