The Mum Who Got Her Life Back

by Fiona Gibson

  ‘It looks lovely,’ I say.

  ‘Hilary made it,’ he announces with pride, ‘didn’t you, love? For Brendan and Pauline’s send-off—’

  ‘Really? It’s so professional.’ I glance around the garden, aware of checking up on Alfie, who looks a little stranded now, hovering close to Molly and Lori but not really joining in.

  ‘She does them for birthdays, parties – any occasion really,’ jovial Drew goes on, taking a big swig from his wine glass. ‘You should stock them.’

  I look at him, momentarily confused. ‘Sorry, I don’t—’

  ‘Seriously,’ he says, ‘you should sell them in John Lewis.’ He pauses. ‘They do sell cakes, don’t they?’

  ‘Er, no, I don’t think—’

  ‘In the cafés, then? They all have cafés, don’t they?’

  ‘Yes, as far as I know …’

  He beams at me. ‘There you go then!’

  I smile, deciding it’s a little too late to explain that I only designed a small range of children’s party stationery for the company, and hold no sway whatsoever when it comes to the restaurant menu. Not that it matters, as the general talk soon turns to Brendan and Pauline’s forthcoming cruise, which will take them from Portsmouth to South Africa, Gambia and Mozambique. Jack’s parents are clearly thrilled about their trip.

  ‘First proper break we’ve ever had in all our married life,’ Brendan tells me, leaning close to my ear.

  ‘Really?’ I gasp. ‘That’s incredible. I’m sure you deserve it.’

  ‘We’re very lucky,’ Pauline concedes. ‘Jack’s big brother Craig insisted it was time for us to do something like this, and of course he can run things perfectly well while we’re away.’

  ‘We’ve been saying it for years,’ Jack says as he arrives with a plateful of sausage rolls.

  Brendan laughs. ‘Anyway, they ganged up, the two of them …’

  ‘So we’re off,’ Pauline says with a smile, ‘for fifty-two days!’ Drinks are replenished – as I’m driving I’m sticking to water – and as the talk of the cruise continues, I notice now that Lori’s tanned friend is wearing astoundingly lush false eyelashes. You can virtually feel the gust whenever she blinks.

  Alfie is starting to look more relaxed now, and I wonder how much booze he’s knocked back already. He’s positioned himself by an ice bucket filled with bottles of white wine, and I’ve spotted him helping himself a couple of times. At least he seems to be enjoying himself, I reflect, aware of over-fretting again.

  ‘Would you like to see my sketches, Nadia?’ Pauline asks now, clearly a little giddy herself from knocking back several glasses of wine in the sunshine.

  ‘I’d love to,’ I say, and off she dashes. Spotting me standing alone momentarily, Drew reappears, with a different aunt-and-uncle pairing.

  ‘Lovely son and daughter you have,’ the woman says.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, genuinely delighted. Is anything more pleasing than someone complimenting your offspring?

  ‘Jack said they’re twins,’ she marvels. ‘What a gift!’

  ‘I guess so,’ I say, glowing with pleasure now as I allow myself to think: maybe we’re all going to get along after all. Jack, Lori and my family, I mean. Of course, it’s ridiculous to think I need my children’s approval to be involved with someone, but it’ll be a whole lot easier if they can all rub along reasonably happily. And now, as the afternoon tips into a glorious evening – it’s unusually warm, even for early June – I start to wonder about Jack and me, and where we’re going. I don’t mean in a place sense – we’re off to Barcelona next Sunday – but after that, as the summer stretches on.

  I turn to see Alfie laughing loudly at something his sister has said. Lori and her friend are chuckling too. Alfie looks a little tipsy, but then, he is nineteen, he’s allowed to drink; I’ll just wander over in a minute and quietly suggest that he takes it easy.

  Despite not drinking, I’m still finding the convivial atmosphere infectious. When Pauline returns with a leather-backed sketchbook, I am all revved up to say kind things about her drawings, whatever they’re like – because why wouldn’t I? She is my boyfriend’s mum, and she’s rather tipsy and excited about flying down to Southampton and boarding that Africa-bound boat.

  ‘Please be honest,’ she says with a nervous smile as she hands the book to me, as if I might review it unfavourably.

  I turn the thick pages. Clearly, she has a natural talent for watercolour landscapes; the scenes she’s captured, of Perthshire hills and villages, are quite beautiful. ‘These are lovely,’ I exclaim.

  Brendan reappears at her side, clutching a plate bearing a wedge of ship-cake. ‘Aren’t they! Isn’t she talented?’

  ‘Oh I don’t know about that,’ Pauline says, flushing as other guests cluster around.

  ‘No, you really are,’ I say firmly, studying more sketches of the family’s Perthshire farm: the stout, proud house, numerous outbuildings and the surrounding lush landscape, all lovingly depicted in subtle colours. ‘You’ve even made a stone wall look beautiful,’ I add.

  As Molly and Alfie wander over, I hold out the open sketchbook for them to see. ‘Oh, that’s lovely,’ Molly exclaims, peering more closely at a sketch of a sheepdog stretched out in a yard.

  ‘Thank you,’ Pauline says with a self-deprecating smile.

  I turn to Alfie. ‘Isn’t it gorgeous?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s really nice. Where is it?’

  ‘That’s our farm,’ Brendan explains, wiping a cake crumb from his mouth. ‘Plenty of subjects for Pauline to draw, we’ve very lucky …’

  ‘You’re farmers?’ he asks.

  I turn and look at him. ‘I told you that, Alfie. I mentioned that Jack grew up on a farm, and this is his parents’ first proper holiday in—’

  ‘Did you mention it? I can’t remember.’

  ‘Yes, Alf,’ I say firmly as he drains his wine glass. I have told him this, I’m sure of it, but then often, when I try to communicate with Alfie, I’m aware that I might as well have opted for Morse code for all he’s taking in.

  Pauline turns the page. The next sketch is of several cows dotted about in the shade of a tree.

  ‘Is that your farm too?’ Alfie asks.

  ‘Yes,’ Pauline says, beaming proudly. ‘We have thirty-six acres …’

  ‘And you have livestock?’ my son exclaims.

  ‘We have a dairy herd, yes,’ Brendan replies.

  Alfie clears his throat, and I catch his sister – who’s always been acutely attuned to his moods – giving him a sharp look. ‘Don’t you have a problem with that?’ he asks, turning to Brendan now.

  Brendan frowns, clearly puzzled, but seems to recover his joie de vivre quickly. ‘God, yes, we’ve had our tricky patches, haven’t we, love?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Pauline says as I hand her back her sketchbook, which she holds close to her chest.

  ‘That’s why they started diversifying a few years back,’ adds Drew.

  ‘Into vegetables?’ Alfie asks.

  ‘No – into cheese, love,’ Pauline explains. ‘Small batches at first but things have grown slowly and steadily. We’re delighted, actually. We’d never imagined it would take off like it has. You should try some …’ She indicates the table where Jack is busily setting out more food.

  ‘I’m vegan,’ Alfie announces, rather tartly, ‘so I don’t eat cheese.’

  ‘Well, no one’s forcing you, son,’ Brendan chuckles, ‘although I have to say you’re missing out. Sure you don’t want to try our new batch?’

  ‘I don’t eat it,’ Alfie reiterates.

  ‘Okay, Alf, you’ve made your point,’ I murmur, sensing my stomach tightening.

  Alfie frowns at me, briefly, and I start to enthuse again over Pauline’s sketches. ‘You really should exhibit some of these,’ I start. ‘I’m sure a local gallery would show them …’

  ‘That’s so nice of you to say,’ she says, beaming now. ‘But it’s just a little hobby really …’

/>   ‘I have to say,’ Alfie observes now, ‘the dairy industry is just as bad as the meat industry.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Brendan says with a frown.

  ‘Alfie, just leave it please,’ I say, throwing him a quick warning look, and wrangling the topic back to Pauline’s sketches. ‘I bet these would sell, if you wanted to do that.’

  ‘You really think so?’ Her blue eyes are glinting. ‘You’ve really made my day, saying that, you being a proper artist.’

  ‘Nads?’ I turn to see Jack beckoning me over to the table, and hesitate over whether to leave the group. It’s fine, I tell myself; Alfie’s drunk a little too much, but Molly’s here too, and hopefully, now he’s made his statement, he’ll let the matter drop. I think of Danny’s words: You worry too much. What did it matter that he chucked in the tuba? He’s right, I decide; I’ve fussed over him way more than Molly, who wouldn’t have allowed it anyway. From the age of eight she was insisting on assembling her own packed lunches – raggedy jam sandwiches, Monster Munch and a token tangerine – and I wasn’t allowed to even glimpse her UCAS application before it was submitted.

  ‘Hey,’ I say, joining Jack at the table where a selection of cheeses and oatcakes have been laid out beautifully, accessorised with grapes and figs.

  ‘How’re you doing?’ he asks.

  ‘Great,’ I reply, sensing the knot of tension in my stomach unravelling a little. ‘Your parents are lovely. I’m sorry to say Alfie’s being a bit opinionated …’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure he’s fine. He’s obviously very passionate about the cause.’

  ‘Yeah, I guess so.’ I smile, taking in Jack’s handsome face. He has an ease about him that’s terribly attractive; there’s something extremely appealing about a man who’s relaxed around his parents, and a whole gang of uncles and aunts. I remember Danny resorting to an awful lot of huffing and eye-rolling whenever we visited his mum and dad. Tinned ham again, he’d mutter, looking pained, with the jelly still stuck to it. I was always seized by an urge to hiss at him to grow up. My parents had had a particular fondness for tinned meat too, and I’d wished they were still around to offer it to me.

  Jack squeezes my hand. ‘You’re a big hit with them, I can tell. And …’ He leans towards me and whispers: ‘You look gorgeous today.’

  I smile. ‘Oh, thanks.’

  ‘Will you wear that dress in Barcelona?’

  ‘I’d sort of planned to.’ I pause. ‘Can’t wait, can you?’

  ‘God, no.’ He laughs. ‘I’m counting the days actually.’

  ‘Ooh, I must try these,’ Drew announces as he wanders towards us, smiling his thanks as Jack refills his glass.

  ‘I think you should,’ Jack says.

  ‘All made on the McConnell farm, I assume?’

  ‘Of course,’ Jack says, with notable pride. ‘Their cheddar was the category winner at last year’s National Cheese Awards.’

  ‘I’d better try some too,’ I say. As Jack cuts me a sliver, I glance back across the garden where Molly and Alfie are still chatting with his parents. A few others have gathered around now, and the atmosphere seems to have lightened again. Alfie is a fully grown adult, I remind myself. This is a perfectly lovely, grown-up gathering – not nursery. I don’t need to be on watch as if a fracas might break out at the sandpit.

  ‘Oh, this is delicious,’ I enthuse, nibbling at the cheese. ‘So different to your supermarket stuff …’

  ‘Takes fifteen months for it to mature,’ one of the aunts explains as she arrives to top up her glass.

  ‘Hmm. It’s so … rounded.’ I pop another sliver of delicious, densely creamy cheese into my mouth. Oh, wow. I adore cheese. I’m in awe of people who make it and have the willpower to leave it sitting around for months, slowly ripening, without scoffing the lot. Even when making the kids’ favourite lasagne back in the day, I’d find myself guzzling chunks of industrial orange cheddar before I’d even managed to get it in the oven.

  Now Jack is cutting a slice of a different variety for me to try. ‘This is softer and creamier …’

  ‘Sweet talker,’ I chuckle as he smears it onto an oatcake for me. I take a bite. ‘That is sensational!’

  ‘Yeah.’ He laughs.

  ‘Do they always bring a selection for you?’

  ‘Yep, emergency rations, as if I’m a starving student …’

  Then Alfie’s voice rings out across the garden: ‘No, but what I’m saying is—’

  ‘Let’s not talk about this right now, son, okay? Can we just leave it?’ That’s Brendan, who sounds firmer now, and somewhat less cheery. I stand still, the cheese-smeared cracker held halfway to my mouth. Molly has hold of Alfie’s arm, and she’s scowling at him. The atmosphere has changed drastically from when we were chatting about John Lewis and Pauline’s sketches.

  ‘Oh, Christ, Jack,’ I murmur.

  ‘Nads, I’m sure it’s fine,’ he says. ‘Don’t worry—’

  ‘It looks like he’s lecturing them,’ I say, poised to rejoin the group.

  ‘They can handle it,’ Jack insists. ‘Honestly, they’re tough people. They’re not going to be upset by a teenager telling them—’

  ‘So you’re saying it’s fine,’ Alfie bellows suddenly, ‘to keep cows in an almost constant state of lactation?’

  Jack winces. ‘Oh.’

  ‘God, I’m so sorry …’

  ‘Nads, it’s all right,’ he starts, touching my arm.

  I pull away, sensing my cheeks flaring. ‘Hang on.’ Horribly aware of the gathering storm, I dump my plate next to the now-ravaged ship cake and hurry across the lawn.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  It doesn’t seem so bad when I land back at the assembled group. Alfie has stopped shouting, and if Brendan and Pauline were taken aback by his sudden outburst, then they seem to have recovered themselves with admirable speed. Perhaps they even found it amusing – youthful indignation and all that. After all, they have brought up three sons of their own, and lost one – their youngest boy. I can’t begin to imagine how anyone would cope with something like that.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, a tad too brightly, beaming around at everyone. ‘I’ve just been sampling your cheeses, Brendan. They really are delicious.’

  ‘Thank you, love,’ he says warmly. ‘You should take some home with you. We always bring Jack a hamper full.’

  ‘Oh, I will,’ I say, sipping my glass of sparkling water and wishing now that it was wine and I wasn’t driving. Still, it’s probably best that I have my wits about me. More fool me for assuming I could bring the kids along to such an event, and just kick back and relax …

  At least Jack’s parents seem like lovely people, I decide. I have already warmed to Pauline, and Brendan seems quite the charmer with his lean, weathered face, glinting eyes and shock of fading auburn hair. I am always terribly impressed by proper artisan types, people who make delicious things with care and love, and I plan to quiz them all about it so Alfie can’t get a word in. Anything to prevent him from haranguing them on their special day …

  ‘Who d’you sell your cheeses to?’ I ask.

  ‘We have a shop on site at the farm,’ Pauline explains, ‘and there’s an online business too. We have a couple of local youngsters who help with that. Then there are delis in Crieff and Pitlochry that stock the full ranges. We’ve even had interest from Waitrose.’

  ‘That’s amazing,’ I enthuse, making a mental note to keep conversation on the cheese track. This is good, I decide. Let’s cheese our way through the rest of the afternoon … A pause settles over us. ‘D’you eat much of it yourself?’ I ask, aware of Molly throwing me a quizzical look, meaning: Mum, could you stop going on now, please? But I can’t. Naturally, I know my children intimately, and I can sense Alfie drawing himself up for another attack.

  ‘We do, love, but …’ Pauline pats her slightly rounded stomach. ‘We need to limit ourselves, don’t we, Bren?’

  ‘Oh, I can eat whatever I want,’ he says, grinning. ‘When you work like I do, up
at five in the morning for milking—’

  ‘Up at five!’ I exclaim, aware of Alfie’s gaze boring into him.

  ‘We’re well used to it,’ Brendan explains. ‘It’s all we’ve ever known, isn’t it, love?’ Pauline nods. ‘It was my parents’ place,’ he adds. ‘It’s in our blood.’

  ‘We’re very proud of it,’ his wife asserts, still cradling her sketchbook. ‘We grow our own feed and we’re very careful about animal welfare …’ I catch her smiling indulgently at my son. ‘So, you’ve nothing to worry about there, Alfie.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ he murmurs.

  Please, Alf, I will him, keep your opinions to yourself. This is Jack’s family. I love Jack, and it’s been brilliant, these past few months. Please don’t screw it all up by making a show of yourself and, by association, of me.

  I shoot him a pleading look, which I’m hoping he’ll interpret correctly. Meanwhile, one of the aunts is enthusing over the garden, which is shared between six flats. For a communal space, it really is lovely; I know Jack tinkers about here, weeding the border by the craggy brick wall, hauling out the lawnmower and trying to keep things tidy. He told me that he and Lori always have a competition to see who can grow the biggest sunflower. God, I love this man. I glance over towards the table, where he’s chatting to an elderly lady in a floral frock.

  ‘We grow all our own vegetables,’ Pauline is saying now. Ah: now we’re on safer territory. Homely, nutritious, non-controversial veg. We’ve done cheese, so perhaps we can move on to potatoes now? Okay, so they’re dairy farmers, I try to communicate telepathically to Alfie. However, they are clearly thoughtful, decent people too, enjoying a family gathering before the trip of their lives. So don’t you bloody well dare spoil it.

  ‘It sounds like a lovely place,’ Molly says.

  ‘Yes, but it’s still farming, isn’t it?’ Alfie starts. I give him a warning look, which seems to silence him momentarily.