Reasons to Be Cheerful

by Nina Stibbe

  ‘And only know because of its turtle-shaped birthmark,’ I added.

  My mother was sympathetic (and excited by all the revelations) but warned Tammy that she might live to regret not having one. She herself was a novelist, poet, member of the Institute of Advanced Drivers, accomplished car mechanic, in possession of a clear soprano voice, grade seven piano, proficient horsewoman, and had always been thin, she said, but those things counted for nothing in the eyes of the world.

  ‘The only thing that ever got me any acknowledgement is giving birth,’ she said, and she didn’t say it lightly or philosophically, but with a tinge of resentment in her voice. ‘And that’s why I keep having them,’ she continued. ‘I mean, who in their right mind would want babies, I mean, really? But have you thought how you’ll feel in ten years’ time?’

  Tammy seized my mother by the upper arms.

  ‘Look, I don’t want a baby or a child of any kind,’ she said, ‘and if I had wanted one I’d have tried to have one already, and if I wanted one now I wouldn’t have a secret cupboard…’ She tore out of the sitting area and trotted down a half-flight. We peered over the banister and saw her yank open the door to her secret cupboard, rustle about manically and then stomp back upstairs waving a fan of foil-and-plastic packs. ‘And I wouldn’t have these, would I?’

  ‘What are they?’ I asked.

  ‘Pills–she’s on the pill,’ said my mother.

  We drifted back into the sitting area, somehow needing to have the painting in view, for reference, and found Andy standing in front of it.

  ‘This is cool,’ he said. ‘Cute deer.’

  ‘What?’ shouted Tammy. ‘What the heck are you doing here?’

  ‘Umm, I’m just waiting for Lizzie.’

  My mother gave Andy a stern look and he retreated into the kitchenette. I followed him and left her and Tammy mumbling and finishing the wine while I put the kettle on.

  ‘Oh my God,’ I whispered to Andy, ‘did you hear all that?’

  ‘Not really. I wasn’t listening.’

  We discussed our dinner date. I claimed not to be hungry and Andy suggested we walk round the long way to the Fish & Quart to work up an appetite–but even talking like that made me uneasy.

  ‘Oh, shit!’ shouted my mother, suddenly remembering she was late to collect Danny. She got her things together and Tammy went with her. We said awkward goodbyes.

  ‘Have a great weekend,’ I heard myself say, and they were gone. Andy and I took our coffee to the lounge and there, propped up in front of the television, was Tammy with Fawn, irreparably, horribly defaced in thick black marker pen.

  PART TWO

  17. Lessons

  I was going to have to get my driving licence. It was the one qualification I could get, after all. In the unlikely event of my going to Massachusetts, I’d have to ferry my half-siblings around in a huge Cadillac, and equally, if I stayed in England, I’d need it for any of the positions advertised in the Lady magazine (that I’d have to take up in order to begin my writing career), all of which demanded a clean driving licence–and no clever words could make up for not being able to drive.

  My sister had called round to get her teeth polished and afterwards we had coffee and honey buns while I leafed through the Yellow Pages. I couldn’t decide between Asquith’s School of Motoring–jolly-looking–and the Fosse School of Motoring–serious-looking but guaranteed to have you Test-ready in 12 weeks or your money back*. Their advert featured an L-plate ripped in half which was quite strong. We mulled it over. My sister had recently passed and was opinionated.

  ‘What about the Harry Janis School of Motoring?’ I said, tapping his tiny entry. ‘He’s never had a fail and he’s cheap.’

  ‘Harry Janis?’ said Tina. ‘God, no, that’s the bloke I had who got his penis out, remember?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I couldn’t have him.’

  ‘No, I reported him to the police,’ she remembered slowly, picturing it in her mind’s eye.

  ‘Was he arrested?’ I asked.

  ‘No, but he was warned that there’d been a complaint, though, so he might bear a grudge.’

  Tina did the sums and told me how much it was going to cost, which was so ridiculous, I doubted her maths. Driving lessons were out of the question unless I asked for a pay rise, which was also out of the question, or moved back home and used my rent money, but that was out of the question too unless I was prepared to share my old bed with Andy Nicolello, which I wasn’t, even if he would, which he wouldn’t.

  Later, on the phone, Melody suggested I ask my mother to teach me. This made sense to Melody because I’d repeatedly flagged her up as a great motor-woman compared with her own mother who used to abandon the vehicle if required to reverse.

  Being taught by a relative wasn’t the way I wanted to learn–I’d had my heart set on proper lessons–but now, knowing the cost, I had to admit Melody was right. My mother was a good bet and the Flying Pea the perfect little car to learn in–highly visible, easy to park, and with a fitted radio-cassette. Plus, I assumed, my mother must long for an opportunity to make up for our awful childhood.

  ‘Or, even better,’ said Melody, ‘what about Mr Holt? He’s a super driver.’

  That was true, he was an exceptionally good and careful driver–always used the handbrake and frequently checked the oil, and so forth–but I wasn’t planning on being that sort. I was hoping to be a driver more like my mother–a relaxed, one-handed type, with Snoopy stickers on the back, eating lollies at the wheel, listening to Cat Stevens and tooting at my friends. But safely. No. I ruled him out. I’d recruit my mother and after I’d finished talking to Melody, I phoned her and put it to her:

  ‘I really need to learn to drive to widen my career options,’ I said.

  ‘Well, don’t look at me.’

  ‘I am looking at you,’ I said, ‘metaphorically.’

  ‘Well, it’s no good.’

  ‘But you’ve always said we girls must learn to drive and be independent of tyrants.’

  ‘And so you should, but leave me out of it.’

  She was terribly sorry, she said, and she blamed Abe’s counselling. He’d made contact with her subconscious again in a recent session and it turned out that she was weary of being at the beck and call of her children who were draining her energy–she needed to cut the apron strings wherever possible.

  ‘So, you see, giving you driving lessons is out of the question,’ she said. ‘I need to minimize my maternal obligations.’

  I asked to speak to Mr Holt, but was quite relieved when he said he didn’t feel he could commit to the plan either because of his working hours. He put my mother back on.

  ‘You’ll have to save up or ask your grandmother,’ she said.

  So that was that, I had no choice but to go cap in hand to Granny Benson. I didn’t ask for driving lessons from her, but for money to put towards some. I told her I wanted to better myself and she was pleased to hear it, feeling there was much room for improvement. She agreed to pay for a whole course of lessons but on the condition that I agree to attend confirmation classes with Reverend Woodward at her village church in order to get the official pass into the Church of England.

  ‘I was confirmed as a baby,’ I told her. ‘There are photographs.’

  She told me that had been my christening and that I had missed my confirmation at the age of twelve or thirteen because I’d renounced Christianity and become a druid.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I said. I’d forgotten all about it, but couldn’t deny it.

  Anyway, I agreed to see Reverend Woodward for confirmation classes and get my Christianity back on track in return for driving lessons. It was a deal and I told her I’d phone with the details of the driving school and the fees and so forth.

  ‘No need,’ said Granny Benson. ‘Reverend Woodward’s wife can teach you.’

  ‘The Reverend’s wife? You mean Mrs Woodward? Is she a driving instructor?’

  ‘No, dear, she’s a crossing sweeper,’ rep
lied my granny, who was always quick with a joke.

  I tried to picture Mrs Woodward teaching me to drive and I found I couldn’t. I could only picture her gagging as JP took her dental impressions. She didn’t seem the type to teach a person anything as dynamic as driving.

  ‘But I was hoping to go with the Fosse School of Motoring with their “test-ready in twelve weeks or your money back” promise,’ I said and described the advert featuring the L-plate ripped in half.

  ‘No,’ said my granny. ‘Mrs Woodward’s more appropriate. You’ll be able to chat about Jesus when you’re not negotiating traffic, and it might reinforce your confirmation classes.’

  I’d never known my granny to be so keen on Jesus and suspected she was just enjoying reining me in, like someone spinning a salad spinner just because they can.

  I later found out that, far from never having had a fail, Mrs Woodward had never had a pass–barring her husband Reverend Woodward and he’d pretty much stopped driving after swerving to avoid a peacock in the car park of a stately home and hitting a statue.

  ‘He still has nightmares about the Earl of Richmond coming to life just as he hit him,’ Mrs Woodward told me, ‘a kind of resurrection gone wrong.’

  After making my bargain with Granny, I called in at my old house, my old home, what I should now call my mother’s house, or even Andy’s house. I rang the doorbell, which felt strange. Andy answered the door–even stranger–and asked if I’d like to walk up to the King’s Head for a game of darts. I said I wanted to talk to my mother first, but yes.

  My mother was typing up a chapter for the new novel. She looked exhausted, with her hair all over the place and an unlit cigarette in her mouth. Seeing me, she stopped dramatically, pulled a sheet of paper from her typewriter, scrabbled around among other papers strewn over the dining table for her lighter, found it and flipped the lid up.

  ‘You look exhausted,’ I said. ‘Shall I make some tea?’

  ‘I am! I’ve just written a strangling,’ she said. ‘Jack, put the kettle on will you?’ she called through to my brother, who as well as having a place at the University College London, was known for making good tea.

  She then told me that on top of her rejection from Faber & Faber, she’d now had one from Penguin Books–for ‘Winter Green’, her sci-fi feminist thriller.

  ‘Penguin have feminist sci-fi thrillers coming out of their ears, according to the letter,’ she said and she reached round to pick it up from the sideboard.

  ‘Idiots,’ I said.

  ‘I wouldn’t put it past them to give my idea to one of their worn-out old has-beens,’ she said.

  ‘God, no, like that thing that happened to Maurice Morris.’

  ‘Oh, fuck, yes, poor Maurice.’

  My mother’s old friend had written a brilliant television series, sent it to the BBC who rejected it outright, saying they had something just like it in the pipeline, and then, the following year, the exact series had come on the telly and Maurice died of disappointment.

  Finally, there was a pause in which I could tell her about my driving/confirmation lessons plan. She didn’t consider it good news at all. On the contrary, she called it oppressive. She was very angry with her mother for cooking up the plan and went into the hall to phone her. They had a short conversation and she came back in a fury, saying that I was being indoctrinated. At which point Andy joined us.

  ‘I don’t care, I can handle it,’ I said. ‘I just want my driving licence–I’ll put all the other stuff out of my head once I’ve passed.’

  ‘You think you will,’ she said, ‘but they’re clever, they make you imagine you’re having epiphanies left, right and centre, and awakenings and visits from God.’

  ‘I’m not the sort. I’ll set the agenda.’

  ‘How will you do that? The agenda’s already set.’

  ‘I’ll change the subject at every possible opportunity.’

  ‘You can ask the vicar for his thoughts on Darwin,’ suggested Andy.

  ‘Yes, exactly, and Robert Thingamabob,’ said my mother.

  ‘Oh, but I don’t want to offend him,’ I said. ‘I just meant I’ll talk about pop music, or my favourite flower, and go off on tangents.’

  My mother told me that if I saw a shooting star or heard my name whispered on the breeze, or saw God’s face in a pie crust, etc., I mustn’t make any mistake.

  ‘Those things are nothing to do with God–it’s just that you’re a human being with an eye for magic and a poet’s imagination.’

  ‘I wouldn’t recognize God anyway,’ I said.

  ‘He looks like Jesus, but older,’ said Andy.

  It seemed my mother and Andy were egging each other on in a joint dismissal of my plan and, though I was thrilled at having a boyfriend who was able to say, ‘Ask the vicar about Darwin,’ I felt slightly crestfallen. Luckily Mr Holt stepped in.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘she’s found a cheap way to get driving lessons and if anyone can handle the missionaries, Lizzie can.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Ask the vicar if he’s heard of Charles Darwin,’ said Mr Holt.

  ‘Andy’s already said that,’ pointed out my mother.

  ‘Alfred Russel Wallace, then.’

  A few days later, my grandmother informed me she’d made arrangements with the vicar’s wife, so I was to expect a call or a letter. But before I was allowed to start my driving lessons, my confirmation lessons with Reverend Woodward must be under way–these were to be one-to-one meetings in his lounge at the vicarage. I was to start that week.

  Reverend Woodward was very pleasant and a good deal younger than I’d expected, knowing his wife. I arrived ten minutes late and said, ‘Sorry, I’m a few minutes late,’ to which he replied, ‘As are all polite guests,’ which was unexpectedly reasonable and pleased me no end because, in addition to not believing in God, I also had (have) a slight ecclesiaphobia. Vicars having been on the whole rather disturbing up until then and had so rarely lived up to expectations. Demanding we live like Jesus–always turning the other cheek, walking in another man’s shoes, and never abbreviating Christmas to Xmas. Never understanding or forgiving but always disappointed–particularly when it came to divorced mothers–and there was all that dandruff on the cassocks.

  There was the one, Reverend Derrick, years before whom I’d seen in my mother’s sitting room. I’d been in the garden and he inside, gazing out. I remember waving a toy panda’s paw at him and him waving back. But when, a few moments later, I peeped in to give him another panda encounter, I saw him–still gazing out–being robustly fondled by my mother on his bottom half.

  That was a previous vicar, though, not Reverend Woodward. Reverend Woodward was exactly as a vicar should be. Kind, open, intelligent, and therefore a pleasant surprise. He was a patient of JP Wintergreen’s, having rushed there after a trampolining accident in 1977, and eventually been fitted with a partial upper denture. I couldn’t help staring at it. The front incisors, slightly on the large side and a shade too white, were typical of JP’s work–pre-Andy Nicolello.

  Reverend Woodward couldn’t help detailing the accident, the way people do.

  ‘I went into the foetal position rather forcefully and hit myself in the mouth with my knees,’ he explained, and imagining him in this somersault-gone-wrong, I remembered my mother’s trampolining accident–it was quite a time for trampolining.

  I began the first confirmation session pretending to be a Christian, which proved difficult. Reverend Woodward asked me some awkward questions about my conversion to druidism at the age of eleven, which he’d heard all about. I started to explain but it made me sound like such a stupid eleven-year-old, which I assure you I was not. My eleven-year-old self was special to me, still is, and I didn’t like to besmirch her. In the end I just told him the truth–that my mother invented the whole druidism thing, so that she didn’t have to take me to the vicarage once a week for the confirmation lessons. Because, A) she couldn’t be bothered, and B) she was afraid of
being caught drink-driving by a village policeman who seemed hell bent on it.

  ‘How do you feel about your mother denying you entry to the Kingdom of God?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, I’m pretty annoyed, of course,’ I lied.

  Around that moment, I noticed smoke creeping under the door. I pointed and said, ‘Holy Smoke,’ and Reverend Woodward said, ‘Damn,’ and ran from the room into the kitchen. I followed. He grabbed a flaming pan and flung it into the sink, then clanged around burning his fingers, throwing stuff into the bin and fanning the air with a tea towel. I opened the window.

  It turned out he’d forgotten I was coming and had put his tea on just before the doorbell went, and then he’d got settled with me and forgot all about his chop and cabbage. Mrs Woodward, who would usually have done the chop, had gone to play chess with some prisoners, he said. I’d thought of Mrs Woodward as a kindly old soul who dropped her denture and did good deeds, but the absolute terror in Reverend Woodward’s eyes when he mentioned how cross she’d be about the burnt chop made me wonder.

  The kitchen emergency was a blessing, though. It broke the religious ice, so to speak, and meant I could relax and say, ‘I’m not a regular churchgoer, as such.’

  And he could say, ‘You don’t say.’

  And I could laugh and blush, and he could smile broadly.

  Actually, it seemed for a tiny moment that we might be about to kiss. But we didn’t and it never again seemed that way, far from it. It was interesting, though, and it occurred to me afterwards that a lot of relationships must start with the strange sudden possibility of a wrong, inappropriate kiss, and it made sense of all my mother’s awful affairs. Especially the ones with vets and doctors and policemen and people who do something very, very brave or clever, or exciting.

  I told him I was having confirmation classes only as part of a deal with my granny Benson (of this parish) in return for driving lessons. He surprised me by saying what a very good granny she must be. I said she could sometimes be quite crushing and mean, and he said he’d never seen that side of her, and I said I bet his wife had. And he laughed.