Souper Mum

by Kristen Bailey

  ‘Can I get you something to eat, perhaps?’

  She forces a smile, staring at the loaf of bread on the counter. Her bread is probably brown with bits and a chewy crust, not neon white and doughy. She shakes her head.

  ‘Did I tell you about the new wholefoods section of Waitrose? We’ve tried the tempeh bacon and it is delicious. You really wouldn’t know the difference.’

  It’s a comment so out there that even Millie looks perplexed. I think it’s a lead in so I will confess if I’ve tarnished her kids’ insides with fish fingers. It’s also a sanctimonious way of telling me how clean living she is, why she’s so skinny and her skin glows like a ripe peach (which Donna says is nothing to do with her vegan lifestyle but all to do with the dermatologist she sees and the tummy tuck she had to get rid of her baby pouch). Matt and Adam look quizzical.

  ‘I’m sure. Next time I’m in there, you know …’

  I notice Adam mutter, ‘Tempeh?’ trying to resist laughing.

  ‘Ummm, Paula, this is my brother Adam.’

  She turns to greet him as he takes her hand and shakes it rigorously. I’m scared her arm will detach from her socket. In Adam’s unsubtle way he gives her the once over: boobs and face. I think Paula enjoys the attention.

  ‘Our kids are all in the same swimming classes.’

  ‘Wow, you’re a mum too. Would never have guessed.’

  Please, Adam. Not Paula Jordan. To interrupt a potentially rather ick-inducing situation from proceeding, my voice gets shrill as I urge Hannah and Harriet to come down from upstairs and the boys to make an appearance from the living room. Paula doesn’t sit but does what she always does: scans the cracked paint on the walls, the year-old school newsletters on the fridge, my hair twisted on the back of my head like a cockatoo’s backside.

  ‘What about a drink?’

  I point to my best mugs but again she shakes her head, knowing that I probably don’t have the organic ginger and elderflower cordial she’s used to. She flicks her hair. It smells warm and chemically which makes me think while I’ve been looking after Harriet and Toby, she’s been with Toni and Guy.

  ‘So are you joining the parents’ discussion forum on Tuesdays? We’re thinking we could hold the meetings in parents’ homes. Thoughts?’

  I smile to myself, thinking of what Donna told me earlier at the swimming pool. Now they’re going to lure poor Mr Pringle into their homes and seduce him in their downstairs cloakrooms.

  ‘I’m not sure I have the time, Paula.’

  I look over at Matt and read on his face, what the hell is a parents’ discussion forum? Paula reads it too.

  ‘The parents want to welcome Mr Pringle into the fold and are going to hold a fortnightly forum where we can discuss ideas with him over the children’s extra-curricular activities.’

  ‘Poor bloke.’

  I laugh, maybe snort a little. Paula suddenly looks offended. Matt continues in the way I’ve come to appreciate him, i.e. in his inimitable Scottish accent mixed with some inventive swearing.

  ‘No offence, Paula, but he’s a young lad. Probably wants to spend his Tuesday evenings down the pub – not in a room full of overzealous mothers talking about the children he’s spent all ruddy day with.’

  I close my eyes. Very slowly. Offence might have been taken – just a smidge. I shout up the stairs for Harriet to get a move on. Paula stands there looking at the crumb trails on the floor. Harriet appears looking sullen at having to go home. Toby appears and smiles at me as he puts his shoes on like he might want me to adopt him. As they tackle their coats, Paula throws in a last ditch attempt to win me round to wasting my Tuesday nights at the bigger, better, and more colour co-ordinated houses of the Organix crowd.

  ‘Well, I think it’s a way for us to use our time better.’

  I can think of another. EastEnders.

  ‘Put me down as a maybe. I’ll see.’

  She creases her eyes at me – a look which perceives me to be either a wastrel mother who just sits there using prime-time TV to fill her sad life, or one that tells me my disinterest means I don’t care. In any case, it feels overly familiar from this morning, so much so that I don’t wave to her as she trots out to her Honda CRV. Bye then. Thank you for taking care of my children? I settle the kids back into the living room, trading sensible nature programme with nonsensical alien cartoon and return to the kitchen to find Matt washing up and Adam making space in my fridge for beers.

  ‘Forgetting the whole Victoria Beckham thing, she’s a bit of a MILF.’

  ‘Adam, you’re such a scrubber. She’s married, and ten years older than me.’

  ‘The word is experienced, sister.’

  Matt laughs in his Marigolds.

  ‘And what’s this, Matt was just telling me you had some run-in with that foodie berk McCoy? Good for you. He’s such a knob.’

  I smile and nibble at the last soggy fish finger in the baking dish. Matt turns to me.

  ‘What did you give Millie for her dinner? Looks like vomit.’

  I inspect the bowl.

  ‘It is vomit.’

  Adam takes this as a cue to leave and terrorise the three children in the living room. Millie looks decidedly pale.

  Ted threw up again, having the good sense to deposit it in a toy truck in the living room, then Jake followed suit. Hannah holed herself up in her room telling me she wasn’t coming out because everyone had the Plague and she was going to die. I got a phone call from Paula at about seven o’clock to tell me Toby was not too well and asked if my kids’ vomit was bright orange too. I made Matt Google ‘orange vomit’ to try and come up with an explanation I could fob her off with that avoided the truth about fish fingers. Ted and Jake were given plenty of water and cuddles, wiped down, and put into our bed with buckets nearby. Millie stayed downstairs with the football fans, lying on the sofa having only mildly vomited just the once. Having brothers like hers has aided her ability to sleep through anything. By some miracle, there is no bit of carpet, bed linen, mattress, or clothing that needs scrubbing so I’m in Hannah’s room as we make our way through the Harry Potter novels. Hannah has a thick section of my hair and twists it around in her hands as she nods off.

  ‘Mum, can I go to the cinema at the weekend?’

  ‘What do you want to see?’

  ‘The 1D movie.’

  Hooray.

  ‘OK, maybe. We could go in the morning.’

  ‘Oh, not with you. I want to go with Tash.’

  ‘Oh. With her mum?’

  ‘No, just us. Lucy’s mum lets her go the cinema on her own and she’s got her ears pierced.’

  Lucy’s mum also dresses like she’s fifteen in unflattering arrays of midriff tops and harem pants. I stop for a moment. I look at Hannah’s soft ear lobes, thinking about them being poked with hot needles and my baby girl looking like a shiny pageant queen. I’d forgotten about peer pressure at school or had thought I wouldn’t have to deal with that for another five years at least.

  ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘That’s what you always say.’

  ‘That’s because I love you.’

  What the hell did that mean? Hannah doesn’t buy it either. She never has. I reckon she knows she was born to a mother who was never really old or ready enough to know where she stood on certain matters, so always gives me a look like I’m just pulling my parenting skills out of my arse. She sits there unimpressed, still twiddling my hair.

  ‘Look, it’s late. How’s your tummy feeling? You OK?’

  She doesn’t respond so I kiss her on the forehead and turn off the lights. It’s late for her so she won’t get out of bed in the morning without a shove and a kick. On my way out, Matt is checking the boys as they sleep in symmetrical star shapes next to each other.

  ‘Ted’s got a fever. Just gave Jake some more water. How’s Han?’

  ‘OK, just having a strop because I won’t let her go to the cinema on her own.’

  ‘But she’s eight.’

 
‘Exactly. Millie?’

  ‘Asleep with your brother.’

  For some reason that makes me want to dash down the stairs, but Matt stops me for a quick embrace and I relent. Another hug, this might be a weekly record. We’ve had it easy tonight. The worst so far was the flu of 2009 when the boys were babies, Hannah was three, and we were all sick. So sick, Jake had to be hospitalised, Matt pulled a muscle in his ribs from coughing so hard, and Hannah threw up over the new carpet in the landing that we’ve since covered with a rug.

  ‘So what else do you know?’

  ‘Too much. I’ll tell you later.’

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the football.’

  To be honest, I’m not sure how angry I was about that. It pales in comparison to what other wives apparently worry about. From Hannah’s class alone there are sordid whispers of infidels, gamblers, and Tinder fiends. Empty beer bottles on the coffee table and crisp crumbs all over my sofa isn’t a big deal.

  ‘Well, I’ll trade an evening of football for a morning shopping, on my own, with the phone turned off.’

  ‘Phone on.’

  ‘Phone off and I’ll only go to Primark.’

  ‘Deal.’

  He smiles and we stand in the darkened room almost mid-moment, both of us too tired to take the emotion to the next level, whatever that may be. Hugging with stray hands, I reckon. But the moment is gone as shouting from downstairs starts up again.

  ‘You’re missing the match.’

  Matt looks at the clock in the room.

  ‘No, it’s half time.’

  ‘JOOLS! JOOLS! Shitting hell, come quickly!’

  We skip down the stairs, both fretting something’s up with Millie, hoping she hasn’t thrown up on the sofa. But as we enter the living room, Adam is crouched in front of the screen listening carefully. Millie is still asleep. The three of us gawp as we listen to the news report. Blood drains instantly from my face.

  ‘… the woman, only known as Jools, has found herself a YouTube sensation. Twelve thousand hits in a matter of hours, the clip filmed by a worker on their mobile phone of her quarrelling with renowned TV chef Tommy McCoy as he tries to recruit her for his hit television show, Off Your Trolley …’

  The clip is unbelievably clear. It is me standing by the yoghurts: hair, boobs, the jeans, the horror. Matt is transfixed. Adam is rubbing his chin hanging on every word.

  ‘… in the clip, the mother of four berates Mr McCoy’s ideals and rejects his offer of help by questioning his intentions and indeed his own TV persona by referring to his ‘mockney’ accent. Mr McCoy has been unavailable for comment …’

  The clip replays. Adam is the first to say something.

  ‘Shit. Look at Millie’s hair. It looks like a ginger afro.’

  It does. If you squint it looks like her head is in flames. But really, all I can see is me. Am I really that big? I’ve heard the adage about the camera adding ten pounds, yet why are five of those pounds on my face? I look bloated, pale like a middle-aged, lard-eating man. We won’t even talk about the hair. And the lack of a bra is wholly evident; my nipples, which should protrude nicely on a level with my armpits, are halfway down my torso. The buttons missing from my coffee-stained shirt reveal a strip of podge above my waistband. I’m also shiny with sweat like I’ve been jogging.

  Then there’s the rant. Did I really say that? Who is this beastly woman? Why am I standing on my toes? Why is Millie not wearing socks? Matt puts his arm around me when Tommy McCoy starts laying into me about bread. Adam claps when I correctly identify the radish. Matt squeezes me when I tell Tommy I can’t bear to be insulted by him any more. They both laugh when I talk about him shitting money. Then the clip ends on a grandiose note, when I tell Tommy he’ll never be like me and storm off. I thought I’d strode away quite confidently but in the clip my bulbous behind is all I can see, the backs of my jeans all torn and frayed, three inches darker where the hem soaked up the rain.

  ‘And in other news …’

  We stand silently as the news moves on to the next item, a dog who can bark along to Adele.

  ‘Oh my god, I’m so sorry … that was…’

  Horrendous. Completely horrendous. From my coat hook nipples to my pre-menstrual rant to looking like a mess of cheap blouse, badly fitting jeans, and scuffed trainers. I am mortified beyond belief.

  ‘… that was the possibly the best thing I’ve ever fucking seen, Jools … come ’ere …’

  Adam envelops me in his gangly arms and lifts me up. Matt shakes his head in bemusement, alternating between the screen and me. This is good? Humiliating myself on TV is good? I’d rather get naked with Gok Wan in front of the entire world than people see me like that. YouTube? Matt and I are speechless as Adam, who’s forgotten about the football, heads for the computer to search for more.

  ‘Any more beers, Matt?’

  Matt saunters off to the garage while Adam starts to investigate this unlikely news item, my head spinning from the shock value of having seen my mug in HD, huge bags under my eyes, frizzy mane, and my appalling dress sense. Until a voice booms from the kitchen.

  ‘JOOLS! WHY THE HELL IS THERE PAINT ALL OVER THE BLOODY GARAGE FLOOR?!’

  CHAPTER SIX

  The next morning, I find Adam lying across our sofa wrapped like a battered fish in early copies of all the major tabloids and broadsheets. It’s a strangely calm morning. Last night, if I wasn’t perched on the bathroom floor, stroking a twin’s head balanced over the toilet, I was staring into the computer wondering why 352 people suddenly wanted to be my friend on Facebook. Matt went through the phone messages and web stuff. Adam went through the beers, running to the petrol station at six a.m. to pick up early editions of all the papers. So now the house sits like after a party on a school night – stinking of booze, vomit, and everyone sleeping way past when they should. Except me. Millie has bounced back and sits on my lap while I pick up a paper and finish my coffee. It’s The Sun and I’ve made page eight. They do what they always do: headline in bold, thoughts in italics, and scratchy black and white pics that make me look more pickpocket on CCTV rather than confrontational, have-a-go, ranty mother-type. The Sun is very happy for me and ends its story asking if Tommy has bitten off more than he can chew. Hahahhh!

  Doesn’t look like I’ve made the FT, Telegraph, nor The Times but The Guardian has a column about me standing up for the everyday woman and how I’m a better exemplar of our times than McCoy. The column is a little despondent though, writing as if to say this is all there is – a scruffy woman and a box of fish fingers.

  When I turn on the TV, I seem to have fallen off the headlines, for which I’m thankful, bar a lively debate on morning television where a lady in a primary coloured shift dress waves her fist in the air in support for me. The computer is hibernating so I switch it on and notice the YouTube clip that started everything is still up. What the hell? 867,423 views? I figure we must account for two hundred of them. Last night, we reviewed the clip from every perspective before we got bored and explored the newspaper and Tommy McCoy fan sites instead. Matt appears in his sea-green towelling dressing gown, his sandy hair all tousled like a nineties boy-bander.

  ‘I’m having a sick day. I’ll take Hannah in later.’

  He comes and sits down beside me and puts a wet head of hair on my shoulder. Millie does what she always does and rakes the hairs on his legs with her tiny fingers.

  ‘So, what’s new?’

  We scroll down the YouTube page to read some of the comments. There’s a mixture of social commentary, vitriol, and support. The bad stuff is pretty damning. MrsMccoy4eva thinks I’m rank and ugly and need to get a life. TommysBabe thinks I’m ungrateful and wonders if all my babies are ginger mingers. I tell Matt not to wade in but he and Adam set up their own YouTube account last night under the creative pseudonym of McCoyIsACock, defending our honour by replying to anyone who’d posted a bad word about me or poor little Millie. As grateful as I am for their support, I was less bothered
about nameless people insulting me on the web than I was still reeling from how ridiculous I looked on the television. Matt types away another cyber rebuke as I place Millie next to Adam, hoping she’ll claw his eyelids open.

  ‘What are you writing?’

  ‘I’m replying to Eve, Weymouth, Dorset on the Daily Mail website who says that you are a state and obviously had bad PMT.’

  Eve, Weymouth, Dorset may indeed have a point but I let Matt post his comments. Millie, meanwhile, has taken to thumping Adam on the head with the remote control.

  ‘Yeah, yeah. OK, Millie. Thank you.’

  ‘Working today?’

  He grunts in response. Adam works in sales, has done for five years though I’m no wiser what it is he actually sells. It involves a Bluetooth headset and an embarrassing-looking Nissan. He makes a bid for my coffee and picks up the closest paper to him – The Express – flicking between football bulletins and scouring articles for information about last night. Matt starts laughing to himself as he types.

  ‘Listen to this one: “We’re here for you Tommy. This bitch is nothing. She just wishes she was you. Love you! From your biggest fans.” With two rows of kisses. I mean, they even address the comments to him, like he reads them. Deranged.’

  ‘What are you looking at now?’

  ‘The Tommy McCoy website. Did you know he has a wife called Kitty?’

  Some stupid beanpole beauty with a closet full of Hermès handbags, Louboutins, and hair extensions comes to mind. She has lent her name to a line of baby foods and organic soaps. Matt chokes a bit on his own tongue as he reads out verbatim from Tommy’s own bio:

  ‘Kitty and I met on a yoga course in Cornwall. We bonded over our desire for a more holistic and ethical approach to living and my amazing recipe for butter bean casserole!’

  A bit of coffee spurts out of Adam’s nose, which amuses Millie no end.

  ‘Looks like they also have a ginger.’

  ‘A ginger baby?’

  ‘No, the kid’s name is actually Ginger. He has four like us: Basil “Baz”, Mace, Clementine, and Ginger.’

  There’s a moment of silence as we take in the names and think about those poor children. Adam interrupts.