Souper Mum

by Kristen Bailey

  ‘So, not sure if you’ve seen the show, we’re here today looking for people we can help. Tell me what’s for your dinner tonight. Can I have a look in your trolley?’

  He hasn’t quite asked my permission so much as told me what he’s about to do. Maybe I can run. Or feign confusion. This isn’t my trolley, never seen this baby before in my life. He starts with the fish fingers.

  ‘Fish fingers? Really?’

  I want to answer back. But I can’t. Tommy nods, frowning and pulling a face like I’ve just told him I’m feeding my kids fried turds.

  ‘And your family eats this a lot?’

  ‘It’s just an occasional treat. It’s fish fingers … I’m making a pie …’

  He pulls his lips back across his teeth.

  ‘I mean, it’s like comfort food. Being Monday and all. Just …’

  He looks at me and sighs a little. I want to question the sort of man who has never sought infinite amounts of joy from a fish finger sandwich. But I don’t. His attention returns to the contents of my trolley. Tommy rifles past white spirit and milk and gets to the bread.

  ‘Is this the sort of bread you normally buy?’ he says, squeezing my loaves. ‘The average household could save up to £250 a year by investing in a bread maker. You could do yourself all sorts of flavours: wholemeal for a start, multigrain, lovely Mediterranean loaves with olive oil and sundried tomatoes …’

  The bugger has pummelled my loaves and left huge depressions in them that I know will mean the bread will never return to its original shape and will leave the slices shaped like squashed clovers. His attention turns to the scotch eggs and mini muffins and he has his way with them too, poking at them and listing all the artificial ingredients to the camera.

  ‘Such a shame, love, you know these things are so easy to make yourself. Bit of minced pork, herbs, and breadcrumbs. I have an amaaazing recipe.’

  I nod. It’s just for today. I needed a scotch egg pick me up. The posse of spectators who have gathered are all shaking their heads like I’ve just peed in the middle of the aisle. I stand speechless, shocked but also narked. I don’t have time for your judgement, I’m not dressed for this. I need to get to my precious Ted and his technicolour vomit. I can also feel my skin starting to glisten – these lights are bloody hot.

  ‘Look love, I want to help you and I can see you’re uncomfortable so I’m gonna ask you straight up. You’re a busy mum of four and to be honest, I don’t want to see you feeding your brood this rubbish. Can I help you?’

  I look at my wrist and a watch that I’m not wearing.

  ‘Ummm, the thing is, I really don’t have the time. I need to get somewhere.’

  The gathered crowd inhales. One woman in her sensible shoes, perm, and twinset seems to not understand what I am saying. You mean you are turning him down? Are you blind? Other Monday mums jostle to the front of the crowd, arranging their bosoms so the producers may pounce on them next. I smile at Tommy, who looks like the sort who’s never been turned down without a fight.

  ‘C’mon, love. You get me for a whole day, in your house, on the television, helping to turn your life around. Whaddya say? For your kids?’

  By this point, I’m quite proud of myself because none of his bribes are luring me in. He could indeed turn my life around, if he had a cheque for a sizeable amount of money with my name on it in his back pocket. Alas, I suspect my pride would prevent me asking for cold, hard cash. He grabs my shoulders in a vain attempt to squeeze some emotion out of me.

  ‘Sorry, I can’t.’

  I turn to leave, glad to have my back to the camera for once, but not before I hear him mumbling under his breath to someone with a clipboard.

  ‘Let’s find someone else. If she doesn’t care, then why should I?’

  This is where I should really walk away. I should canter to the tills, pay, pack, and run off to Ted who’s going to be sitting on those orange polyester chairs by the school office wondering where I am. To be honest, it takes very little to rile me today. I’m not touchy, over-sensitive, or confrontational in the slightest. Take my parking space, spill my drink, show up on my door trying to sell me windows. It’s all small things in the greater scheme of things. But today is Monday. I’m not wearing a bra. I’m coming off a truly bad school run. He thinks I don’t care. I turn and see him still glaring at me while he adjusts his collar.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Changed your mind then?’

  ‘Actually, no.’

  The producer seems happy I’ve returned but the crowd seem a little bored of me now.

  ‘I just heard what you said. I thought it was a little out of order.’

  Tommy shrugs his shoulders, quite unapologetic.

  ‘Well, like I said, love. It seems to me like you don’t care. You’ve got a whole load of crap in your trolley, pardon my French, and you’re gonna give that to your kids? Mums like you break my heart.’

  My mind races like a high-powered computer, filtering everything that was wrong with what he just said. Firstly, crap is crap, it ain’t French. Secondly, I’m not giving it to just my kids, there are two adults involved too. And lastly, mums like me?

  ‘Well, please enlighten me about the sort of mother I am, seeing as you know me so well.’

  The semi-dispersing crowd re-huddle for the potential drama about to unfold.

  ‘What’s your idea of cooking? Putting something on a tray to go in the oven? You’ve no fruit, no veg. You probably have your kids chugging away on snacks all day long.’

  ‘I’ve got fruit and veg at home, my kids eat OK. I think it’s a little rude to judge me on a shopping trolley and the fact you’ve just met me.’

  ‘Really? You have the veg at home, is it?’

  Why the hell would I lie about a bit of broccoli? A person from the production team hands him a Japanese radish that I half hope he’ll slip on so it lands directly in his rear end.

  ‘What’s this called, then?’

  ‘It’s a radish. A daikon, I think.’

  He seems shocked. I raise my eyebrows. C’mon, throw all your rare vegetables at me, you bloody condescending prick. Now you’re just assuming I’m uneducated, stupid even? Seriously? Ted is sick. Granted, that’s because he ate old Percy Pigs for breakfast but I’m not doing this now. Tommy’s rifling through a basket fingering some physalis.

  ‘Hold up there, missy.’

  I freeze. Missy? I have the overwhelming urge to throw something at him, saddened that I haven’t got a pineapple available. I am flustered, cold, and have a suspicion that Millie may have filled her nappy again.

  ‘Really, please. I think you’ve insulted me enough today. I’m not sure I can handle any more lectures. Thanks.’

  His eyes mist over. He puts a hand to my shoulder and cocks his head to one side.

  ‘Sorry, look – all I want to do is help you, love. Not judge. Eating healthily can be cheap and convenient. At least take a copy of my book for some recipe ideas.’

  He holds it up to the crowd. It’s shiny, has his face on it, and is called ‘The Real McCoy.’ I open the first page to see that it’s signed. My first thought is of eBay. A young upstart with equally fluorescent trainers hands out a few copies to the crowd. One woman holds her copy with Tommy’s gleaming face at her bosom, smells it, and looks like she might be having a special moment. I put mine in my trolley.

  ‘Don’t you want to look through it now?’

  ‘Errrm, no. Thank you. It can wait.’

  He throws his hands up in the air like he’s done with me. I’m a lost cause, obviously there must be something wired up wrong in my brain. Why aren’t I in the throes of oestrogenic adulation, hanging on to his every word? I catch an image of myself in the reflection of the camera lens. My hair looks like I’ve been rolling around in static.

  ‘You should think about your kids.’

  ‘I do.’ I furrow my brow to see where this is going.

  ‘Because you need to …’

  ‘I need to �
�’

  ‘Do better by them.’

  The hush descended over the crowd hangs like fog. Tommy stands back, knowing a line has been crossed. Walk away, Jools. Walk away.

  ‘Excuse me? What right do you have to tell me that? God, yeah – if I was shitting money like you – of course, I’d buy bloody organic everything and make my own bloody bread. Thing is, I don’t have your millions. I have four kids and a mortgage. So I don’t need some hyped-up twat who’s completely removed from reality giving me grief and judgment over a fucking fish finger.’

  I said fucking. Millie looks up at me like a little distressed lobster. Mummy has her rage on. The fish fingers have made their way into my hand as if helping me fight the closing argument of a trial. The once frozen box is soggy in my fingers. Maybe I can bring up the fact they’re 100% cod, the fact Captain Birdseye looks like the reliable sort. Tommy, for once, is speechless, while my transformation into raving lunatic continues. The entire supermarket seems to look on.

  ‘We’re all parents, love. We know how hard it can be.’

  He announces this to the crowd. Some of the faithful nod. The irony is not lost on the others.

  ‘Really, Tommy? How? Please explain your hardships to me.’

  Tommy is silent and staring daggers at me. I’m on a roll.

  ‘I thought so. Are you off on the school run later? Will you be changing nappies today? Making cups of tea you’ll never drink? Wrestling your children into a bath? Grating cheese till your fingers are raw? No.’

  People chuckle. A group of shelf-stacking teenagers have joined the gaggle of silent spectators. Somehow it goads me on in a playground mob way.

  ‘You’re not like me. It’s completely patronising of you to compare our lives in any way. So please drop it with the mockney “best mate” act and realise you know nothing of my life, and even if I do mess up being a parent every so often, I don’t need you shoving it down my throat.’

  Wow. That was quite ballsy, but also surprisingly eloquent, which is very unlike me. A man at the back applauds me. Everyone else is paralytic with shock, so I leave. I run. Literally sprint. Gripping on to my trolley and heading for the self-service tills to avoid any further human contact. I’m silent, maybe a light shade of raspberry, and a bit balmy around the armpit region, still breathless. I brought my own bags. Does that count for anything? I can feel the stares of staff and customers boring into the back of my head. Car. Just get to the car. Leaving the store, it’s drizzling again and I run to the car using a spare fruit and veg bag to cover Millie’s head. Everything loads randomly into the car and, all damp, I finally get into the driver’s seat, checking myself in the rear view mirror. A rather fetching sweat moustache, hair like a straw mane, my eyes creased with an emotion I can no longer contain. Tears fall on to the steering wheel as I realise how bloody angry I am. Bloody, bloody idiot. That, and I forgot the sodding cereal.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Ted’s in my bed with some water, crackers, and CBeebies. I picked him up from school, my clothes drenched in sweat, my cheeks still on high blush so much so that the school secretary asked if I’d come from the gym. I may have laughed. But Ted did what he does best; he feigned being sicker than he was, asked me for sweets in the car, then came home and threw up on the WELCOME mat where I found out from the smell that he’d definitely drunk that white stuff in the fridge.

  So now while that mat soaks in a bucket in the garden, I do my usual zip around the house. Dad’s been in. You have to love my dad, every morning after I leave he always lets himself in through the back with the key we’ve given him and potters about, does the washing up, hangs out the clothes. It’s like having a house pixie with a penchant for corduroy and muted autumnals. Today, he’s made beds, put pyjamas under pillows, replaced the empty loo roll holder, and left me a note:

  Did a shark eat your recycling crate? Have rung Council to get you a new one. You also need milk and some white spirit for your garage. Dad x

  Must remember that floor. Right, things I had to do, things I had to do? Put the phone back in the charger, change Millie, put crap in different places and pass it off as tidying. Vodafone bill. I open up the laptop and log on, skimming over the bill – the same every month – with me using up all our free texts to tell Matt to get milk, and Matt using all our free minutes to ask if we need anything else. I pay the bill then get on Facebook, viewing my Home page – something to quell the insanity of this morning. There’s nothing much today: Lewis Young (met in first week of halls; used to eat toasties together; snogged once at a Hallowe’en club night) has holiday pics up of his trek up Machu Picchu. Lots of ponchos and llamas. Helen MacDougall (summer job friend; WHSmith alumni; we stole pens together) informs me in her status that ‘Foo Fighters were ace last night! Thanks for taking me babe x x x.’ Joe Farley (went to primary school together; thick NHS glasses; now runs a used car dealership) is playing Mafia Wars and Farmville, encouraging me to help him buy a cow. Ben (younger brother; bound to our friendship by blood and genetics) is online. I message him, knowing he’s the sort who lives by his phone so may reply.

  J: Whatcha doing?

  He replies immediately.

  B: I’m trying to catch a bus out of Acton. BIG NIGHT!

  I scowl as I’m reminded how his social life buzzes even on a Sunday night when I was in ironing miniature polo shirts and watching the X Factor results.

  J: Acton is near IKEA. Meatballs for breakfast!

  B: One step ahead of you, sis. His name was Marcel.

  J: Too. Much. Information. Stay safe. Pick me up a new colander.

  And with that, he’s offline. I didn’t even get to share my McCoy news. I examine my wall and then scan local parents’ pages. Millie stares at me from the corridor, banging blocks together – go on, tell people; it’s vaguely interesting compared to your usual posts e.g. They’ve changed Jaffa Cakes! I swear they are less orangey now

  Here goes …

  Jools Campbell met Tommy McCoy in Saino’s this morning – what a dickhead. A chat box flickers open. Annie. University lawyer friend and saviour.

  A: You met Tommy McCoy? You going to be on TV?J: Jesus, hope not. I looked a state. Think I might have been a little rude to him as well.

  A: Hahahahaha :D What did you say?J: I can’t even remember. PMT induced ranting.

  A: Good for you. Can’t stand him. You fancy a drink Friday night?

  Annie always asks me this but knows me getting a babysitter or indeed having the time and energy to doll myself up, get a train into town, and sit in a crowded bar elbowing skinny office minnies out of the way is not ever going to happen. Still, she asks and keeps me in her loop which is why I love her.

  J: Maybe. Or maybe come here and we can do a curry?

  A: Sounds fab. I have to go – important stuff … we’re counting eggs today.

  J: They usually come in boxes of six or twelve.

  A: Nope, my eggs – hopefully there are still some of the buggers in there because the other option is that maybe I’ve reached menopause. Yikes!

  J: I did notice a bit of a ’tache on you last time.

  A: I was trying to channel your monobrow.

  J: Har-de-hah!

  I feel my fingers reach up subconsciously.

  J: Text me after your appt, tell me how it goes. Campbells love Aunty Annie x

  A: Speak later Missus x

  Millie crawls under the kitchen table, cruising in between our assortment of chairs, stools, and high-chairs, resting her head by my knees. Lovely Millie. I reach down and stroke her hair. Facebook sits there quietly, waiting for me to get sucked in, quietly judging me for having nothing else interesting to say. Tommy McCoy’s name looks up at me and I look at my box of mini scotch eggs on the kitchen table. Instant pangs of guilt dart through me. So I resort to carbs, E-numbers, and unidentifiable meat products in times of crises and personal lows? I pick up a pear from the fruit basket in the middle of the kitchen table. It’s also about balance. I flick open my mobile to call
Matt. He answers after three rings like clockwork.

  ‘Matt Campbell?’

  ‘It’s me.’

  Matt’s voice always relaxes when he hears my voice. His throat opens up and his voice goes a Scottish semitone deeper – the same voice that lured me into bed the second we met. Scotland has a lot to bloody answer for.

  ‘How goes it?’

  ‘Rough, rough morning. Ted’s at home – threw up at school.’

  I can hear Matt’s chair roll away from his desk.

  ‘Tummy bug?’

  ‘More a dodgy breakfast combination. He’s in bed with Mr Bloom. The other two are fine. Anyway, had an even more surreal moment this morning in Sainsbury’s. You’ll never guess who I ran into?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Guess.’

  Eight years of marriage tell me he’ll never play this game with me.

  ‘Tommy fricking McCoy.’

  ‘Hope you told him he was a talentless prick.’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘What …?’

  ‘He was trying to recruit me into that programme of his and I went off at him. It was actually a bit embarrassing.’

  ‘And the accounts manager will be in the office on Sunday. You could talk to him then?’

  ‘Boss?’

  ‘Yes. I could call you later to confirm the details.’

  ‘Yes, that would be most satisfactory. Love you.’

  He’ll never say it back, not at work at least. ‘Yes, thank you for calling.’

  I smile. Then I receive a text from him two minutes later:

 

  I reply.

 

  Best knickers? Do I still own a pair of those? Black, lace, French. The last time I wore them was probably when I met Matt. Matteo Campbell. My rebound sex man. The man I ended up marrying.

  It had been 2001 at Leeds University. I never wanted to go up North and had hoped to stay closer to family but I followed then-boyfriend Richie Colman who was studying civil engineering and who I thought I’d marry and have babies with. Richie thought differently and unceremoniously dumped me after our first year to shag a blonde biochemist called Dawn. To ease the distress, I went to the cheesiest night Leeds had to offer and got very, very drunk. Matt would be in that club. Of course, I can’t tell you how and when we met but my then-housemate Annie told me our meeting pretty much went as such; it was the end of the night and having drunk my own weight in B52s and Slippery Nipples, I had my arms linked with a group of people I didn’t know, Matt being one of them. Annie remembers when the lights came on our faces were attached to one another, our lips locked and intertwined like cod fish. When she tried to detach me from him to drag me into a cab, I held on to Matt’s hand and brought him home with us. I don’t remember the sex but Annie does because she heard it, with the bonus of listening to me throwing up shortly after. She always tells this story with a smug air, but she also took someone home with her that night – a rugby player with arms like hocks of ham who came into the kitchen the next morning in just his pants scratching his undercarriage right before rifling through our drawers for a teaspoon.