Being Committed

by Anna Maxted

  There was a peek of a smile. ‘Thank you,’ she said, and took both bars. I followed her to the kitchen. She never sat in the lounge. ‘I’m so dreadfully embarrassed,’ she said, over her shoulder. Then she turned around and we were uncomfortably close.

  ‘Embarrassed!’ I said. ‘Why?’

  She looked at me. I could see the green flecks in her hazel eyes, there was a slight lifting of one eyebrow. ‘Last night,’ she said, a lilt in her tone, as if I was being disingenuous. ‘I hadn’t seen him since … since. I never knew if you … remembered who it was. I saw that, last night, when we saw who it was … you saw too. I saw you run away from me.’ She paused. ‘I’ve never stopped seeing you run away from me.’

  I felt as if I was turning to stone, being here, seeing, hearing this. It was good, though. It meant that this time my legs wouldn’t let me run.

  ‘I will always be ashamed,’ she said.

  ‘Please don’t be,’ I said.

  She blinked. ‘Would you like a drink?’

  I shook my head. ‘Roger is the one who should be ashamed.’ And me.

  ‘What! What’s brought this on? You get on so well with your father.’ She sounded as if she were pleading.

  ‘Please! I know what he did.’

  ‘Did Jonathan tell you?’ Her voice was fierce.

  ‘No. It … came back to me.’

  She shook her head.

  I did my best to explain. ‘It was like trying to get a dream to reveal itself. It’s there, in your head, but it’s eluding you. Then you surrender, and it lays itself at your feet.’

  ‘Oh God,’ she whispered.

  ‘I feel … I wished you would have told me.’

  ‘What,’ she said, ‘and have you hate both your parents?’

  A scratch of guilt, and it was like striking oil. The shame welled up. I felt as if I might drown. Here she was, my Platonic mother, ready to sacrifice herself for the sake of her child. This was what I had been seeking for all of my life, this is what I had wanted of her. This is what my behaviour had implied, my endless resentment, my deepest disgust that once, when I was little, she had put her own adult needs before mine. She had learnt her lesson right then. Ever since, she had thought only of me. I realised this now. I also realised how wrong it was.

  ‘I don’t think I hated you,’ I said. ‘Not really.’

  She didn’t reply.

  ‘I think,’ I said, ‘that sometimes you convince yourself you feel the opposite of what you secretly feel.’

  Still, nothing.

  ‘Jason told me that.’

  ‘Good old Jason,’ said my mother, and we both laughed. Then we stood there awkwardly, smiling.

  ‘Why don’t you sit?’ I said. ‘I’ll make us a drink.’

  She sat.

  ‘I’d be so sad for you. If you decided to hate Roger.’

  I whirled round. ‘I wouldn’t say it’s a decision. Isn’t that the entire point of an emotion? It’s in charge of you, not you in charge of it?’

  Angela shook her head. ‘Not necessarily. As Ollie always said, “I’m the boss of me, not you.”’

  I made her a coffee in the percolator, and poured it into a china cup, put it on a saucer. Left to herself, she would have chucked a teaspoon of instant into a mug. I’m not Gabrielle (‘God. In Tuscany, I caught Ollie drinking Nescafé. In Italy! Like spitting at the Pope!’), but now, it gave me satisfaction to see my mother drinking real coffee that I had made for her.

  I said, ‘I will have to see how I feel about Roger.’

  My mother dipped her head.

  A thunderbolt. ‘He, er, is my father, I suppose?’

  ‘Gosh, yes, Hannah! Oh, you poor thing! When you … that time … it was the only time we … not that it matters.’

  My heart thumped. ‘I think you should leave Roger.’

  ‘Hannah!’

  ‘Well, why not? He’s awful.’

  ‘Hannah. A week ago, you wouldn’t have a word said against him.’

  ‘I didn’t know the real him a week ago.’

  ‘I think,’ said my mother, ‘that sometimes you have to look beyond the person.’

  I made an effort to comprehend. ‘What. Like in Manhunter? “I weep for the child. But the adult is a sick fuck,” etc?’

  My mother sipped from the china cup. ‘I’m not sure I’ve seen that one,’ she said. ‘But I do know that Daddy’s upbringing was cold and stern, that he was a sad, lonely little boy. It has always been important to him that his family held fast as a nice, jolly unit, that everything was perfect, and everyone happy, no matter what. And I’m afraid I spoilt that for him. I had too many … unchartered … moods. It was hard for him to accept.’

  I nodded, swallowed. ‘Why … why did you … spoil it?’

  My mother sighed and shook her head. ‘Ah well,’ she said. ‘Ah, well.’

  I waited.

  ‘It’s over with,’ she said, when she saw I was still waiting. ‘All in the past. It’s done with now.’

  I sighed. ‘But it isn’t. Look at the effects of the past. Look at me, and Oliver. We’re emotional retards!’

  ‘Oh!’ said my mother. ‘That’s not a very nice thing to say. Don’t say that!’

  ‘But we are,’ I said. ‘Isn’t that true? That we’re the sum of our past?’

  ‘Actually, darling –’ it was a long time since she’d dared to call me ‘darling’, she was aware, by the twitchy way she said it – ‘actually, I think the phrase might be along the lines of someone being “more than the sum of their parts”, which implies something altogether different.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well. Unlike your interpretation, I think it suggests that one’s destiny is not fixed.’

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Right.’ I stared at her. She sipped her coffee, self-consciously, smoothed her hand along the (immaculate) kitchen surface, some sort of black polished stone. They’d had an architect and an interior designer do the whole house. I’d assumed this was because that’s what you did in the Suburb. Any attempt at DIY, an undercover trip to Homebase, the Trust would be informed and your membership revoked. Now I wondered if the architect and the interior designer had been employed because my mother couldn’t have cared less about the house. I saw the pale puffiness around her eyes, and her strawlike hair, the dark blue sweatsuit. This was not an Angela that had ever appeared in public. I felt like I was staring at a drawing in a puzzle book: ‘Can you see what’s wrong with this picture?’ I tried to apply myself, disregard what I knew, consider the feelings behind what she said.

  ‘Choice,’ I said, ‘is very important for you.’

  My mother cleared her throat, put her coffee cup down. ‘Choice,’ she said, ‘is very important for everyone.’

  I thought of the many people who might drive past my parents’ house, with its imperialist white pillars, and its stone lions, and its neatly clipped rose bushes, and its gleaming windows, two smart cars in the drive, and I knew that these people would wonder about the inhabitants of such a palace, would assume the ease and opulence of their lives, would never guess that poverty and sadness might lie beyond the elegant red front door. It’s a given that you can be skint and miserable, but people will insist on equating money with happiness; they never learn.

  ‘You say choice is important,’ I said. ‘And yet …?’

  My mother, ignoring her Bosch dishwasher, went to the stainless-steel sink and washed her cup and saucer by hand. She didn’t bother with the yellow rubber gloves.

  ‘There’s another phrase,’ she said. ‘I’ve always thought it silly and untrue. “It’s never too late.” Well, no, actually, sometimes it is too late.’ She turned to face me. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I want to give you the box Grandma Nellie left for you. She’s probably frowning down, wondering why I’ve been so hopeless and inefficient.’

  I placed the tatty old cardboard box in the backseat of the Vauxhall, and shut the door. My mother watched from the pavement. I darted forward, and mimed a peck in
the vicinity of her ear. Then I jangled my car keys, but she touched my arm, to say ‘stop’.

  ‘When you were little,’ she said slowly, ‘you had a low tolerance for being kissed. You’d struggle to be put down. But sometimes, at bedtime, I’d stroke your hair, and you’d fall asleep on me. And then I could steal a kiss.’

  I smiled, one of those tight-lipped affairs. ‘Right.’

  ‘Ah,’ she said, and a smile crept on to her face. I realised she was speaking almost to herself, ‘the baby had the softest cheeks.’

  ‘The baby?’ I said sternly. I looked around me; the street was deserted.

  ‘You,’ she replied.

  ‘Why didn’t you say, “my baby” then? I’m your baby, not the baby.’

  ‘Of course you’re my baby,’ said my mother. ‘And that makes you The Baby, not in the general sense of a baby, but The Baby, as in, The Only Baby in the World because there is no other baby but you.’

  We were speaking in the present tense. It was strange, I didn’t care. I wanted to hug her but I didn’t know how to make the transition.

  She laughed. ‘All mothers speak nonsense to their babies. You don’t recognise yourself. You just go mad with love.’

  I couldn’t just fall on her like a werewolf, so I said, clunkingly, ‘So … what now?’

  She looked confused.

  ‘You know, like, hug-wise.’

  I tried not to squirm. Hug. A word of small pink novelty books, the sort given as stocking-fillers, that clutter up your shelf, make you feel terrible for the tree.

  She screwed up her tired face, and then I had my chin on her shoulder, and my face screwed up. Her arms pressed on my shoulder blades, and she very gently stroked my hair, rocking me softly, the most gentle movement, back and forth, back and forth.

  ‘Relax,’ she murmured. ‘Relax.’

  I stiffened. ‘Mum?’

  ‘Yes, my darling?’

  ‘Relax …?’

  ‘You always fought sleep. There was a short episode where I could say “relax” over and over, and you would drift off. Then one day you realised what I was doing, and the word “relax”, well, I might as well have shouted “attention!”. But I still liked to say it.’

  My sigh was like the breath wheezing out of an old dog, lying beside a fire. My mother turned her head quickly, and kissed my cheek luxuriously, a real smacker.

  ‘Ah,’ she whispered, ‘the baby has the softest cheeks.’

  I closed my eyes, relaxed. Mummy, Mummy, Mummy, Mummy.

  Chapter 40

  For the rest of the day, my sense of balance came and went, like when I had an inner ear infection. I lay on my sofa, under a quilt despite the hot weather. I felt exhausted, but I couldn’t sleep. When things were bad, I was good at not thinking about them, but when things were good, there was comfort in knowing that I didn’t have to think about them. So why couldn’t I stop thinking about my mother? Things were good with her now, right?

  In theory. But I felt like a person who was out at the shops when a meteor crashed into their house. After the initial euphoria of cheating death – ‘oh, it’s only a house, all that matters is that I and my family are safe, this makes me appreciate how lucky I am!’ – I’d start to feel annoyed and unlucky that a meteor had crashed into my house.

  I was dizzy with joy to have reclaimed my mother. But the joy was muted by regret. By realising the value of what I’d gained, I saw the enormity of what I had lost. I’d always felt withering pity for people adopted as babies who traced their birth mothers when adult. They were always quoted in the papers, saying brightly, ‘We’re making up for lost time!’

  Well, no, actually, that’s impossible. You can never make up for the loss of her missing your first swimming race, the day you learnt to ride a bike, all the days you didn’t learn to ride a bike. You can’t make up for lost time. That’s the whole damn point of it.

  My mother had been present, in person, in spirit, and yet I had managed to banish her warmth and love. I was a girl suffering from hypothermia, refusing to stand by the fire. If I looked back, I could never say, ‘I regret nothing’. That’s bullshit, anyway. Everyone regrets something. Anyone who claims different is arrogant, stupid, or a liar. In fact, all sorts of workaday ‘wisdoms’ popped into my head, to taunt me. ‘Least said, soonest mended’ was one.

  Don’t think I wasn’t aware of being the living embodiment of that phrase, until, hm, this morning. (Don’t discuss your marriage problems: they’ll quickly go away by themselves!) My mother was right to urge me not to dwell on the past. She could see I would happily allow it to swallow me whole. She wanted me to do the tiresome thing. To be strong.

  Society is very keen on other people being strong. If you get cancer, even if you have a sedentary job, everyone else expects you to fight it like you’re in the SAS. I’ve always felt this was unfair pressure on people who frankly have more than enough to deal with. They have a potentially fatal illness, so we urge them to fight it with yoga? I’d argue that pursuing a lounge lizard lifestyle with lashings of saturated fat would be equally brave in the circumstances. Nor would I condemn smoking to cope with the stress.

  I resented Angela’s expectation of strength. I wanted to hide indoors, face no one. I needed to mope around the house, feel sorry for myself. My mother wanted me to bear no grudges. And there was another mystery: people who don’t bear grudges. Of course I wouldn’t bear a grudge against Roger – from the exact moment I got even with the fucker. How was it strong not to bear a grudge? You might claim dignity, nobility, class, a bunch of impressive excuses for your reluctance to hit back. People would nod admiringly, but secretly they’d think, yeah, you just didn’t dare. I didn’t want Roger to think that he could ruin a sizeable chunk of my life, Angela’s life, and get away with it because we were cowards. People who didn’t fight back could claim the moral victory, but that is, literally, nothing. You don’t hear of people accepting moral compensation. I’m sure that the term ‘moral victory’ only came about so that people with self-esteem so low that they didn’t consider themselves worth defending could claim they’d won something off their enemies.

  I wanted my enemy to rue the day he’d crossed me. I wanted him to die, sobbing, ‘I’m so, so sorry, Hannah, please forgive me,’ as I turned my back and waved him on his way to Hell.

  I was still pretty upset with my father.

  I might have simmered till dawn, but the phone rang.

  ‘Hannah, is that you?’

  ‘Jason!’

  The second I heard his voice, I thought, ‘he’ll never get his mother back,’ and the anger shifted to make a little more room in my heart for my good fortune.

  ‘Hello! I’m so sorry I haven’t been in touch. How have you been?’ Jason sounded serious and concerned. He spoke like one might if nervous of upsetting a person known to be mentally ill. I remembered that he was under the impression that he had left me.

  For the sake of his ego, I tried to sound reasonably heartbroken. ‘I’ve been better, but I’ll live.’

  Jason sighed deeply. ‘Hannah. I am so very sorry, but you do accept that I couldn’t marry a woman who didn’t want children. It wouldn’t have been fair on either one of us. To be honest, I thought you’d get back with Jack, once I was out of the picture.’

  I was touched he gave me credit for waiting until he was out of the picture. ‘Oh, well,’ I said, joking, ‘my second choice, of course!’

  ‘He’s a sweet guy,’ insisted Jason, who plainly didn’t know Jack at all.

  ‘Anyway,’ I said, uncomfortable, ‘how have you been?’

  ‘Really well! In fact, I called to give you some good news. Good and bad. Good for me, bad for you. Lucy and I are engaged. Again.’

  ‘That’s wonderful!’ I cried. ‘Congratulations!’

  ‘You think?’ said Jason. ‘Really? You’re not devastated?’

  ‘Jason, I am delighted for you both, really delighted.’

  ‘Thank you!’ He sounded pleased. ‘Betwee
n you and me, Lucy didn’t want me to call. She thinks –’ he lowered his voice – ‘that you’re a little obsessed with me.’

  How to claw back a scrap of dignity yet avoid giving offence?

  ‘Jason, I do assure you that I’m not a danger to either you or your fiancée. I will always feel very fondly towards you. But I promise you that doesn’t mean I’ll be boiling your children’s pets. I wish you both nothing but the best, the greatest happiness together—’

  ‘Even though you hate marriage?’

  ‘What! Who said I hate marriage?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘I hated my marriage. Because it didn’t work. Because of me. I wasn’t right for that marriage. Just like a car wouldn’t go if you put orange juice in the tank. Do you see, Jase? I’m not against all marriage, just like I’m not against all, er, orange juice …’ This was getting complicated. ‘I mean, cars. Cars are great if, ah, there’s petrol in their tanks.’

  ‘I think I see what you mean.’

  ‘What I mean, Jason, is that I’m not such an idiot that I write off all marriage as bad. And I have no doubt that you and Lucy are such a great match that yours will be highly successful.’

  ‘Thank you, Hannah. That’s … very gracious of you. In that case, may I take the opportunity to invite you to our wedding?’

  ‘How lovely!’

  ‘I’m afraid … numbers are tight … It won’t be a plus one.’

  ‘That’s fine, Jason.’

  ‘And, ah, it won’t be to the ceremony.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Or the, ah, dinner. You’ll be one of the, ah, after-dinner guests. There will be sandwiches, though, and cake.’

  Little did he know how uninsulted I was. A wedding can eat up a day of your weekend – nay, the weekend itself! Happy the guest who is not invited to the ceremony or the dinner, for she can spend the entire morning and afternoon eating biscuits in front of cable.

  ‘Jason,’ I said, ‘I am truly honoured to be part of your special day, even if it is the smallest, measliest, dog-endiest part of it.’

  ‘Hannah, arrgh, the thing is, Lucy’s family – it’s bloody massive. I—’