Being Committed

by Anna Maxted

  Didn’t she know that the nicer you are the nastier others treat you? Did she imagine that one day, my reaction to her watchful, beseeching eyes would change? I resented her because I felt that if she’d cared enough, she would have taken charge of my anger and shaken it out of me. At first, I was probably too young to know what I was hating her for. My dislike was instinctive, so I thought, based on the knowledge that she had deeply hurt my father. Later, when I was mature enough to understand the meaning of an affair, my disgust reformed anew at a conscious level.

  She was led by me, whereas everyone knows that the job of a mother is to show her children the way.

  I’m not saying I never felt affection for her. If ever you’ve experienced a Joy-to-the-World-type mood you’ll understand. You catch yourself in a moment where all’s well with you, and you feel a spontaneous swell of goodwill to pretty much anyone. It’s rare, I admit. But if one of those moods ever hit me, nostalgia would sneak up on the back of it. I’d yearn for the days when life was uncomplicated. When my ability to drink from a beaker was a great achievement and Mummy would sit close to my highchair, applauding.

  But then, I’d see her, an aged cardboard replica of her young self, and she’d say something annoying. I’d get an unfriendly expression on my face without even trying. I knew Gabrielle wished we were friends. She was the best of friends with her mother. They borrowed each other’s clothes. This was a bad idea as no sixty-year-old – however black her tan and blonde her roots – looks good in a crop top. They also discussed their sex lives. I’d rather not have a sex life than discuss it with my mother. I said as much to Gabrielle, so she knew to keep out of it.

  She tried her best. Gab was a compulsively energetic person; part of her charm was that she was enthusiastic about her friends, not just herself and her immediate family. So it was hard for her not to interfere, to try to get us to pull ourselves together. Perhaps Ollie warned her. (Ollie preferred to let things be. His motto was ‘Ah well’.) Or maybe she knew that if she wanted to keep our friendship, she had to keep quiet on the matter. She had to appreciate that I was quite reserved (not about other people’s business, you understand, just my own). Also, she wasn’t the victim in this. But now and then her need to shape us into a cosy family unit overpowered common sense.

  ‘Angela,’ I said, ‘can you wait a minute? I have something I need to discuss with Gabrielle.’

  Against her will, my sister-in-law followed me into the lounge.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I said.

  ‘Hannah, you have to admit that no one is better at traditional housewifery than your mother.’

  ‘Gabrielle,’ I said, speaking in a slow, patient voice as if to a very stupid person, ‘what do you think you are achieving, tricking me here?’

  ‘You don’t give her a chance,’ burst out Gabrielle. ‘You have no idea what it’s like for her! How you treat her, it’s offensive!’

  ‘But she—’

  ‘I know, and you know what? There are worse things!’

  I gave her a nasty look. ‘You’re insane about fidelity in marriage.’

  ‘There are many ways in which you can betray a partner.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Mental cruelty.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I know your mother loves you—’

  ‘Oh, come off it—’

  ‘Hannah, you don’t get it. Everything she could have said to alienate you from – but she wouldn’t because she knows how much you—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  All the anger left Gabrielle, in a visible ‘puff!’

  ‘I just,’ she added, ‘don’t think you know how intense it is being a mother. And I cannot imagine anything worse than having your daughter hate you. You think about your children twenty-four hours a day, they fill your head so there’s barely room for anything else, their wellbeing, their present, their future, their happiness, you want to guard them from danger for the rest of their lives, you worry about the people they will meet, today, tomorrow, for ever, those who will love them, hurt them, how you can ensure their safety after your own death, you gaze at photos of them smiling and wish you could preserve them in that moment, because in that moment they are safe, you worry every time they get in a car, every time they’re out of your sight, you look on everyone as somebody’s baby once, and yet you assess everyone as a potential threat, you creep into their bedroom and watch them as they sleep, listen to their breathing, check the window lock in case a paedoph—’

  ‘Gabrielle, Gabrielle!’

  She stopped.

  ‘Gabrielle. That’s not my mother. That’s not a lot of mothers I know. That’s you.’ And then, I added more softly, because her face had crumpled, ‘You are such a good mother. Jude is such a credit to you.’

  She burst into tears.

  ‘Gab, Gab, what is it?’ I patted her on the shoulder.

  She sniffed and pulled away.

  ‘I – I get so scared. I worry that he’s going to die, that someone will take him away from me, and I’m so tired, he sleeps OK now, and I’m still so tired, I can’t concentrate on anything, there’s no time, even when I’m with Jude I feel I’m half elsewhere, I feel guilty, when I’m with him, guilty when I’m not with him – and his food, the bloody freezer, that bloody useless freezer, I made a huge batch of chicken and vegetables for him yesterday, my whole evening, and today I went to show the nanny and the superfrost button hadn’t worked and the chicken was soggy, I had to throw it all away, and I was just so angry, and I forget things, I forgot I had a bride coming round last week and I didn’t have her fitting ready, it was awful, it had gone out of my head, you know, I can walk out of the lounge and Ollie will say, “Switch on the kettle,” and by the time I’ve reached the kitchen I’ll have forgotten what he’s asked me, and it’s all such an effort, some days I don’t even wash my face, and, like, last weekend, Ollie and I finally made it out of the house to take Jude to the park and we’re walking along and this bird, this disgusting bird, I feel this horrible splash! on my head and shoulder and this bird has poohed on me, purple berry pooh, and I want to scream, and run home and shower, but I’m so desperate to get to the park with my family for, like, five minutes of being a family, that I just get Ollie to wipe off the worst with a nappy wipe, and then –’ she covered her mouth with her hand – ‘that night, I’m so so tired, I don’t … wash my hair until the next morning! Me, me, can you imagine, me doing that, so disgusting!’

  She stared at me, forlorn, from the sofa. She was wearing white, her hair was tied back in a sleek ponytail, the picture of glamour. Although, if I looked closely, there was a weariness around her eyes. Actually one eye. Her left brow was beautifully plucked. The other was … bushy.

  I took a deep breath. I am mediocre at giving advice. I wished there was a superhero I could call on. If only Cat Woman existed. Alas, it was going to have to be me.

  ‘Gabrielle,’ I said, ‘the first thing we are going to do is to get you a cleaner. You cannot do every single thing. You are already running two lives. Possibly three, if I know Oliver. It’s too much. Now. Jude is fine. That is the main thing. But, also, equally, you are not fine. So we have to think of what will make you fine. I think, more sleep. What time do you go to bed?’

  ‘Oh, well, midnight, usually.’

  ‘What time do you get up?’

  ‘Six. Five thirty. Depends on Jude.’

  ‘The little rat! You need to be in bed by ten thirty, latest.’

  She nodded. ‘But—’

  ‘No buts. You must do this. It is very simple. But it will make a lot of difference to your mood.’

  ‘But that’s when I make Jude’s foo—’

  ‘I’ll make his food, goddammit!’ She looked unsure, so I added, ‘I’ll make some of it. You tell me what to do, I’ll do it.’ Why, why, why, you rash fool? moaned a voice in my head. At least offer something you’re capable of!

  ‘I suppose,’ said
Gabrielle, ‘I could ask my mother to do some of it. She’d love to. It’s just that I, I like to do everything myself. I don’t trust anyone else to … do it as well as me.’

  A woman after my own heart, but I wasn’t going to admit it. ‘Gab, you have this need to control everything, including the weather. But I suspect that being a parent means being out of control, to an extent. I think it might help if you learn to accept that. You’re a brilliant mother. But no one can be perfect. It’s not possible and it’s not … necessary. Better to allow yourself to make a few mistakes. If you’re anxious the whole time, Jude will pick up on it. As for your other problems – some of them can be solved by referring to your diary. Writing lists. Lists are good. You tick off things – Jason’s always doing that – and then you have a sense of achievement. Meanwhile, you do, and always have, look immaculate. You … you might want to pluck that other eyebrow, though. But your skin looks great, your hair looks great. If that’s what bird pooh does to your hair, well, someone better tell those beauty scientists.’

  Gabrielle clapped her hand to her brow. Then giggled.

  I felt a flutter of relief.

  ‘You’re good,’ she said, ‘at practical stuff. I feel a lot better. You’re right. A lot of it is simple. I’ll go to bed earlier. Delegate, a little.’

  I smiled. And yet, I sensed that she was leaving something out. Rather like a play splashing ‘INCREDIBLE’ over its posters, when the critic actually wrote, ‘An incredible waste of time and money, the worst show I’ve ever seen in my life, abysmal …’ What was Gabrielle leaving out?

  She had mentioned that she was terrified of Jude dying, but, Jesus, I had no answer to that! There was no answer. Not the answer she required. (‘No, he is never going to die. Never. I guarantee it.’) The kid had to take his chances like the rest of us!

  I cleared my throat. ‘Gab,’ I said. ‘Jude is going to be fine. He is surrounded by many people who love him and take great care of him. It’s natural to worry but don’t let it spoil the joy of having him. He is fine, and he will be fine.’

  I could see her drinking in my words. If society didn’t have rules about such things, I sensed she would have sucked them out of my mouth. Her smile lit her face. ‘Yes. Yes, I know. You’re right. Thanks, Hannah.’

  I had a hard time not looking shifty. I present optimistic guesswork as fact, and, because she wants to believe it, she does and is reassured, even though she is a fully grown adult who in her rational mind knows it is guesswork because it can’t be fact.

  Women. I tell you, they’re amazing.

  The front door of Gabrielle’s house clicked shut. She jumped up. ‘Angela!’ she gasped. She flipped open the wooden shutters and we peered through the window. My mother was plodding down the path, a brittle figure, clutching Waitrose bags.

  My sister-in-law shot me a pleading look.

  I regarded the smooth polished oak floor and murmured, ‘Oh, let her go.’

  Chapter 18

  ‘You know her mother isn’t well,’ said Gabrielle, crossing her arms.

  ‘What? No. No, I didn’t.’

  At a cousin’s wedding, years ago, Grandma Nellie embarrassed herself by screaming at my father. She kept shouting, in her wavery voice, ‘Shame on you!’ She had white flecks at the corners of her shrunken lips, congealed spit. I never wanted to kiss her. We hadn’t been close, she’d always favoured Ollie. I think she thought boys were more important than girls. My father had said, ‘Calm yourself, Nellie,’ kept his cool. But I was furious with her. What did he have to be ashamed of? Her daughter was the cheat. It was tense in the car on the way home. After that, I only ever saw my grandmother at family events, and after a few years, the fact I never visited made it too awkward for me to suddenly appear on her doorstep bearing cake.

  I paused. ‘How not well?’

  ‘Ill,’ said Gabrielle. ‘Hospital ill. She wanted to tell you to your face but you never seem to go round when she’s home.’

  I swallowed, apparently there was a pebble lodged in my throat. ‘Oh, right,’ I said, and ran after my mother.

  I caught her as she was stepping into the Volvo. My parents have a car each, as do most residents of the Suburb. While the place is a wasps’ nest of conservation orders and the unspoken threat of citizen’s arrest if you don’t trim your hedge to the ordained height, locals see no irony in owning an average of three great gas-guzzling vehicles per family.

  ‘Angela, wait.’

  My mother stepped out of the car backwards, banging her head hard on the door frame. She didn’t react, she just gave me a nervous smile. ‘I thought you—’ she stopped.

  ‘I got caught up in there, with Gabrielle,’ I said. (It was a matter of policy, I never said the word ‘sorry’ to my mother.) ‘We were talking.’ (Another policy; never explain more than you absolutely need. If you blather it starts to sound like an excuse, which weakens your position.) ‘I’d still like to cook, if there’s time.’ A part of me remembered eating chocolate cake dough from the mixing bowl while my mother checked the oven. I preferred it raw. My grandmother always said I’d get a stomach ache, but Angela still let me. ‘I didn’t know Grandma Nellie was in hospital. Is she OK?’ I added, ‘Did you hurt your head?’

  It annoys me, people who are stalwart about physical pain. It makes the rest of us look like whingers. I could only conclude they do it to impress those around them, or to conform to some British Standard of Painbearing, set down in the 1700s by a bored lord. I find it ridiculous. It is your pain, not anyone else’s, you should make as big a deal of it as you see fit without having to tiptoe around everyone’s tiresome sensibilities. There is no need to be like Jason, who never shuts up, even if he bites his tongue. But why couldn’t my mother say ‘Ouch!’?

  ‘I’m fine,’ replied my mother. ‘Grandma’s fine too. I thought you’d changed your mind … about the cooking.’

  I reached down to take a shopping bag, and together we walked towards the front door. Even that was awkward. We weren’t used to walking together, we hadn’t got the who-goes-where arrangement sorted out – she waited for me to go first, I waited for her. She was being polite. I hated people walking behind me. I had this irrational fear of being shot in the head. After a jerky, stumbling-over-our-own-feet episode, she went ahead, I followed.

  ‘What’s wrong with Grandma?’ I said. As I said it, I realised she had a choice of interpretations.

  ‘She had a mild stroke.’

  ‘Oh God.’

  This kind of conversation incapacitated me. Jesus, it was like I’d had the stroke. I never knew what to say, what was the appropriate response. I always ended up asking irrelevant questions, like, ‘What route did the ambulance driver take to the hospital?’

  ‘Was she, er, dressed when she had it?’

  Ah God, be quiet, Hannah. The only other question fighting to take the death leap off the tip of my tongue was, ‘Have you cancelled her milk?’ (You don’t want milk bottles lining up on your doorstep, it says ‘Coo-ee!’ to burglars.) I managed to swallow it.

  ‘She was in her housecoat,’ replied my mother.

  I nodded briskly. ‘Great, great.’

  ‘The kitchen’s ready for you,’ cried Gabrielle, God bless her. ‘I’ll be in my study if you want me.’ Angela and I both reacted to this news as if it meant the difference between life and death.

  ‘It’s nice,’ ventured my mother, ‘that you want to do this for Jason.’

  Yes, I wanted to say. I thought it might make up for lying to him, do you know what I mean?

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  My mother blushed. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’ve brought a cookbook and the ingredients.’

  ‘Great,’ I said. ‘How much do I owe you?’

  I had more small talk with my neighbour’s cat. (A Siamese – they have a surprising amount to say to humans, considering they’re cats.)

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  I was about to argue, when I saw the cookbook she was holding: Are You
Hungry Tonight? Elvis’ Favorite Recipes.

  ‘Oh!’

  She smiled, looking down at the table. ‘Jack gave me this, for Christmas once.’

  ‘He likes Elvis,’ I said unnecessarily. I felt a tweak of annoyance. Talk about untactful! We were cooking for Jason. Not only that, my mother had to know that Jason was not a fried peanut butter kind of guy. ‘What recipes were you planning on making?’

  ‘I thought we’d start with meatloaf and mushroom gravy.’ She paused, to give me the opportunity to faint where I stood. ‘It’s very easy,’ she added, when I didn’t. ‘Only five ingredients for the loaf, and five for the gravy.’

  That’s ten, I thought.

  ‘You just mix everything together for the loaf, then place it in the oven for an hour. As for the gravy, it’s really about frying the onion and mushroom in butter, then adding some stock. You mix flour and water in a separate bowl, then add that. It’s mainly stirring.’ She added, ‘What do you think?’

  ‘It doesn’t sound too terrible. Do I have to make anything with it?’

  ‘Jacket potatoes are fine. Put them in the oven with the loaf. And beans. Cover them with a drop of water, and cling film. They can be done in the microwave in three minutes.’

  Music to my ears.

  ‘Drench them in butter, or grate Parmesan cheese over them, to shooche them up a bit.’

  She meant, jazz them up. Except she said ‘shooche’. I can’t even write how that word sounds, it’s so weird. I don’t know where she got it from – she’s the only person living I know who uses it. It’s a sad word. It reminds me of a hairdresser fluffing up an old woman’s thinning hair.

  ‘And for dessert, I know Jason likes to maintain his figure –’ aagh, she made him sound like a girl – ‘so I thought, spicy baked apples. Again, it’s mainly mixing ingredients.’ She hesitated. ‘It does say baste every fifteen minutes, but I think you might skip that part.’

  My mother talked me through each recipe, making me stir and chop. Once she corrected my hold on the knife, and her hand trembled slightly. She was used to taking orders, not giving them.