Single Mother on the Verge

by Maria Roberts

  ‘What’s for dinner?’ he asks.

  ‘A surprise.’

  Jack groans and runs upstairs. Experience has taught him that ‘a surprise’ is synonymous with ‘I’ve no idea what’s in that Crock-Pot.’

  While he’s in his room changing, I have the opportunity to string up the badminton net I bought from Argos as a treat. I hope he’ll like it. I can’t drive the poles into the hard ground so I tie one end to the drainpipe, and the other to the tree across our stretch of the communal gardens.

  ‘Surprise,’ I shout up the stairs.

  Not a peep. Can’t say I blame him. He probably thinks the surprise is roasted parsnips in Marmite.

  ‘Jack, surprise!’

  He appears at the top of the stairs, hands on his hips. ‘What?’

  ‘Come out and see.’

  ‘I’m not eating that stuff, whatever it is.’

  ‘Come and see what’s outside, Moody Bum.’

  Fortunately Scarlet has arrived. ‘Can I play?’ she hollers through the door.

  ‘Course you can.’

  Now Jack’s thinking, Can I play what? He runs down the stairs and out through the door. He runs back in and hugs me. ‘Thanks, Mum.’ Then he darts back out again to adjust the ties on the drainpipe and the tree. ‘You haven’t tied this very well,’ he calls. Then he chooses a metallic blue bat, picks up the shuttlecock and gets ready to play.

  ‘Girls against boys?’ I suggest to Scarlet.

  ‘Yeah!’ they both shout. Jack runs indoors to grab Rhodri and drag him outside.

  Us girls won. Those boys cheated. A few children walking down the estate stopped to play so Rhodri and I left them to it. Now I’m sitting on Rhodri’s knee, watching the news and overhearing children bicker in front of the window. Moments later everyone has fallen out with one another, the game is over and children are storming off in different directions. You can’t buy children happiness, not even from Argos.

  The next morning I watch mothers gather in clusters outside the school. Jack is off playing. If I made an effort to befriend some mummies, Jack might feel more involved. I sit on the bench by the tree stump, wishing someone would talk to me. I may have missed the boat on this one because they’ve formed mystical inner-circle groups. I’d need to be Robocop to bust into one: I’d have one of those synthesized voices and bellow, ‘Make room, single mother on the verge of a nervous breakdown coming through.’ Even though Rhodri lives with us, I still feel very much a single mother when it comes to raising Jack. If I were married, maybe I wouldn’t feel as if my life is temporary.

  I divide the mums into groups so that I can try to figure out where I fit in.

  Grade-A mummies.

  Mostly housewives. Their husbands have good jobs and they live in dream houses. They spend a lot of time in front of the mirror, have good clothes, good hair, sports cars, attractive children, and are permatanned (not the nasty streaky stuff, but the result of fancy holidays with fancy sun lotions). The kind of mum I’d love to be.

  Grade-B mummies.

  The sporty mothers who jog five miles at least twice a week, followed by an hour at the gym. And the career mothers who work in law, broadcasting and the medical profession, but not as domestic assistants, more like consultant cardiologists and so on.

  Grade-C mummies.

  The struggling mothers. I think I fit in with them. We always look harried and as if we should be whipped off for an instant makeover. I’m sure I must look jobless. That’s probably why no one talks to me. My shoes are knackered. My clothes are too. And I hang around with the aura that I’m going off to the DSS to get a social loan to fund my addiction to the Shopping Channel.

  ‘Would you like to come to my exhibition?’ says a mummy.

  I turn my head in disbelief.

  It’s not voices in my head. A mother is actually talking to me. She hands me a postcard. ‘I’m a photographer,’ she says. ‘My exhibition is on at the gallery across the road.’

  ‘I’d love to go,’ I say, hoping to hold her for conversation. Then the bell rings for the start of school. I kiss Jack goodbye and scan the playground in search of the friendly mum, but I’m too late: she’s already left.

  21

  I sit on the dirty steps to the office block where I work for Athens. The enormous steel doors are locked. My keys are at home so I read a newspaper and pick at a bacon sandwich I bought from the Koffee Pot nearby.

  ‘Morning,’ says one of the music girls, rattling her keys in the lock. ‘You’re early.’ She lets me in, then slinks off in a cool fashion towards her end of the office.

  I switch on my computer, clear away dirty mugs, leaf through papers on my desk, then check my emails. Last night Rhodri said he’d take on some gardening work, which is a relief. Holy goat. There’s an email from Cici, the girl who was handling the applications for –

  I’m going to New York on an all-expenses-paid work trip! I am one of the chosen few! I call Rhodri. ‘Guess what?’ I screech.

  ‘What?’ He sounds as if he’s still in bed.

  ‘Are you still in bed?’

  ‘Yes, it’s my first lie-in for weeks.’

  ‘I’m going to New York!’ I holler.

  ‘When?’

  ‘In about ten days.’ Do I have a current passport? Yes, yes, yes, I’m sure I have. ‘Athens!’ I yell, spying him walking down the corridor. ‘I’m going to New York!’

  ‘I’ll talk to you when you get home. Are you going to work late?’ shouts Rhodri, over my excitement.

  ‘No. I’ll be back around seven.’

  ‘We’ve a lot to do today, M,’ chides Athens. He’s in a foul mood, I can tell.

  Oh, yes – New York, New York, New York!

  Somebody likes me.

  When I arrive home I find a young bearded lad in the kitchen. This reminds me very much of when an Iranian friend came to stay for a fortnight and, four months later, was still sleeping in my office-kitchen-diner, and Buddhists used my lounge for their weekly chants. Then, like now, life was one big hullabaloo.

  Rhodri collected Jack from after-school club and they are now making posters at the kitchen table. I look to see what Jack has drawn – the world exploding under the effects of climate change. How lovely. He leaps off the chair and flings his arms around me.

  ‘Hello, honey.’ I lift him onto my hip, as if he were a toddler, and rub noses with him. ‘Have you had a good day?’ I turn to the bearded lad and offer to shake his hand. ‘Hello,’ I say to him.

  ‘Joel,’ he says, returning the handshake awkwardly.

  I must remember to stop doing that handshake. It’s so working class. People embrace nowadays. With this in mind, I go to kiss his cheek. He veers away. ‘Nice to meet you, Joel. I’m Maria.’

  ‘I know,’ he says. ‘We met before Christmas.’

  Ah, that Joel. The subvertising one. The vegan-glue one. Now I remember.

  ‘Rhodri,’ I call, as I struggle through the kitchen, Jack still clinging to my hip, in search of my darling man. Rhodri is making stencils in the living room. He glances up, catches sight of us and shakes his head affectionately. I slide Jack down my body, headlock Rhodri and give him a delightful kiss. ‘I’m so excited,’ I begin.

  But Rhodri harrumphs at me. ‘About what?’

  ‘New York!’

  ‘How are you going to be getting to New York?’

  He isn’t going to be happy for me, is he? I knew it. ‘On an aeroplane,’ I say. ‘How else would I get there?’

  ‘I thought so.’

  ‘Well, I can’t jolly well catch the boat to the United bloody States of America one week in advance, meet the convoy there and return two weeks later. A five-day trip to New York would take a month.’

  ‘You could say no. You don’t have to go.’

  I could say no, but I’m not going to. ‘It is a training trip,’ I argue. ‘I need to go for my career.’ I’m not altogether sure what that career is, but I’m quite sure I have one.

  Jack scowls at me
. ‘You’re going to New York and I’m not. I don’t believe it.’ He folds his arms across his chest furiously and slumps on to the big leather armchair.

  ‘It’ll be all work, sweetheart, not much fun.’ Is it really necessary for everybody to hate me today? ‘Tell you what, if I think you’ll like it, we’ll go one day. Hey?’

  ‘All right. Can I have one of those T-shirts with “I ‘heart’ New York” on it?’

  ‘If I can find one, yes.’

  ‘And a present?’

  ‘Yes.’

  *

  That night everywhere I look in the house reminds me of the imminent disaster that is climate change, and the fire-breathing dragon that is capitalism. I switch on the television to find a documentary on wind farms and how that’s no good. I watch the news and discover that across the world people are starving or drowning or being exploited in the drive for globalization. Children in India are holed up in factories sewing beads onto ethnic-style clothing for export to the UK, their eyes and bodies blistered from years of being locked in a room. Elsewhere women and young girls are trapped in the sex industry. I sit on the sofa and cry at everything I watch, starting with Coronation Street at seven thirty and ending after News at Ten. What a disaster, I think. But would any of this be solved by my not getting on that aeroplane?

  New York was incredible. Our fabulous hotel was situated at the foot of the Empire State Building. I took a special lift to the penthouse to get to my room, which was an executive suite with a remote-control queen-sized bed that had an adjust able mattress. I pressed the button to make it firm, then again to make it squashy, firm, squashy, firm, squashy, on and on for five glorious nights. Each morning a paper was delivered to the door, then a maid cleaned the bathroom, folded the towels and made the bed while I was out at executive-type meetings. We took trips to Brooklyn and Greenwich Village, and went to the National Arts Center on Gramercy Square. I trawled Fifth Avenue, like Holly Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. When I tired of that, I napped on the grass in Central Park to the sound of children screaming and laughing on the fairground, a jazz band played, and I heard the clip-clop of horses taking tourists here and there. We rode the Staten Island ferry to catch a glimpse of the Statue of Liberty at midnight. Cocktails were served in the executive lounge each day from five until seven.

  One evening I looked out across the skyline of New York City, martini in hand, fellow travellers lounging on the sofas engaged in intellectual conversations about poets, and it dawned on me that what I crave is opportunity. I don’t want to downsize my life until I live in a commune wearing recycled potato sacks. I want to help people and make a difference. I want to travel with Jack and experience other ways of being. I don’t want to be a single mother on the verge of a nervous breakdown for the rest of my life.

  Tonight as I lie in my own bed, giddy with jetlag, I plan to remedy our dire financial situation. Rhodri won’t allow me to pimp him out to cover the mortgage but during my stay in New York I worked on a top-secret plan to start my own business. It’s a terrific idea – despite a looming recession. I’ve spent the last few days putting together a business proposal and my projections demonstrate that I’ll be a mega-multi-millionaire in five years’ time. A former banker can downsize to my house, and I’ll upsize to a flash city pad. All I need to do is to find a business angel with heaps of money and convince her to give me some cash, so that I can make heaps in return. I told Rhodri about my plan and he stormed away from me in disappointment. I said: ‘Think of it as a redistribution of wealth. Rich people give me money, I’ll make money, and in turn I’ll help out charitable causes. Think of me as Robin Hood. I’ll be robbing the rich to give to the poor.’

  To which Rhodri replied, ‘But it could involve people flying from one country to another and I cannot give you my support for that.’

  So I’m going to travel to London for a business seminar on how to attract a venture capitalist. It’s a Dragon’s Den environment, but in the real world not the television one. Since my trip to New York, I’ve been designing my new entrepreneurial lifestyle by signing up for business start-up meetings and networking breakfasts. It’s very likely that we’ll be off this estate and living next door to Tamara Mellon in a jiffy. I’ve booked to stay at a cheap hotel in Paddington because I cannot bear to stay at that backpackers’ hostel again, even if it does only cost twelve pounds per night. As I’m soon going to be a multi-millionaire, I’m counting on being able to recoup the fifty pounds.

  ‘Your room is located in the building across the street,’ says the receptionist. I take the key, then drag my case across the foyer and towards the exit. ‘It’s on the top floor. Do you need help with your bags?’

  ‘I can manage, thanks.’

  The receptionist reaches for the telephone. ‘I can call someone – it isn’t a problem.’

  ‘Thank you, but I’ll be fine.’ If I’m going to be a world-class entrepreneur, I first need to handle the challenge of a few stairs. I struggle out of Reception and over Gloucester Terrace to the annexe facing the hotel. With some difficulty I unlock the heavy door, then push against it until it gives way to a rather depressing and dusty hallway. I stand at the bottom of the stairs, looking at the banister that curls up and up and into itself. How am I going to get to the top floor? I can barely even see it.

  I scan the hallway for a lift. This hotel reminds me of the place my father moved into after his divorce from my mother. It was a grand old house divided into bedsits, with a shared bathroom on each floor. It was the kind of place you’d end up in should things go wrong, or if they never went right in the first place.

  I pull my case up the stairs backwards, one step at a time. The seminar I’m due to attend is near Trafalgar Square. That gives me two hours to shower and polish myself. Afterwards I’ve arranged to meet Morton for a quick drink.

  By the time I’ve climbed countless flights of stairs to my room I’m breathless and sweaty. I shuffle my case through the door, then throw myself onto the double bed and take in my surroundings. It’s shabby without the chic: the carpet is dirty, ragged, and poorly fitted at the edges, and the slatted blinds obscure the view onto the street. The room is filled with the noisy throttle of buses and traffic outside. I lie back and close my eyes. The sheets feel clean, but the air smells musky and thick with other people’s encounters.

  Later I stand under the hot jets of water in the tiny shower cubicle and try to shave my legs. When I drop the soap there’s barely room to bend down so I squat to pick up the slippery bar. Eventually I open the shower door and stick one leg out then the other, dripping water over the floor as I glide the razor over my skin.

  I spend much of my evening with entrepreneurs and stressed venture capitalists. I sit next to a young multimillionaire looking to invest in cutting-edge businesses to prop up his doomed ones. I follow him out on to the street, lean against the wall and smoke with him. He’s quite a dish. We talk about his business ventures (vast but steadily losing money), the weather (hot), the Tube (unreliable). Then he walks one way and I another until I find myself sitting on a bench in Trafalgar Square, looking up at Nelson’s Column.

  I dig in my bag for my mobile to ring home.

  ‘Maria Roberts’s phone. She’s not here right now, how can I help you?’

  ‘Jack, it’s Mummy.’

  ‘Hello, Mum. Where are you?’

  ‘Trafalgar Square in London.’

  ‘I want to be in London.’

  ‘Did you have a good day?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you go swimming?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you swim well?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s Rhodri doing?’

  ‘Cooking dinner.’

  ‘You haven’t eaten yet?’ Oh, no, it’ll be a vegan dish. Jack will howl, Rhodri will moan. I’ll feel bad. Jack talks briefly, but seems bored already. ‘Please could you put Rhodri on? Love you.’

  ‘Love you, ’bye,’ says Jack, dropping th
e phone and yelling, ‘Rhodri.’

  There is the clatter of pans, some grumbles and the rising sound of The Simpsons in the background.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Nice to speak to you too.’

  ‘I’m busy cooking dinner and trying to get Jack to do his homework.’

  ‘I just called to say hello and goodnight.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘It would be nice if you sounded like you want to hear from me. I am your girlfriend.’

  ‘I’m tired, that’s all.’

  ‘What are you doing for dinner?’

  ‘Fish fingers and oven chips.’

  ‘But you don’t believe in convenience food.’ I get it. Home-cooked meals when I’m around, oven food when I’m not. I’ll store that one up for ammunition.

  ‘How was the seminar?’

  ‘Very dull. No good at all. Not what it said in the description and an utter waste of time.’

  ‘What are you doing this evening?’

  ‘Meeting up with a friend.’

  ‘Well, have a good time. Love you.’

  ‘You too,’ I say. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  The sky is a grey blue fading into dusk. Buses rattle past me, followed by motorcycles. All I can hear is the sound of irritated honks and the scream of an ambulance siren. There always seems to be an emergency in London. I call Morton and he picks up quickly.

  ‘Hello? Morton, it’s me.’

  ‘I’m still at dinner across the city.’

  ‘When can you meet?’

  ‘I’ll have another drink and be with you in forty minutes What are you going to do in the meantime?’

  There’s a networking event connected to the meeting but I don’t want to join in. All this talk of money has left me feeling hollow. ‘Go for dinner.’

  ‘Meet me in the Garrick Arms.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Behind the National Portrait Gallery.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘It’s huge, you can’t miss it…’ Morton is momentarily distracted by someone talking to him. ‘I’ll see you in there,’ he says, and then he is gone.