CONFESSIONS OF A BRUMMIE MUMMY – PART 13

18-11-2008

Is it the Sudafed going to Brummie Mummy’s head as she lies in bed recovering from a bad dose of flu? Or is she dreaming of another man? 

A few miles away, bad-tempered motorists are bumper to bumper on the Middle Ring and the Expressway. They annoy each other with last-minute lane changes, trying to shave a few seconds off their journey time.

Workers queue at the stops on Corporation St, wishing they were brave enough to challenge those who barge to the front when buses arrive.

As usual, New Street Station is hell on earth.

My husband must be on the M6. Probably he’s cursing the phone call which means he’s facing the worst of the rush hour traffic. Our daughter Gemma was at her most melodramatic when our attempts at cooking together came to a bloody end.

And somewhere among the commuters are the members of my book group, who I’d hoped to see tonight.

Chantelle will be worrying if she’s got enough gourmet nibbles for everyone.

The hold-ups make Poll impatient. Will she have time to re-read the last chapter and wash her hair, when she gets in?

Iz ‘s mind is still on work. She drums her fingers on steering wheel. Maybe if the group ends early, she can log on remotely and finish her presentation.

Louise holds herself rigid on a train, where all the seats are taken. She’s surrounded by sweaty, badly dressed people she wants nothing to do with. At least the meeting’s at Chantelle’s tonight. Louise won’t have to pay her cleaner another hour’s wages, to clean up the mess. It still makes her mad – remembering what happened to her beautiful sofa.

But I don’t know where Ian is or what he’s doing. He’s the vaguest of shapes, a blank, a blur.

I’ve retreated to bed because a virus has made the most basic tasks – cooking, looking after Gemma - next to impossible. There is a phone within reach. If I had Ian’s number, I would call to say I’m not going to make it. As it is I must email, and hope he checks for messages once he gets in.

Muzak from the next room tells me my daughter’s playing The Sims. When busy with virtual families, she’s oblivious to her own flesh and blood. So I put on my slippers and pad to the stairs.

‘Mum. What are you doing?’

Under my breath, I curse the loose floorboard on the landing.

‘Just - something I need to sort out.’

‘Dad said I was to get anything you need.’

I hesitate.

‘So what d’you want?’

One answer might be, ‘For you to disappear off the face of earth.’ But I mumble that it wasn’t important and return to my duvet.

Ten minutes later Gemma’s shifted to the soundtrack of Mamma Mia and I’m ready for another go. It helps that Take a Chance on Me is belting out at top volume. If I keep right by the wall, I should avoid the dodgy board. To be on the safe side I go barefoot.

This time a coughing fit ruins my chances.

Gemma reminds me – with a hint of weariness - that she is in charge.

Claiming a sore throat, I tell her I’d love a drink of juice.

Being under surveillance in my own home is unnerving.

Poll said I should live it up a bit. But if it’s this hard sending a harmless email to an acquaintance, how do people manage proper affairs? Are there training courses where those inclined to honesty can practise lying, honing their powers of invention and deceit?

My daughter returns with a glass of weirdly orange liquid. She couldn’t find juice, but thought I’d like some squash. Also she’s going to bring her schoolbooks in, so as to do her work and look after me.

I take one sip of squash, manage not to wince, and relegate it to the floor.

Gemma’s plan isn’t a complete success. She drops so many textbooks on the bed, the quilt is utterly crushed. Also her approach to homework is based on getting other people to answer any topic she’s not 101% sure about.

Now though I’m as keen on Mozart as the next woman, I am unfamiliar with the musical term ostinato. Nor can I advise Gemma as to the right way of dividing negative numbers. My knowledge of the English succession crisis in 1066, boils down to a sense that some bloke ended up with an arrow in his eye.

My daughter’s verdict is a kind one. ‘It’s probably being ill that makes you so useless.’

I’m grateful, but suspect I’d be no more clued up if I were able to run a marathon.

My ineptitude is an excuse to ditch work. Gemma moves on to discoursing about teachers. There are a few who are okay. They don’t fuss if you forget stuff, and award house points for effort even if you’re not a geek or a genius. The others specialise in dictating notes, not letting you leave the room though you feel sick, and handing out detention for minor offences.

This is information I’ve been trying to extract for weeks. Why is she bombarding me with this now, when my brain aches?

Gemma nuzzles up and says, ‘It’s nice just spending time together talking, isn’t it?

As I can’t tell her to bog off, I suggest some music.

So my child retunes the radio from Classic FM to One, then requests my opinion on a succession of almost-identical songs. Knowing how disappointed she’d be if I were to confess my loathing of them all, I must dredge up a vocabulary I haven’t used for years.

‘He’s really soulful,’ I say.

And, ‘That one’s got a good beat.’

But the sweetest music is the percussion medley which says my Awful Wedded Husband has returned, and is heading our way.

He promptly sends Gemma to look in the kitchen for everything could possibly be put in omelettes.

Then he sits by me and reaches for my hand.

‘Alright?’ he asks.

‘Gemma cut herself and panicked.’ I say. ‘I wasn’t up to being Florence Nightingale. We’re okay now. Sorry about your meeting.’

While my husband changes out of his business suit, I decide he isn’t in bad nick for a man who will soon get his bus pass. I wouldn’t say he was gorgeous in Y-fronts and socks. But for a man in his late fifties, he is compact and muscular. Perhaps it’s his manic energy. Calories don’t stick around long enough to thicken his waist or give him a pot belly.

Married life’s a pantomime. Five days a week I get to watch the transformation of a smart executive into this bloke in a scruffy jumper and corduroys.

Awful Wedded Husband reckons I’m looking very cosy in bed. It’d be tempting to come and join me.

But then Gemma returns.

‘Daddy. I’ve looked everywhere! There’s no ham, three mushrooms that smell funny, and lots of cheese….’

Once again I’ve been told to stay where I am and not worry about a thing.

For a quarter of an hour I do just that. But I’m the polite, scrupulous type. I hate it when people change plans, without letting others know. While my partner and daughter are occupied, I must make one more attempt to reach Ian.

This time I make it to the turn in the stairs, where I’m thwarted by a procession coming up. My husband’s carrying a tray. Behind him Gemma brandishes salt and pepper pots.

‘No. No. You’re having supper in bed,’ they chorus.

Inwardly I admit defeat.

The consolation is that AWH makes a mean omelette. It’s a perfect golden semi-circle on the plate, accompanied by triangles of bread and butter, and sliced tomato.

I take one mouthful and - despite my troubles - a sense of almost spiritual calm descends. I drop my copy of Tess of the D’Urbervilles down by the glass, and tell myself all shall be well.

When Gemma arrives to collect dishes, she spots both glass and book on floor. I tell her I’m saving my lovely squash for later.

Then she picks up the novel.

‘Is this the book you’d have been talking about tonight? Is it any good? Would I like it?

I tell her the answer’s yes, except to the last question. She’d enjoy the story more later.

Gemma reckons ‘later’ is my answer to everything. Forgetting the clearing up, my daughter plonks herself next to me and opens the volume.

‘Tess of the D’Urbervilles. A Pure Woman…What’s that mean?’

I point out she knows the word pure.

Gemma says yes, she knows pure apple juice. But how can a woman be pure?

I would much much rather do all my daughter’s maths, history and music than explain attitudes to female sexuality.

However I take a deep breath and explain, ‘People used to think a pure woman was somebody who only ever had a relationship with one man. But Hardy reckoned there might be times when you could have more than one relationship and still be pure.’

Gemma considers this.

Then she asks, ‘Is Dalilah pure?’

Having no wish to speculate about my stepdaughter’s love life, I inform Gemma – perhaps inaccurately - that nobody talks about women being pure any more.

‘What about Dougal?’

My daughter is persistent as a dog with a bone.

I remember the assortment of women who rang up my stepson, when he returned from university for the weekend. I recall the packets of condoms I found in his room after he left. But my thoughts are not for Gemma’s ears.

I say firmly. ‘Boys have never been called pure. Or impure.’

‘Why not? That’s so unfair.’

Fortunately my Awful Wedded Husband walks in, clutching some papers. He sends Gemma off with the tray, telling her to do her homework downstairs. She’s to spend a good half an hour on it, before requesting help.

Then he waves the file and asks, ‘Will it bother you if I catch up with this?’

I tell him it won’t.

AWH switches on the lamp, puts on his reading glasses, and settles himself in the chair by the window. The glow highlights his bushy eyebrows and the snooker ball smoothness of his scalp.

I do enjoy joining in arguments at the book group, being in the thick of lively debate. But right now it’s good to sit with one person, without having to talk.

Poll thinks my partner’s taking me for granted. Me looking elsewhere would change him into a more attentive husband.

I think if AWH came home earlier, made dinner more often, and spent more time with Gemma, a marriage inspector might award us a ‘satisfactory’ rating.
But I don’t know if we’ll ever improve to ‘good’. We might want to think we’re free agents, choosing to share our lives. But there are forces which keep us apart.

My husband has to be a successful breadwinner ensuring his three children are fed, housed, clothed and educated. Meanwhile, whatever else I might do, Gemma’s turned me into chief minder, bottle-washer and general picker-up of pieces. Though in the 21st century we’re no longer meant to admit these things.

I say my husband’s name and he looks up.

‘Yes?’

‘I just wondered. If you were….content?

‘I would be if I hadn’t got to read this for a breakfast meeting’

‘Not that. I meant content with me?’

‘Of course.’

He gives me a businesslike nod.

I say, ‘Surely there’s no “of course” about it?’

Awful Wedded Husband lays the papers down.

‘You make me happy.’ he says. ‘You always have done. I think – I hope – you always will.’

He smiles then goes back to his reading. I gaze at his bent head, astonished.

At which point the doorbell rings.

My husband calls ‘See who that is Gemma!’

I go very still. I would like to know exactly what’s happening. But my heart’s banging so loud I can’t hear a thing.

After several minutes, Gemma hurtles in.

She says, ‘It’s a man!’

‘What sort of man?’ enquires AWH.

‘I don’t know. He asked for Mum. I told him she was in bed, but that didn’t make him go.’

My husband asks, ‘You mean he’s still here?’

Gemma shifts from foot to foot.

‘I think he wants one of you.’

I begin hauling myself up. Then I consider the baggy T-shirt I’m wearing for a nightdress. The small sliver of omelette attached to my left shoulder.

I tell AWH, ‘It’s probably this guy from the book group. Ian. Some misunderstanding about a lift. Could you sort him out?’

He goes with a sigh.

Gemma fills the gap left by his departure by embarking on a long story about a classmate’s ingrowing toe nail.

When my husband returns, he’s wearing his usual bland expression. I wait for him to speak, but he just picks his papers up again.

‘Okay?’ I ask after a couple of minutes.

‘I explained, and he hoped you got well soon. Seemed a nice bloke.’

It is all so stupid and unjust. I need to see Ian again – so I can put Poll’s daft suggestions out of my mind. Instead Gemma has seen him. AWH has seen him. While I’m not even sure what he looks like.

I fish round for a tissue.

‘What’s the matter Mum?’

My daughter is staring at me.

‘Nothing.’

‘Then why’re you crying?’

Awful Wedded Husband comes over.

He says, ‘Mum’s tired. Let’s leave her in peace.’

But Gemma’s doesn’t want to leave. My daughter gets on the bed, climbs on top of me. Hugging my ribs, she declares, ‘Mummy, I love you so much.’

I start to cough and try to shove my daughter away. She flails about, resisting.

‘Damn it’ says my husband.
I raise my head. In her abandon, Gemma’s kicked over the glass. A lake of orange squash spreads over the carpet.

The minute I’m alone, sleep comes for me.

I am lying down. There’s earth below, but I’m on a bed of springy heather. Way above me stretches clear, wide sky. The wind’s blowing and its gusts mingle with birdsong. But there’s something – someone – obscuring my view. It’s Ian who holds me his arms . Because we’re so near I can drink in every last detail. His thin face and greenish eyes. A nose that verges on being craggy. He’s wearing a grey sweater, and the wool rubs my neck. He speaks my name. Ian’s voice is faintly Northern, making the syllables strange. I am turning into a new woman.
Then a jolt…

It’s dark now. Or dark as it ever gets in the city. The birds have all gone and the only sound’s a deep even breathing from my husband. His back is a low hill, inches away.

I must not read any more romantic novels. Ever. They are having a bad effect on me. I’ve become mixed up about what’s fantasy and what’s true.

It’s my husband who is real. I stroke the ridge of his spine. He grunts, stirs.

Then I put my hand on his shoulders and pull gently. Once he’s rolled over, I plant kisses on his face, snuggle up close.

After a couple of minutes he asks, ‘Are you sure you’re up to this?’

I say I’m completely sure

What follows is a well-scripted routine. But because of my dream, I am still not completely sure who I’m with.

When we are done, it’s a shock to hear AWH telling me he loves me.

I lie as if asleep, and do not reply.

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