Mum’s the Word. Kate Lawson
driver who had driven over from Italy. He left the meter running. Delia was there. She’d brought along a large box of homemade biscuits and a twice-baked lemon soufflé; they ate it over coffee, sitting on the flat-pack boxes in the spare bedroom. The great secret for a successful soufflé, apparently, was to fold the ingredients into the egg whites, never beating them, and to use a spotlessly clean bowl. Susie had to pay the taxi driver with a cheque.
In the post the next morning was a catalogue full of really useful things for the more mature shopper, things to help pick your socks up off the floor with a clawed pincer on the end, an A4 plastic magnifying sheet for reading newspapers and one of those big single faux suede slippers, modelled by a blonde thirty-five-year-old in a bri-nylon floral housecoat. Jack was thumbing through it when Susie came downstairs to the kitchen, feeling like hell.
Outside in the back garden, the trellis, the terrace and most of the bay hedge was festooned with socks, tee shirts and underpants. It looked like the bunting for an orgy.
‘Someone’s been busy,’ said Susie, settling herself into a chair by the kitchen table. She felt tired and frail and headachy, as if she was sickening for something. Her eyes had puffed up like doughnuts from a combination of sleeplessness and crying. She made an effort to corral her thoughts, not letting them stray anywhere near the sore, turbulent wilderness that threatened to engulf her. ‘Had you not thought of using the washing line?’ she asked.
Jack looked up at her; he had a mouth full of breakfast cereal and was currently shovelling more out of a blue and white striped pudding basin. ‘Uh?’
‘The washing line? The rotary thing.’
‘I couldn’t fathom out how to work it.’ He jabbed with his spoon towards the catalogue. ‘You know, there is some really cool stuff in here, there are these things that hold bin bags open for garden rubbish, solar-powered rocks – and then there’s this springy stainless-steel nipper for opening jars, looks like some sort of weapon from Star Wars. Cool.’ He mimed frisbeeing the jar opener across the room with accompanying space noises before turning the page on to the insect-shaped boot scraper and shoe jack selection. ‘How are you feeling this morning?’
‘Probably best not to ask.’ Optimistically, Susie leant over and picked up the teapot from the table. It was cold and empty; across the kitchen Jack’s tea bag lay resplendent on the top of the cooker in a little venal bleed of tannin.
‘And I couldn’t find the pegs either.’
‘Your father would be so proud. Now, would you like to tell me what your plans are?’ she said, pointedly setting the little enamel bucket marked pegs onto the table alongside him.
‘I have to have plans?’ Jack asked, looking at her. ‘The love of my life has given me the old heave-ho, sublet my home and sent all my stuff to Oxfam; I’ve just walked out of a job I loved, I’ve got nowhere to live and I’m supposed to have plans?’
‘Uh-huh,’ said Susie, while refilling the kettle and prising open the biscuit tin. ‘Life’s a bitch, and anyway you told me you’d come home to do a presentation.’
‘Well, I have – walking out of my job was more of a metaphor for the general chaos and hopelessness in my life at the moment. Ellie’s always saying how much pressure it puts on our relationship, what with me travelling, never being there for her, and money is always an issue. Her dad was the same when she was a kid, and she keeps saying she doesn’t want to end up like her mum. I can see her point, although I haven’t got a woman in every port like Simon. I was thinking maybe I ought to jack it in – get a proper job, there’s plenty of work in Cambridge, maybe take up a career in telesales, or maybe I could stay around here for a while?’
Susie stared at him. ‘In which reality would that be?’
‘God, you’re a hard woman,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d understand – you’re my mother, you’re supposed to love me unconditionally, help me out in times of need and not be offended or hurt that I only ring you when I want something.’
Susie shook her head. ‘See, this is why I always tell people, read the small print,’ she said, handing him the biscuit tin. ‘And why on earth didn’t you go to your dad’s last night? He lives a lot closer to the university than coming all the way out here.’
There was a short, weighed pause as Jack sorted through the Rich Tea to find the last chocolate digestive. ‘He’s a hard man,’ said Jack.
‘He’s a complete pussycat; he just won’t take any crap. And he most certainly wouldn’t have paid for your sodding taxi,’ said Susie as she opened the fridge.
‘He’s on holiday,’ said Jack.
Susie lifted an eyebrow.
‘Well, I think he is – he didn’t answer the doorbell.’
There was no milk left – although, thoughtfully, Jack had put the empty carton back in the fridge door.
She glanced up. Jack opened his mouth, still half-full of chocolate digestive, but before he could speak, Susie said, ‘I suggest that if you know what’s good for you, you’ll abandon what remains of your cereal-a-thon, get your butt down to the post office and get me some milk. Or else.’
‘Right you are,’ Jack said, pushing himself to his feet. At the back door he hesitated and patted the pockets of his jeans, then turned to speak. ‘I don’t suppose –’ he began.
Susie growled, ‘Don’t even think about it.’
‘Fair enough. Oh, and by the way,’ said Jack as he stepped outside, ‘Alice rang, she said would you ring her back ASAP if not sooner.’
‘Your sister?’
‘Do you know anyone else called Alice who’s that bossy?’
‘Did she say what she wanted?’
‘What makes you think she wanted anything?’
‘I gave birth to her, why else would she ring?’
‘You’re really not a morning person, are you?’ said Jack, and then, grinning, he ran down the path to avoid the empty milk carton winging its way towards him.
When he was gone Susie sat down at the table and rested her head on her hands. In the silence all she could think about was Robert, even though she tried very hard not to.
Robert. Robert Harrison, Robert David I-want-a-baby Harrison.
The idea of having another baby had played on her mind all night long. Even if it were possible would she want to do it? Would she want to go back to the beginning and start over? And would she really want to do it with Robert? It would be like going back in time, and she had no desire at all to go back there, not to the sleepless nights, the constant tiredness, the worry, the total responsibility. She realised that she had fondly imagined growing old with Robert, but long before senility set in, being carefree, eating out, travelling, going on long holidays, swapping Christmas with the family for Christmas in a beachside cabin in the Caribbean. Having a great time together, not sitting up half the night with a hot, miserable toddler in her arms as she soothed away measles or a sore throat.
It had been fine when she was in her twenties – she’d had years of being sensible and responsible, and the energy to do it – and although Andy hadn’t been the greatest husband in the world he was a natural as a father. But she didn’t want to do it now, not now when there were other fish to fry. On the other hand, the trouble was that not wanting another family, not being broody for Robert’s children, made her feel old. The face in the mirror that looked back at her was full of laughter lines, rich with experience and life and wry knowing smiles – but no, it didn’t matter how much she wanted to be with Robert, she’d had her fill of labour pains, teething and toddlers.
But because of Robert, far from giving her the sense of peace that knowing all this had given her for the last few years, it gave her a sense of time passing. Up until now Susie had been happy getting older if not wiser,