by Anna Maxted
I’m not sure who retreated first, me or my mother. But the person she was seemed to fade away. Even when she looked at you, you felt she was looking through you. What changed was, she bought more for us, for Ollie and me, but it wasn’t fun. Did less, bought more.
She got lazy. She stopped putting Scott Walker on the stereo and singing ‘Jackie’ in a breathy American accent while she made us our breakfast.
I used to love the way I’d come downstairs and she’d have every element of the morning under control. I’d lie cosy in bed for ten warm minutes before getting up, listening to her clank utensils, draw the blinds, open the sash window, lay the table, splash water into the lily vase. She bought a bunch of white lilies every week for the table, because when Ollie was a baby, they were the only flower he took notice of. She’d tried daffodils, roses – no response – but whenever he saw the big beautiful lilies, with their bold petals and strong scent, he’d point a fat finger at them and say, ‘Da!’
If you believed Grandma Nellie – who was forever regaling us with tales of our once-blissful childhood – nothing was too much trouble for my mother, then. A speciality of Angela’s was a boobala – that’s what she called it. I think it’s a Yiddish word and she learnt it off her grandmother – A boobala is, from an objective viewpoint, a disgusting concept. It is a cross between a pancake and an omelette except fluffier, and you sprinkle sugar and lemon on it, or strawberry jam. If she wasn’t making us boobalas, it was bacon and eggs, with runny yolk. (Her ideologies were blurred.)
Then she started buying breakfast. Crêpes from the supermarket, and squeezy bottles of syrup. Chocolate sauce. We were allowed Ricicles. White toast and butter and marmalade. Peanut butter. Banana Nesquik. Simplicity was, for a short time, a novelty. Ollie ate and chattered, and my mother smiled in his vague direction. I just ate. Once I made a triple-decker sandwich of five crêpes, sprinkled each layer with Ricicles, squeezed squirls and squirls of chocolate sauce and golden syrup, crushed it down with my hands, then rolled it into a sausage and ate it like Homer Simpson eating a bratwurst. All the while beady-eyeing my mother, but she never said a thing. Just stared into her coffee like there was a gold coin at the bottom of it. Ollie noticed, however, and mouthed, ‘Pig.’
My breakfast habits around the age of seven may well account for my eating habits now. I can eat anything. Because he has no imagination and can’t be bothered, Ollie gives me a mammoth bar of chocolate at Christmas. So on 1 January, while a large proportion of the female population are committing to their soya and sackcloth diet, I’m thinking I could crumble some Dairy Milk onto my oats. I can eat chocolate with tuna, for God’s sake; I can eat it between slices of bread. I have no concept of a food being ‘too rich’. Too rich?! What is that?
After a year or so of the bought crêpes – during which, I presume, I got fat – my mother changed again. She dressed, rather than dropping us off at school in her pyjamas. She’d even gone through a phase, I can’t remember how long it lasted – until my father found out, I expect – of booking a cab to pick us up from the house at 8 a.m., every day. And collect us at 3.30 p.m. Really, that year, it was money no object. Ollie accumulated a trumpet, a guitar, a piano, and a water gun the size of a cannon. I got face creams. Lots and lots of face creams. Not to use on my face, because I was no longer interested in all that, but to mix with purple and black paint, to concoct magic potions. When my father travelled to Birmingham for work, he brought back the tiny complimentary bottles of shampoo and conditioner from his hotel bathroom.
I kept all my potions in a cardboard box, which I painted with black glitter nail varnish and labelled ‘MY WITCHES SET’. I had a big squashy-covered notebook with rough yellow paper on which I wrote evil spells. I scraped pollen from the flowers in the garden and red juice from poisonous berries. I added shampoo, mud and turmeric. I’m not sure who I thought was the witch – me or my mother. I stopped short of offering her a coffee and pouring a potion into it. She’d have realised anyway. (All of my potions foamed.) My venture into sorcery predated the British cappuccino.
The year of plenty was over and, if you judged by appearances, my mother was back. Up early, hair clean, pearly lips – although her mouth looked chapped underneath and made me lick my lips. Ricicles were contrabrand again, and boobalas and bacon and eggs were on the menu once more. I refused them and ate toast. I didn’t like her. Whereas once, her every action, every word, her whole being pulsed love for us, this new model was a too-jolly imposter. She drove us hither and thither, to friends, to the park, to swimming. I had a bet with Ollie, who could swallow the most water. It was a certainty that it was forty per cent urine but I didn’t care, even when I vomited and they had to clear the pool. That’s how much I loathed my mother. I found her spiritless and servile. And so, I could see, did Roger. Angela was the perfect Hampstead Garden Suburb housewife, but she never sang any more.
My relationship with my father, meanwhile, improved no end.
And now that too was ruined. Difference was, I had ruined it. In some ways, I was a naïve child. I didn’t know about sex, affairs, the terminology. When I watched Dallas – I was around eight – Clive told Lucy (or was it Sue-Ellen?) that he was ‘impotent’ and this made her cry. I asked a classmate, ‘What’s “impotent”?’ and she laughed at me and said, ‘You are.’ I gritted my teeth and pinched the soft bit of her arm until she screamed. So, while it was in my head that my mother had had an affair, I didn’t really know what this meant. All I knew was, it was the gravest of offences, a bad, evil, wicked thing – a crime that got me and Ollie whispered about at school. It made my father and me very unhappy and hate her. It was all her fault.
Even as a child I could see that Daddy wasn’t quite like Mum in capability, but I was patient with him. Funny thing is, I see it now, with Jude and Oliver. The kid is one year old and he already expects less of his father. Mummy is the one in charge, who knows what she’s doing. Daddy is more for fun. My daddy was certainly more fun. As Angela became increasingly dreary, with her dutiful cooking, endless tidying, constant fussing, and near silence, he picked up her slack. But he had no clue about parenting rules.
He was a shocker. He let us stay up so late on school-nights, we’d fall asleep on the lounge sofa. He’d let us watch the most violent films you ever saw in your life. Manhunter was one. In another, I distinctly remember Bob Hoskins ordering a man’s leg to be sawn off. One day, Roger decided to take over the cooking of dinner. I remember seeing a crab on the sideboard, going ‘clack clack clack’. Then my father bashed it dead with the House Beautiful cookbook. After that, he tended to avoid the kitchen. He bought us as much raisin and lemon cheesecake as we could eat. My mother didn’t interfere. I wasn’t sure if she didn’t dare or she didn’t care. She was like a lodger. No, more like a housekeeper. My father had the run of our lives. He was a very dramatic parent. He was terrible at DIY, and once ran the lawnmower over his foot. I was sitting in the crook of my favourite tree in our garden, and he roared, ‘Aaaaaooooooow! Aaaaaaaaaaooooooow! Aaaaaaaaaaaooooooooow!’ Then shouted for good measure, ‘That really huuuuuurrrrrrt!’ The opposite of her. Once, she was chopping onions and cut off the top of her finger. There was blood over the chopping board but she didn’t say a word. It was like she didn’t feel it.
At least my father’s response to pain was honest. She made no sense. Also, I wanted to please my father, so I took his lead. When he was in a good mood, he was exhilarating to be around. He took Ollie and me to parties with his actor friends. I’m not sure how old I was – I’d guess about eight – I remember barging through a sea of waists belted with gold chains, to reach the Matchmakers. Daddy bought me a pink bow that he liked me to wear in my hair. I tolerated this because it got me attention off the other grown-ups, which gratified him.
Sometimes he allowed me to bunk off school and go to work with him. He had an office with lots of windows at the end of a corridor. It contained a desk the size of a Ping-Pong table. I liked going there because his assistant
was purveyor of fancy biscuits and treated me as a VIP. Also, his business partner had a black collie, who permitted me to feed her chocolate digestives, then prop myself against her rough, warm back while I devised spells in ye olde handwriting. Her breath was awful. Ollie refused to bunk off school. As he got older, I felt his disapproval of my father. I tried to ignore it. I knew I was my father’s favourite.
And now, I’d fucked it up. As I drove away from the house, I didn’t know how I could bear what I’d done. I’d betrayed my father as she’d betrayed him, and the pain he must be enduring seemed to swell inside me, too big for my body. It was like a great inflating balloon, growing bigger and bigger, sucking up the air in the car, leaving no room for me to move or breathe. I pulled over.
Well, I could do one thing for my father, just to ensure that take two with Jason ran smoothly.
I forged the note from Jack and mailed it.
Chapter 15
By return of post, I received a brown parcel marked ‘FRAGILE’, and a banana plant. The parcel contained two big beautiful white ceramic mugs, made in Italy and decorated with hand-painted red hearts. I smiled. Jason had never liked it that none of my twelve mugs were a ‘matching pair’. There was a pale blue envelope stuck to the plant pot. Neatly printed on it were the words, ‘Here’s to a new leaf!’ I looked and, there was a stiff green baby leaf tightly furled at the head of the banana plant. It only occurred to me later that there might be a message inside the envelope. It read,
Dear Hannah,
You rock!
I’m so glad it’s all going so well. It sounds from his note as if Jack was delighted to have the chance to clear things up! I’m in Kenya on business for two weeks as from tomorrow. I look forward to seeing you upon my return.
Smackeroonies,
Jase xx
I felt unworthy. I think that all many women want is for their man to keep them in mind. They don’t much care if he buys flowers or dog food. Flowers are sweet, but the fact that he was out and thought: ‘Dog food! If I don’t get it, she’ll have to make a special trip. I’ll save her the trouble!’ – that’s great too. I placed the banana plant in a nice draught to keep it cool, and thought about how Jason kept me in mind. It made my heart melt a little (not the core metal, you understand, just the outer steel).
He deserved to have everything he’d asked of me. Every single thing. He hadn’t asked for much. The essence of his requests was that I make an effort for him. It wouldn’t hurt me to wear a skirt once in a while. Nor would it kill me to talk about my emotions, if I spotted any. I could become the sort of female who applied lipstick to shower.
Trouble was – here I went, always an excuse – Jason had tried to spruce me up before, and failed. Babydoll nighties, lipstick – they worked perfectly well on other women, but not me. We weren’t a natural pairing.
He once bought me a container of a deep red substance called a ‘splash gloss’, for my birthday. I smeared it on my mouth out of curiosity, before we went to a restaurant for dinner, spent half an hour grinning at all the waiters like the novice I was, then happened to glance at the wall mirror, and, horror, the stuff was all over my teeth. Oh my God, I was one of those women with lipstick on her teeth; they’re usually about fifty.
And there was the time he returned from Selfridges with a pink nightie the size of a dishcloth that looked adorable in its lush wrapping, but appalling on me. ‘Your pyjamas are all holey,’ he said.
I struggled into the garment. It was made of a stretchy material, clingy and transparent. You could see nipples, pubes, the lot; it was like a free show. It skimmed my upper thighs, strained over every lump. The pretty little pink ribbon and pink lace edging strove for a delicate effect but their efforts were futile, overshadowed by the nipples and pubes. I’m not obese, but this thing made me look like an elephant seal in drag. A supermodel would have looked OK in it. I wore it that night, and lay there bolt awake, it was so prickly, like sleeping on thistles.
‘I’m sorry,’ I told Jason, having retrieved my pyjamas from the kitchen bin. ‘The nightie doesn’t fit. Guess I’m not a baby doll.’
How mean and ungrateful I was. I hadn’t even persevered with the nightie. (It had cost him ninety quid, which worked out at forty-five quid per square inch of material.) But I hated that nightie on sight. It reminded me of the fact that some women obviously feel obliged to look alluring in their sleep. I feel quite strongly that this is one time you should be allowed to relax.
Now I felt nauseous with shame. OK. This was what I would do. I’d grant every request on Jason’s wish list. I’d reinvent myself to please him. I was going to learn to cook quiche. I was going to transform my appearance from ho-hum to da-na! I was going to out-girly Sindy, become a super-dolly. By the time I’d finished, Lucy and her sewing kit were going to look about as fucking feminine as a rugby player next to me. Oh yeah, and I was going to clean up my language.
One tiny snag in my grand plan. I didn’t have the first clue.
I dialled Gabrielle.
The expression on my sister-in-law’s face was making me nervous. I’d expected her to be delighted.
‘I just don’t see why you’re doing this. For Jason.’
‘Gab, I messed him about for five years. I’ve just ruined his chance to lead a nice life with a normal woman. Lucy,’ I added, to be clear. ‘This is a second chance for both of us. I want to show willing.’ She looked unconvinced so I reached for my trump card. ‘We may get married. I want to give us a fighting chance.’
If my argument was philosophically unsound, Gabrielle didn’t notice. As expected, she reacted to the ‘m’ word like a dog to a minute steak.
‘Married?’ she breathed. ‘Hannah, I didn’t realise! My God, congratulations! Oh, then, of course!’
Jesus, what is it with people and marriage? It turns them into nincompoops. Funny, that, because no one likes going to weddings.
‘Brilliant,’ I said. ‘Is now OK to start? Or is it a bad time?’
I smiled at her, hoping. As far as I could tell, if you had offspring under twenty, any time was a bad time. I hardly rang, because whenever I wanted to, I’d think: but she’ll be busy now.
Gab was dolloping a pink lumpy mixture flecked with orange into an ice-cube tray. It looked like sick but I knew it was puréed home-made haute cuisine for Jude. She owned about ten recipe books for babies and they were all full of salmon à la croute and chicken chassis. That kid ate like a king. He didn’t know his luck.
‘I’ve got to label this and stick it in the freezer, then I’ll be done,’ she said. I watched her squeeze the trays into a compartment crammed to the brim with ice cubes of puréed chicken en l’orange and mashed-up prawn cocktail with garlic mayonnaise, so I presumed.
She slammed the freezer door, stood up, and said, ‘God, that’s satisfying.’ I must have looked mystified because she added, ‘I pride myself that he’s never eaten from a jar. He’s got such a good appetite. I love to make him healthy food, and know that he’ll eat it. You know, if he doesn’t finish his lunch, I’m in a bad mood for the rest of the day.’
I smiled at her again. But I was thinking, that’s a little intense. I looked at her standing there, all high on good mothering, in her beautiful kitchen, I looked at her fiercely fought-for figure, her girl-band clothes (no point in having the figure if you couldn’t say ha-ha to the world) and I wondered what Gabrielle would do if her perfect life got a chip in it.
Which reminded me. ‘Did you get a new cleaner?’
‘No, not yet. But it’s fine. I do it myself, at night.’
‘Right.’
There was a lot else I could have said, but I chose not to. I had asked Gabrielle to do a ‘make-up over’ on me (that’s what they call it on This Morning), and while I was not a powder-puff sort of girl, even I knew that a make-up over is something women do to each other as a short cut to being really great friends. It bypasses the need for one of them to go through a trauma and for the other to be there for her.
Gabrielle seemed to have forgotten that to meet Jason’s demands, I’d had to see Jack. If she’d remembered, she wasn’t interested enough to ask about it. I found that incredible. It stuns me how unimportant the minutiae of our lives are to even those closest to us. It’s good to be reminded of this occasionally. It keeps you alert. Plainly, I had no life, as I recalled that Jude had attended a peer’s first birthday at the weekend.
‘Did Jude enjoy the party?’ I said.
‘What? Oh. No.’ Gabrielle put her fist to her forehead and bared her teeth. ‘I thought the invitation said three o’clock. They’d hired Monkey Music to entertain the babies. So we get there at three, and Robson’s mother opens the door and says, “You’re too late!” So I said, “But the invitation said three.” She swore she’d put “one” but said maybe she’d made a mistake. I get home, find the invitation. It says, “1300 hrs.” Thirteen hundred hours! What, are Jude and Robson in the army? She’s German, so maybe it’s more normal in Europe. But I’m from Mill Hill! I don’t go by the twenty-four-hour clock, I – oh, look, why am I going on about this, anyway? He’s with my parents today, they’re taking him to the seaside, so at least he’ll have a nice day today.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘But I’m sure he was fine yesterday too.’
‘I don’t like making mistakes.’
A distraction was needed. I said, ‘Lucky you’re not me, then.’
Gabrielle laughed and the spell was broken.
