Mothertime

by Gillian White

  Is that the reason she’s made such an effort to create a Christmas? Has she done it because she is frightened—is it an act of defiance or terror? If Vanessa loses Christmas, perhaps she will lose her childhood. Whatever it is, now she feels so terribly weary of it all. She ought to have known it would never work. What had she expected anyway—that Mother’s face would glaze over with wonder, that the shock of the Christmas-tree lights would turn her back into something wonderful, tapped by the fairy’s magic wand? What she’s done, what she’s tried to do is ridiculous, and now they’ll all pay the price. Planning it all had felt very different.

  ‘And if you go moaning to Robin I can tell you exactly what will happen,’ said Mother last year, on the morning they woke up early expecting to see the familiar pillowcases stood at the end of their beds. She made her excuses quickly, annoyed. She was ill, all messed up in the head and how could she be expected to cope after what Daddy did to her? ‘He’ll be terribly nice,’ Mother explained, warning them off. ‘He’ll commiserate like hell and you and he can berate me together. He’ll take you out and buy you whatever you like, to compensate for my bad behaviour. But at the end of the day I can tell you exactly what will happen, because Suzie won’t have you at the flat under any circumstances. This house will go, for a start. You won’t have a home to go to. Robin will stop paying maintenance and we won’t be able to afford to stay here. You’ll all be shipped off to boarding schools, God knows which ones or where, he’s gone so bloody peculiar, he won’t listen to reason.’ Mother glared at her children, one by one, each of them wilting under the blast of that direct stare. You shouldn’t stare back at wild animals, it only antagonises them and makes them worse. She drew in a lungful of cigarette smoke and blew it out almost gaily. ‘So where do you think you’ll be spending your holidays?’

  ‘Granny’s?’ ventured Vanessa, almost soundlessly.

  Mother just snorted. ‘You should be so lucky! The State makes special provision for children like you. They’d take their forms and go and inspect Isobel’s house and conclude that it was quite unsuitable. Isobel hates children. Robin’s mother is so set in her ways, a speck of dust upsets her. She would never cope. No, there’s others, special people who’ll take you in—people who are trained. No doubt Robin would call occasionally and take you out for treats, just as he does now, when it suits him.’

  ‘Where would you be, Mother, when we were taken in for the holidays?’ Dominic’s cheeks were flushed. Her only son. You could see that he verged on the edge of tears.

  ‘It wouldn’t matter to anyone where I was. It never has mattered, and it wouldn’t matter then,’ said the crushed thing that was Mother from the raging pain within her. She wandered off to turn on the television. None of the family were dressed. She hadn’t been going out with Bart then, there’d been a young boy called Douglas… dotty, dopey, dirty Douglas, with black greasy hair, and silver studs on the back of his jacket. During this period she took to wearing her long, straight wig with the fringe; it was orange, it clashed with her face. She wore black polo-necked sweaters and skin-tight jeans. Mutton dressed as lamb. She danced with Douglas in the drawing room late into the night, On the Wings of Love, difficult to be graceful because of his lumbering boots. She bought him a motorbike so he could get work delivering parcels all over London. Daddy used to laugh about that when they told him. When they told him it felt as if they were snitching. Daddy laughed while Suzie lifted her eyebrows and grimaced. Once, Vanessa looked round and saw Suzie mouth the words, ‘Don’t interfere,’ with her usual, honeyed contempt.

  And is Mother a lost cause, like Granny says?

  Anyway, no doubt to Suzie’s huge amusement, Douglas roared off in a pall of smoke one morning and never came back, but Mother keeps his photograph in the close place, next to the stamps in her purse.

  So last Christmas morning, confused and dispirited, they all sat and watched The Wizard of Oz. At the point when Dorothy set off down the yellow brick road, a good half-hour later, Mother added huskily, as if they’d been deep in conversation all the time, ‘So my advice to you is to keep quiet. There’s more to Christmas than presents, anyway. You’ll all understand when you’re older. I’ll give you some money and you can go to the sales tomorrow. It’ll be much more fun in the end. I told Mrs Guerney to leave us something cold in the fridge. There’ll probably be some turkey, if you’re so desperate to taste it.’

  ‘Couldn’t we just put a few decorations up? Please?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be worth the effort. Not now. You should have reminded me earlier. I’d have got Mrs Guerney to help you. Or Gwyneth.’ When Gwyneth left to have her baby, Ilse came to replace her. Mother said it was too depressing, she wasn’t prepared to take pregnant Welsh girls again. ‘Coming to hide in London,’ she said. ‘It’s time these people with their miserable, grim religions as grey as their blasted little walls faced up to their moral responsibilities, like we have to. To see them just drags me down. And the three flights of stairs are too much for them.’

  She’d been blaming Daddy, really; she called his religion grim, too. ‘Your father has always loved a martyr—that’s why he fell for the simpering Suzie. But he will destroy her in the end. Perhaps,’ and here Mother smiled, ‘perhaps she’ll go up in flames one day. I just hope I’m bloody well there to see it.’

  Mother ought not to make jokes about martyrs like that.

  It wasn’t so bad for Vanessa, who didn’t believe, or Camilla or Dom, but it was awful for Sacha and Amber. Sacha came up to Vanessa afterwards and whispered, ‘But what happened to our list? Me and Amber wrote one between us and sent it up the chimney.’

  ‘Sometimes lists get lost in the sky, especially at night. But I’ll write to the North Pole and say what happened this time so it’s not likely to happen again.’

  Vanessa considered telling Daddy about their missing Christmas although that would feel like snitching, too. He would phone on Christmas morning, he’d assured them he would. She thought hard and long about it: if she told him, would it really have the effect that Mother warned them it would? Would he decide to send them away, scatter them about in various boarding schools? Sometimes it is hard to get through to Daddy because he is so strongly influenced by Suzie. Maybe he wouldn’t listen to their protests. Daddy didn’t want trouble—he discussed the situation with them quite openly, saying it was important that they understood. Daddy has not yet dismantled his gym in the basement for fear of upsetting Mother. He’d walked out of the house with only a suitcase full of papers; he’d left the rest of it exactly as it was. Mother had taken everything of his, his clothes, his books and his photographs, she had bundled them up, thrown petrol on top and had a fire in the garden. She poked the smouldering mountain to fury with a garden broom. She danced and made little cries when it flared. Mr Morrisey from next door called from his side of the tall wooden fence; his thin neck rose up over the planks and the shadows did something to his face, making it hollow and long, making it look as if he was wearing a tall top hat, part of the ceremony, flecked with flame like a witch doctor. ‘Don’t think I’m complaining, Mrs Townsend, but are you sure you have that thing under control? The wind is blowing in my direction.’ His false teeth gleamed.

  Mother called the children to join her, but they did not want to be party to it. They watched from indoors, huddled together on the window seat in Camilla’s room. Dominic, his face shadowy, smokey, dark, kept saying, ‘Maybe we ought to ring Daddy and tell him what she’s doing.’ He hugged a cushion to his tummy as if he had a pain. But they knew it was pointless. Daddy could not get back in time to save anything, and besides, there would only be the most hideous row.

  When they told him about the fire he said they had done right to do nothing.

  The equipment in the gym, being mostly metal, was impossible to burn. And it was heavy, much of it attached to the floor or the walls, and Mother had not attempted to destroy it. Out of sight out of mind. One day, Daddy says, when things are calmer, he’ll make arran
gements with a specialist firm to collect his stuff. Until then the basement is kept locked even though Ilse has often asked to use the exercise bike and the weights. Nobody goes down there any more. It is probably dusty, and rusty from lack of use. Vanessa had once climbed down the basement steps to look in, forgetting that the tiny barred windows had been painted white for privacy. Even with your face pressed hard against the bars you can’t see anything at all.

  Daddy is always sympathetic. ‘Your mother is so volatile, she hasn’t been able to cope with the change and it’s time she got help with her drinking. She does it for attention, for effect of course, and revenge, we understand that. She’s never, really, been able to cope. I did her no favours by staying with her as long as I did. But the calmer the waters the better, for the moment. It’ll take time, but you’ll find that I’m right, your mother will pick up the pieces and get on with her own life again. If nothing else, Caroline is a survivor. I know it must be difficult at home at the moment, especially for you, Vanessa, being the oldest. I depend on you so much. You know you can come to me at any time, don’t you? I’m only a cheap tube ride away, and remember, I am always on the end of the telephone. I want to know what’s happening, Vanessa. You are my children, you always will be my children and I love you all very much.’

  But there is always an edge to Suzie’s voice when Vanessa phones Daddy at home.

  Mother is home.

  ‘Go and wake Dominic up, collect the twins and we’ll go down. Maybe, if we’re all together, we can persuade her.’

  To do what? What are they trying to persuade Mother to do? Nobody really knows. What is this desire to draw close to the thing which is causing the pain? They want to guard the beautiful tree which is large enough to take two sets of lights.

  It does not take long. Following the crash, the house sounds eerily silent. They gather, ghostly, on the dimly-lit landing, not needing to speak or explain any more. They feel very close to each other. Dominic pulls on his manly dressing-gown; he is nervous, his asthma is noticeable. He leads the way, shuffling down the stairs in his hippopotamus slippers. The twins, half-asleep, squint, adjust their wiry spectacles. They do not ask what is happening. Camilla follows Dominic and Vanessa brings up the rear like a very white angel, the twins’ sleepy hands sticking to her own.

  Oh no! Mother is ripping the tinsel off, branch by branch. The Christmas tree leans to the right so the fairy’s legs stick up in the air—made ridiculous. Mother is sobbing, still with her coat on. She has not bothered to turn on the main room lights so there are just the fairy lights in their glowing glory, so pure, so gentle, a halo round every one. The colours prick the leather of the sofa, a little soft firelight is left in the grate.

  ‘Don’t! Don’t!’ Amber runs forward with her arms outstretched and then she stops dead, sensing the futility of protest. Two small shreds of untouched tinsel wink at each other in the semi-dark.

  Mother sobs and then she laughs. Even in her madness she must feel the heavy presence of the rest of her children; their faces make a white semicircle behind her, a primitive nursery rhyme moon. She slows in her task before turning round. She stares straight into Vanessa’s eyes and holds them for one second… two… before shutting them out again, lost to the darkness. Mother’s eyes fade, each one as sad as a pressed flower petal, and quite unable to meet the challenge.

  ‘Don’t!’ roars Amber again, zipped like a rabbit in her sleepsuit. ‘Why are you doing that?’ The raging child turns to face Vanessa. With her small fists clenched at her sides she cries out, ‘Why is she doing this? Why is she?’

  Mother is like a snake… repellent… degenerate like a whore.

  She struts towards the coffee table where the green bottle is waiting, and the glass. The chink and the glub glub of the gin being poured is the only sound in the room.

  ‘You don’t have to do anything, Mother. It’s all done. We did it. For a surprise.’ Vanessa’s voice is firm. There is no fear in it. ‘There is really no reason for you to destroy it.’

  Mother’s face slides as blearily as her voice; it is all pulled down to the side where her lips dribble warm alcohol.

  ‘What’s this then? A bloody family reunion?’ Her voice is like her, devoid of vitality. She flicks her lighter and moves an unsteady hand towards a bent cigarette, shouts, ‘Shit it,’ as the flame burns her thumb, and then she sits back allowing the smoke to drift from her mouth, her nose. The smoke is the softest thing about her.

  She lies down on the sofa, stretches out her legs and eases off one boot, using the toe of the other. She shakes it off and kicks it aside. She holds up her leg and flexes the stockinged toes.

  Somewhere. Somewhere else in the world little children are peacefully sleeping. And there could be a badgers’ set underneath one of the pine trees, a whole family of badgers snuggled up in the roots together. Somewhere.

  ‘Well, you put them up, and now you can just start taking them down,’ Mother snaps. ‘It upsets me to see them. They remind me… of too much… hateful stuff and false promises… Christ, I am sick to death of all this. And I’ve had it up to here with you, too. It’s time you started to see things as they really are… not as you’d like them to be. The stark facts of life, that’s what you need! Are you all so insensitive that you can’t understand anything that’s ever gone on in this house?’

  The children do not move. Vanessa can see that Amber, standing slightly forward, has started to shiver.

  Mother’s voice is icy. ‘Didn’t you hear what I said?’ She tries to snap her fingers but they are too weak and flabby. Seeing this, she lets her hand drop.

  Nobody moves. If they moved they would move as one, as a gas or a liquid, as an essence of misery. They are incapable of movement.

  In contemptuous mild tones Mother carries on; you can imagine the shape of her eyeballs behind her closed lids. ‘Then I’ll have to do it myself. God help me! God help me! One day, so help me, I’m going to get out of all this! And what the hell’s the matter with you, Vanessa, you fucking little prude! You played the Virgin fucking Mary, didn’t you, and I thought when you told me—how deliriously apt! Always watching me. Always staring with your saintly nose wrinkled up as if there’s a smell you can’t bear, as if you can’t quite locate it! Well it’s me, darling, I’m afraid. I am the smell that’s too strong to tolerate! I am the leaky sewer, Vanessa. Why don’t you come closer and sniff? Between my legs. Under my arms. Christ! Christ!’ Mother hiccups. ‘As if I haven’t had enough already.’

  STOP IT, MOTHER, STOP IT! YOU ARE HURTING YOURSELF TOO MUCH AND YOU ARE TOO STRONG FOR ME TO HELP YOU …

  Missing a breath, Vanessa tastes blood. It comes from her bitten lip. She bites harder, surprised to find that she still has the strength.

  She is vile! Mother is vile and full of evil! Suffering the wages of terrible sin. She wants to ask then, ‘Mother, did you… was there ever a time when you loved me?’ But she knows there was… memories of that softer time when Mother tried, they threaten to drench her.

  An awful kind of laughter grips Mother now, but she stops quickly, as if it is too painful, she cannot cope, she might start coughing. She fumbles to try and get up, with one boot on and one off. Dizzily she reaches for her glass instead, tips it, and the children watch the pale silky liquid drain into her mouth. She swallows and her chest heaves. Her eyes widen. ‘I’m sick,’ she groans. She brushes her eyes with her free hand which trembles. ‘So sick. Christ, I’m pissed as a fart.’ There are stains on her coat, and on her skirt, brown stains like old food. And then she leans forward, folded almost in half and vomits harshly on to the carpet. At once the stench overpowers the pine. The stuff continues to trickle out of her mouth, unbroken strands of slime, shuddering her with bitterness. She retches, she moans until there is nothing left but a brown froth on her lips.

  Only the children’s eyes move; they flicker uneasily from one to the other.

  Then Mother, having finally found her feet, turns the colour of milk, sways gently and
collapses in a groggy heap on the rug by the fire.

  ‘Oh oh oh oh…’ It seems that Camilla can’t stop.

  They watch Mother steadily, waiting to see if she breathes or if she has died right in front of them. Is death so easy, then? Mother likes Burl Ives singing Dippity Doo Da, Dippidy Day. She says you can’t buy wafers any more, only cornets. Aren’t these ordinary things incredible? Gradually Mother’s chest rises and falls with a regularity. The shuddering stops. Her mouth falls slackly open. Her tongue lolls out like a tired old dog’s.

  Vanessa looks up. The effort of moving her neck feels heavy. Her shoulders are stiff, as if she’s sat in a draught for too long. She steps forward and crushes out Mother’s crooked cigarette in the ashtray. Released by her movement Dominic, man of the house, who still wets his bed but nobody knows except Vanessa and Mrs Guerney, crosses the room and lifts one of the heavy curtains. ‘We need air. We have to open a window. The room stinks of sick.’ And then he turns round with a flush of joy that makes his face round and childish with delight, the secretive curtain flung back behind him. ‘Look! Look Sacha, look Amber! Ilse’s forecast was right. It is snowing!’

  Can you believe how strongly Vanessa envies his enormous, wonderful childishness?

  Three

  WHEN VANESSA KNEELS TO wash Mother she feels she is wiping a thin layer of evil away. Mother’s eyes cry sooty black smears.

  ‘But we don’t want her to wake up,’ Amber lisps through the hard, pink gap in her mouth. ‘If she wakes up she’ll spoil it all. Can’t we keep her asleep somehow? Just until after Christmas?’

  If Vanessa is plain then the twins are downright homely… nothing like Mother used to be, or the pretty, ballet-dancing Camilla, or Dom, with his dark, gypsyish beauty. Their little round spectacles do not help, but without them the twins can hardly see; behind them their eyes are pale and speckled—they do not look like eyes that work well, you have to peer hard to find the lashes. Constructed almost entirely of angles, their prominent cheekbones make elves of their little faces, and their elbows are jointed like puppets’, sticking out in sharp bony points. Sacha and Amber have short, straight hair, a dull carrot, and their complexions are pale. Their noses are freckled but the freckles are smudged so it seems as if they have forgotten to wash. ‘I’ve never known a pair look so old-fashioned as you two,’ Mrs Guerney often remarks, ‘with those round-necked Fair Isle jumpers… not enough colour in them for my liking, except round the cuffs and the neck. With your long stringy necks you’d look better with a collar. A nice bright green would suit you. And kilts! Whoever heard of kids wearing kilts these days?’