Confessions Of A Brummie Mummy (40)

BRUMMIE MUMMY LOSES HER WAY

16-09-2009

Her husbsand's workmate Stevie is still causing her concern, and then there's the trip out of town to consider her return to teaching.  No wonder Brummie Mummy can't sleep...

      AWH promised me tomorrow would be an improvement.  But I am watching the clock change from 23.59 to 00.00 then 00.01, and it is just like one unending today. And I  feel no better.
      I doze for a little, on and off.  But mostly I’m thinking about the  women in my husband’s life.  Maggie his ex-wife, Stevie his colleague. Then me.
      Obviously I come last.  My husband didn’t confide in me about Stevie. It was Maggie who was told how Stevie had been offered a job with a rival company down South. 
      And I am  thinking about the brightly coloured capsules a GP prescribed after my father died.  Gemma was only little so AWH  took the bottle off bathroom shelf, in case she mistook them for sweeties.  He hid the pills somewhere so very safe, we both forgot about them.  Only I know I came across them a few months back. I’m trying to visualise the place.
      I’ve just decided to wake up AWH to see if he remembers, when he stirs.
      ‘What’s up?’ he asks.
      ‘Can’t sleep,’  I say, wanting to keep it simple.
      He slides his arms round me.  I could push him away. Only his warmth - the curve of his ribs - provide this sense of solidity.
      ‘You’re not yourself,’ he says. ‘And I hate it when you get this way.’
      So then we talk.  Maybe half-past four in the morning of an  interview is not the ideal time to discuss one’s marriage. But we talk anyway.  While the birds strike up a chorus in our garden. While the dark sky lightens to grey.
      I ask,  ‘Would it really have been so bad if Stevie upped and left?’ 
      Apparently it would.
      ‘Yes, she’s brilliant. Yes, you’ve worked together for years. But it’s a business relationship. Isn’t it. Nothing more?’
      ‘Of course not’ says AWH.
      ‘So?’         
      ‘She just…knows too much.’
      ‘What?’ I prop myself up, and stare at him. ‘That sounds sinister.’ 
      He explains that    Stevie possesses information which is like the exact recipe for Coca-Cola.  She knows all the coding which gives the company software its advantage in the market place.  In theory he could try making it hard for her to pass that information on to a new employer.  But in practice this would have been next to impossible.  All he could do was wait for Stevie to decide. And in the end she had chosen to stay.
      I tell him I’d known something was up. Several times I’d tried asking.  Only he’d refused to tell.
      ‘What was the good of us both getting worried? I wanted to protect you.’
      I flip my pillow over and jot it into shape.  Then I say, ‘But suppose, I didn’t want to be protected…’           
      AWH suggests we should be pleased it’s turned out alright.
      ‘I don’t see there’s much to be pleased about.’
      My husband rolls away. Because he’s been lying in one position and it gets uncomfortable.
      He reckons I could try being glad the business on which we both depend is not in danger.  Anyway, what exactly is the problem?  What terrible thing is he meant to have done? 
      ‘It’s what you didn’t do. You should  trust me!’
      AWH says that basically he does trust me. It’s just…
      ‘Just what?’
      ‘…those mates of yours…’
      ‘What’s wrong with Iz and Poll?’
      He says nothing. Nothing at all. They’re both delightful, charming women.  It’s just he knows how much we love talk.  If he’d  confided in me, I might have let some detail slip.  Which they’d pass on to their friends.
      I protest that neither of them is the least bit interested in his kind of software.
      AWH maintains this isn’t the point.  They know people who know other people.
      I remind him I have always been discreet.
      My husband thinks there was no alternative. He did it for the best.  It was one of those things and now it’s over.
      There’s nothing I could say or do that’d make him budge.
      And then the alarm radio cuts in with the Today programme. It’s six a.m.

      The main thing is to keep going. To work through sorting Gemma’s PE kit and filling her lunchbox as if it’s just one more morning.   On that  AWH and I are in complete agreement. He pours me a cup of extra strong coffee. Though it tastes bitter, I’m glad of it.
      And when he pauses between mouthfuls of Shredded Wheat to ask ‘Doing anything special?’  I shake my head.
      Part of me wants to say I’ve got an interview and be fussed over.  I’m fed up of Stevie and Dougal and Maggie getting so much attention.  But it is all too complicated to go into now.
      After breakfast my husband loiters, when he should be on his way.
      ‘I was going to tell you...’
      ‘Tell me what?’ 
      I’m looking at the saucepan, wondering if I can be bothered to scrub at the mess on the bottom. We’ve got a perfectly good non-stick pan, so why must he always  scramble eggs in this one…?
      AWH explains that Stevie only made her decision a couple of days back. The plan was to tell me yesterday. In fact he’d come back early on purpose.
      My husband stands in front of me like a dog that’s asking to be petted.
      But I just  nod and say, ‘See you tonight.’
      Then Gemma leaves. At the doorstep I reach to hug her, but she ducks away.  My child doesn’t want me to kiss her any more. Not during the day.  Specially not when other people might see.

      Once they’ve gone I should like to shut the curtains and curl up on the sofa listening to music from the distant past.  Joni Mitchell.  Or perhaps Joan Armatrading. 
      Instead  I must dress myself all over again, get out of my old jumper and jeans.  While I select a fancy blouse and black trousers, I think about AWH hating me when I am not myself.  He has this picture of who I am.  For him I’m this reliable, faithful person who likes to tend Gemma, and make sure there’s a supply of food and clean clothes . Who’s content provided she has a good book to read and the occasional night out with friends. 
      Hoovering up dirt or cleaning in my interview clothes would be daft.  So l set off, though it’s way too early.
      And it feels great to have my foot on the accelerator, to be heading out of Birmingham. I’ve not come this way for a while, but the car knows where it’s going.  The machine’s almost driving itself.
      I had been nervous about presenting myself to strangers, saying why I want to teach again.  But now my hopes rise, despite of the fact I’m passing through one of the ugliest parts of the West Midlands.
      In my street daffodils shine in front gardens.  There is pale blossom on all the trees.  But venture ten miles north and you are in a different country. One that does not recognise the arrival of spring.
      Strange really. Outsiders think of Birmingham as an unattractive city.  One of Jane Austen’s minor characters reckoned it was ‘direful’.  The fact is that  the surrounding places are a lot worse.  You have to get right away before the landscape improves.
      Of course it’s not long till my trip into the wilds of Shropshire with Ian. But I shouldn’t start thinking about that.  This part of the route is full of speed cameras. 
     
      Only a couple of miles to go.  At the lights by the pinched terraces, before the descent into town, I check my reflection.  I’d put some of Gemma’s make-up over my eyes to distract from the shadows underneath.  It makes a good disguise.
      And perhaps it isn’t such a bad time for an interview.  After last night, what more can happen?
      The people who wish to meet me are certain to behave in a civilised, professional manner. If they have difficulties at home, they are not going to shake their fists and announce I’m to blame.  Instead they will smile. They’ll say please and thank you.  They  will be interested in my  ideas and experience.
      If anything has emerged from this farce, it’s that I can honestly say I want to do the course. Because I stayed too long in the same life. I invested  twelve years in trying to be a particular kind of person. And that’s quite enough.
      But first of all I have to get away from the ring road, and onto the university campus.
      On the A to Z it looked easy.  And I’ve been to this part of town many times before.  But the lane where I should be able to filter off, no longer seems to be there.  The whole layout – the way drivers are herded about – is different.
      I remind myself I’ve got plenty of time.  This needn’t be a problem.
      But after an indefinite period of weaving about in an intricate pattern, and finding myself back at the start, it’s looking rather like a problem.
      I’m certain I had followed every single sign for the University.
      For my next attempt I employ a different technique. This time I ignore all notices, and use pure instinct for a guide.  And I’m rewarded with a glimpse of college buildings - but only as I pass the turn. It’s a fraction too late to swing the car round.
      So I take the next junction and find myself in an area I remember liking. It’s one of the few places to have escaped the attention of developers. Probably because the buildings are too pokey to interest the chain stores. and the road’s so narrow cars have to edge past each other.
      Several units have got boarded up since my last visit.  This might explain why it’s so much quieter than before.
      I’m thinking about coming back after the interview, to see if the place that sold a  hundred varieties of tea is still open. They’d grind Turkish coffee for you as well.
      Only now there’s this car.  A monster of a car. Moving very fast indeed and coming straight at me. I swerve and hold on tight as I mount the kerb.  Then I slam down the brakes.
      Then I rest my head against the wheel.   Everything is okay. It didn’t happen..
      A thumping disturbs me. There is someone - a man - just outside. Beyond him, a  Range Rover with its door hanging open.  I stare in the opposite direction. The guy was driving like a maniac, but I am not going to get into a fight with him.  (AWH always says, ‘Don’t get involved.’)
      But the noise continues. 
      It’s only when the thumps are accompanied by cries of ‘You stupid woman!’ start, that I wind the window down
      He’s a short squarish guy with cropped hair.  Who would like to know what the hell I was thinking of.
      With commendable self-control I say, ‘You were driving too fast’
      ‘And you were going the wrong way.’
      How does this red-faced man know I was trying to reach the university?  He doesn’t look the least bit psychic...   
      ‘This is a one way street’ he adds.
      ‘No, it isn’t.’
      ‘Oh yes it is, love.’
      The man starts telling me how they re-did all the roads months back. And surely I noticed the sign? 
      I decide I shan’t point out I am not his love.
      He is not some testosterone-fuelled psychopath.  He is a perfectly  ordinary man who I have frightened.  Yet I’m such a careful driver.  How did I manage to do this?
      I say, ‘It was all my fault.’
      The man replies that if you ask him it is the fault of the bloody Council.  At least this time, there’s no harm done.
      Halfway to his car, he looks back.
      ‘I should move.’
      ‘Sorry?’
      ‘You’re blocking the road.’
      I execute a shaky nine-point turn, and  follow the Range Rover back to the junction. He indicates left so I go right.
      This takes me past a bus station, several warehouses and a timber yard, before there’s a shopping precinct with a multi-story car park.
      Not many shoppers are here. I find a ground floor space and pay for a ticket.  Then I slump back in my seat
      It would be satisfying to burst into tears. 
      Only the last time I cried was when I went for a drink with Ian. And that led to all kinds of trouble.
      I rub my fists into my eyes. I must get a grip.
      It is just the man had told me the truth.  Not later when he’d calmed down.  At the very beginning.
      I am a stupid woman. I like to think that I’m not, because I can read complicated books and understand them.
      But it was stupid to spend years looking after other people, who go off and do exactly what they want. People who won’t even tell me what they’re doing.
      Iz and Poll are clever. They’ve got proper careers and have proper affairs, and are nearly always in control.

      A number changes on the dashboard and I stare at the display in horror.  It is late.  Incredibly late.
      Forty minutes ago I should have been at the Education Centre ready to discuss going back to work in schools.
      My phone must be somewhere.  Here - in my bag.  I can invent some excuse.  They might offer me another date.
      There is no signal.
      So I get up and walk out of  the car park towards some paving at the edge of the precinct.  Once I’ve spoken to someone at the Faculty, I shall find myself a decent café. The shopping centre looks grim but there’ll  be somewhere better along the street.  
      And suddenly the University buildings are there again, at  the end of this road.   Fate can be extraordinarily cruel. 
      At least I now have a signal.  I was about to make the call, when I notice my watch.  That’s weird.  I get out the stub of my parking ticket.  They’re both telling me the same thing.  It is earlier than I thought.
      That dashboard clock has been wrong for months.  I’d kept meaning to reset it.
      My interview begins in three minutes.
      It is not easy running in formal clothes, and shoes with an elegant heel. Normally I do a steady jog.  Today I’m sprinting.
      Pedestrians scuttle out of my way, thinking I must be dangerous.  They are probably right.

Previous confessions here