CONFESSIONS OF A BRUMMIE MUMMY

12-12-2009

Hankies at the ready. It's the final episode............

I had forgotten what the country’s like first thing.

At home I can sleep through the rumble caused by people setting off for work at dawn, so as to beat the rush hour. I am not woken by in-car stereos pumping out drum’n’bass. Passing sirens and planes do not bother me.

The absence of these sounds at The Goat is disturbing. Instead there’s only the baa of sheep. And this weird metallic scraping which I reckon is a pheasant.

It must be about six. Light filters through the curtains. Gradually the blur that was Ian becomes more defined

His spine has a beautiful tapering curve. He’s got a smooth back and his shoulders aren’t much broader than mine. From where I lie he could be mistaken for a woman. Ian looks nothing like my stocky, squarish, husband.

I remember my conversation with AWH, yesterday morning.


The alarm had gone but – rather than tiptoeing out – he stayed under the duvet. Next to me.

‘Perhaps I shouldn’t say this...’

AWH’s mouth is practically in my ear. I edge away slightly.

‘What?’

‘I know it sounds selfish. Only I’ll miss you.’

It would have been easy to claim I’d miss him too. But I say, ‘Everything’s sorted. There shouldn’t be any problem.’

He agrees. They have coped without me before. For a few days.

‘You could manage longer,’ I tell him.

My husband says he would find that difficult.

Ian stirs, then rolls over. He blinks in a puzzled way.

I say. ‘Hello’

He turns his head.

‘It’s you.’

‘Yes. Had you forgotten me?’

He smiles, then tries to lunge on top of me. Straight away he lets out a sound that’s halfway between a groan and a curse.

Ian had been sure he’d be back to normal this morning. Or a lot better. Even so we could walk round Clun. Or Bishop’s Castle.

At the very least we should take another look at Church Stretton.

‘No,’ I keep telling him. We won’t do any of these things.

Ian protests. What am I really saying? Do I think he’s now a lifelong invalid? Whose exploring days have come to an end?

I assure him, in a tone I often use with Gemma, that everything will be fine. It’s a bit of tissue damage - nasty but sure to heal. But we need to return home so he can see his GP.

While Ian takes a shower, I remind myself that disability – whether temporary or lasting – is not about individuals body parts. It affects the whole personality, making the young as cantankerous as the old. Understanding is called for. Patience too.

Impressed by my own insight, I decide to phone Mum. She should be pleased to hear from me.

‘You never ring this early.’ she says.

I admit this. But can’t I ring my own mother if I happen to feel like it? While she thinks about this I add, ‘How are you, anyway?’

My mother is alright. Why shouldn’t she be?

I comment on the mild weather. Perhaps, like me, she is enjoying the longer days.

‘I want to know what’s up’.

Mum sounds more like the woman she used to be. This could be to do with the time of day. In my childhood, she would clean half the house before breakfast.

‘I’m fine. We all are.’

‘No you’re in some kind of trouble... You always were a hopeless liar.’

I protest. These days I’m a very good liar.

She reminds me that I am her daughter. She could always tell, and always will.

Mum lets out the croak that is her way of laughing. It’s very like the call of the pheasant.

‘It’s nothing much’ I say. ‘Only I got fed up. So I decided to... take off for a bit.’

I wait for her to ask why. But my mother doesn’t respond. I realise that I have stepped out of line.

Because she is the one with problems. The nearest department store no longer stocks her favourite tights. Changes have been made to the bus timetable. Mail order companies persist in sending her goods she never asked for.

I offer more information.

‘They think I’m with you. That we’re looking at sheltered accommodation. You know - places for the elderly.’

Still there is silence on the end of the line.

‘But I’ll be going home today...’

‘It’s outrageous,’ says my mother.

I take a breath. Dare I remind her of her own behaviour, while Dad was abroad?

However she’s not finished.

‘I can’t believe this. Why should I move, if I’m happy where I am?’

‘It was only an idea.’

My mother declares it to be a stupid one. Which would have been a complete waste of her time and my petrol. Anyway what am I fed up about?

Suddenly I am lost. Should I talk about Dougal? Or the problem over Stevie? Do I risk mentioning Ian?

‘It’s about everyone,’ I tell her. ‘Well... most people.’

‘No, it’s not. ’ she says. ‘It’s about you.’

‘Me!’

First my husband’s ex wanted to force us into therapy. Now my mother is acting like a counsellor.

‘Yes. You worry too much.’

I don’t trust myself to reply. Coming from her, it’s just too much. But then her tone softens.

‘You’ll sort it out. Because you’re a clever girl. I’ll never forget when you did your O-levels... ‘

My mother can speak for hours on this topic.

I say it’s been good talking to her and end the call.

In the middle of searching for a clean T-shirt, I realise it was true. The conversation did help.

We agree to go back the way we came, rather than taking the more scenic route.

During the first stage of the journey we discuss The Goat’s sizeable breakfasts. Ian chose the kippers. I tell him how Gemma hates their oily smokiness. If AWH and I eat them for our tea she will sit reproachfully, with a clothes peg on her nose

As the landscape flattens, we lapse into our own thoughts. But hen Ian mentions my husband.

‘What will you tell him? About going to look at flats?’

I shrug. ‘Probably that... That we couldn’t reach a decision.’

‘Unless you said something already...’

I flick a glance at Ian, but don’t answer.

‘You were on the phone. I thought it might be him.’

‘No. That was Mum.’

After a bit I suggest we have the radio on.

Only none of the stations are right. On one there’s a song recital. It is in German, a language I barely know. All the same I can tell the lyrics concern warbling birds and mill wheels. Then we try a consumer programme, where we’re urged to call in with our questions about utility suppliers. Ian and I spend longer with a programme that plays singles from 1993. But it becomes obvious this was not a good year.

So I suggest a CD.

When he presses the button a cosy voice fills the car. Some not-too- actorish woman reading a book out loud.

‘One of Jake’s.’ says Ian. ‘I’ll change it.’

‘No, let’s listen.’

The story concerns a boy, who is telling some other children about his various stepmothers. The first was too weird, and the second too strict. However stepmum number three turned out to be just right. Now the boy can’t wait for the arrival of his baby sister or brother.

When there’s a break I turn the volume down and say, ‘We used to listen to these.’

‘That’s the part Jake likes best. Despite not having any stepmothers.’

He sighs.

‘Do you ever regret it?‘ I ask. ‘Not staying with Amanda. So you could be with Jacob all the time.’

I am focused on the road ahead. But I can see Ian how turns to me.

In a slow, careful voice he says, ‘If things aren’t working, you can’t just pretend. Even though it’s easier to go on in the same old way. Sometime we have to make changes. Big ones.’

His hand rests on my leg. It remains there till I shift in my seat.

‘Look! ‘ I say, nodding at a sign. ‘Twenty miles to Birmingham.’

I sit in my own car. The key’s in the ignition but I haven’t moved off. I am replaying an exchange with Ian.

We linger in the hall, with his possessions all round us.

‘I’m not thirsty.’ I tell him. ‘And you’ve got things to do. Like ringing the doctor.’

I am certain he is about to say sorry again. Which means I’ll have to make some supportive reply. It will go on and on.

Before that can happen I say, ‘Thank you.’

‘What for?’

I bat my lashes at him. ‘For giving me a night I’ll never forget.’

Ian’s shoulders twitch.

‘Don’t make me laugh,’ he says. ‘Because it hurts.’

But he does laugh. His face goes all crumpled up.

I go over and hold him really tight . As if I could imprint his body on mine. Then I walk out.

It had been as good a way to leave as any.

Right now I’m not eager for company.

But as I turn into our drive I see Michelle – or some woman with peroxide hair in front of Michelle’s house – waving frantically.

I am not in the mood to talk about chicken feeding. Although ignoring her would be rude.

So I say ‘Hi’, give her a large smile, and get inside my own house as quick as I can.

At first it doesn’t feel like home. Just a day’s absence is enough to make a difference. It doesn’t smell right. There’s a floral sweetness in the air. Either my daughter has bought some cut-price perfume. Or else AWH has been masking some culinary mishap with air freshener.

They have kept everything tidy. If you don’t count Gemma’s exercise books, flung across the floor in a search for some missing piece of work.

I dump my rucksack by the kitchen. The frame of the door is where we mark the children’s height. The pencil lines at the top are for Dougal and Dalilah. We stopped measuring them ages back. But Gemma’s catching up fast. In a couple of years will she’ll have probably overtaken me

I stop to run my finger over the scarred wood.

Despite what I said to Ian, I’m parched. Real coffee is what I need.

I have filled the cafetière and am rinsing a mug when the bell rings.


My newly blonde neighbour is hovering on the step. Could she come in for a second?

‘I’ve just brewed up.’ I say.

But Michelle does not want coffee. Or to sit down. This won’t take long. She is not her usual self. Her hands are clutched awkwardly behind her back. Surely this isn’t about the time she saw me getting friendly with Ian in the Indian restaurant?

‘For you.’

She produces a large envelope.

Assuming it to be an invitation I say, ‘How kind,’

‘No. It isn’t...I do feel guilty.‘

I glance at the full coffee pot, the empty cup . Caffeine would help my brain. What does Michelle have to feel guilty about?

Michelle explains the letter is mine, but got put through her door. She’s had it for days. She kept meaning to drop it round, then forgetting. It may be important

I glance at the printed label and assure her it’ll just be some fundraising appeal. To prove its insignificance I put the letter on the microwave where school newsletters are kept. Then I ask about the chickens.

She assures me, at some length, that Salome is laying considerably better. But now Eve is moulting...

‘Great hair,’ I say, to cheer her up.

I can tell Michelle wants to return the compliment. But I forgot to take a comb to Shropshire. My jeans and sweater are grubby. Then she looks past me and her face brightens.

‘Beautiful,’ she says, gesturing to the freesias that droop in a too-big vase on the table. Some paper has been put underneath, for a mat.

‘Aren’t they?’ I reply.

The flowers were not there yesterday. As soon as Michelle has departed, I go and inspect.

The paper is a note from AWH.

Good News.
Message from Dougal. He’s going back to university.

Gemma will be late. Round at friend’s. Supper in fridge. (I’ll be back at 6 to cook.)

Let’s celebrate!

I check the refrigerator. Along with the usual mouldy yogurt pots and leftovers, are two salmon fillets and a bottle of wine.

The wine is Pinot Gris which I don’t remember getting with the weekly shop. Probably from a special case that AWH has stashed away.

I return to the bouquet. My husband never did have a clue what you’re meant to do with flowers.

As I rearrange the freesias in a small carafe, I inhale their scent. That is what I smelled when I came through the door. Their blooms are subtle and delicate.

Although roses can be good too.

I am wondering just what we should celebrate.

My stepson is no gift to the world of philosophy. There’s every chance he will fall again as he tries to climb the slopes of logic, and do battle with metaphysics.

But there’d have been other dangers waiting for him on construction sites in the Emirates, in the hotels of Dubai.

His mother will be pleased that he is hundreds, not thousands, of miles away. If Maggie is happy she is less likely to lecture AWH and me about our failings.

Which is reason enough to eat and be merry. I must drink to my stepson’s future with coffee reheated in the microwave...

And I shall open that letter.

There’s a whole wad of sheets inside. The top one has a blue and yellow logo. University of ....

It doesn’t make sense. Why should my stepson’s tutor contact me? No, this somewhere different. And not about Dougal.


Thank you for your application to Return To Teach.

Following your recent interview I am pleased to offer you a place on the course.


I read it several times. The way a person would read notices in foreign airports if they needed to be sure they hadn’t misunderstood.

Schedules, policies, placement details and an acceptance form are attached.

I stare round the kitchen as if I’d never seen it before.

It is odd. You spend months going forwards and sideways and round in circles, trying to decide things. Then decisions are made for you.

The phone is by my elbow. Ian’s been lovely. But I am not going to call him now.

All sorts of words bubble up. They dance inside my head. Although AWH will not be back for hours, I have the beginning.

Of course I’ll need to be patient. Not rush at my husband the second he walks through the door.

His face will be tired yet eager. I shall give him the briefest of hugs.

Later. When the pale wine has been poured, and he raises his glass to pronounce a toast. I will get in first.

‘Darling,’ I’ll say. ‘I have something to tell you…’

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