Souper Mum

by Kristen Bailey

  ‘He should’ve called one of the boys Chip, or Crispin. Crispin McCoy. The endorsement deals that kid would’ve got would be legendary.’

  We snort with laughter, me a little unladylike as I double over grabbing my sides. The sleepless delirium doesn’t help. Even now, every so often, I am ambushed by awful flashbacks of standing in that supermarket aisle, seeing my face on the television. Hannah emerges at the door of the living room, powdered sugar all over her jumper like dandruff.

  ‘What are you laughing at?’

  I smile at how her bunches are at funny angles coming out of her head. I haven’t said a word to her yet about what happened.

  ‘Just something in the news.’

  She has something soft and spongy in the palm of her hand, something that doesn’t look like it came from my kitchen.

  ‘Where’s the doughnut from, missy?’

  ‘Grandpa’s in the kitchen. He’s been to the shops.’

  I get up while Matt continues to type and Google and Adam stirs from his semi-comatose state. I tell Hannah to go and wave the doughnut in his face, hoping that might rouse him. True enough, when I get to the kitchen, Dad’s boiling the kettle and wiping down countertops. My memories of Dad all seem to be him in the kitchen: sat there watching us open exam results, swearing at the washing machine, fighting with the oven gloves, watching us eat our tea. By trade, he was a design technology teacher and would come home with recipes scribbled out of old Home Economics books and experiment on us. The day he discovered pasta was a revelation. The tripe, deep fried with mixed peppercorns, less so. Needless to say, he soon realised food was the one way he could connect to us – as proven today where he knows one of the few things that might be able to help is an old-fashioned jam doughnut: raspberry jam – vermilion and sticky – wrapped in foamy dough and served in a white paper bag with greasy patches soaking through the paper. He’s got a bag of ten and a pile of today’s newspapers. I give him a kiss as he lines up the mugs on the counter.

  ‘So tell me, Jools, what’s all this about you beating up some TV chef?’

  My eyes widen like saucers.

  ‘Beat up?’

  ‘The Daily Star. Page five.’

  I turn to find the article accompanied by a still picture from the clip where the angle looks like I’m about to head-butt him.

  ‘So I was at my ballroom dancing class last night and then I get home and go to bed and ten thirty, nearly eleven, your bloody aunt Sylvia rings and tells me someone who looks like you is on the telly. And there’s me thinking, it’s Aunt Sylvia, she’s probably put her bifocals on upside down or something but lo and behold, I switched over and there you are. My Jools laying into that bugger off the telly.’

  Dad dunks the teabags in and out of the mugs of hot water. His salt and pepper hair is brushed over his bald patch like usual. He’s wearing the spotty socks the twins gave him for Christmas.

  ‘So what did Aunt Sylvia think?’

  ‘Crikey, don’t know. She was just excited to see you on the telly.’

  ‘And you?’

  He’s finished dunking and moved on to stacking the doughnuts on a plate.

  ‘Where are the boys?’

  ‘Still in bed. They’re having the day off. Dodgy tummies.’

  ‘Your cooking?’ He laughs under his breath.

  ‘A bug, actually.’

  He pulls up a chair and sits down, flicking through the papers with one hand and chewing on a doughnut in the other. I’m waiting with bated morning breath for his response, knowing deep down his opinion is probably the one that matters the most to me.

  Like that day nine years ago when Matt and I drove down from Leeds in his battered Punto to tell him I was pregnant and I was going to be keeping the baby. I couldn’t give a rat’s arse what anyone else thought, but Dad … I worried about Dad. You see, I was his golden girl, the alpha female in the house who was all shiny and set for greater things now she was going to university. And in my second year, I was going to be having a baby. Christ, in all of that I never worried about me, the baby, Matt – only Dad. He was quiet for a very long time when we told him. His questions were all very practical, sounding out all the obstacles we’d have to face. He never judged nor chastised us at any time. Yet I’m not sure if I can bear to see that same look of disappointment etched in his face again, the one that told me that this was not what he had hoped. He grips on to his mug and takes a large swig of tea, his finger rested on an article in The Mirror.

  ‘This bird has some gall. She’s called you a “poster girl for desperate, unkempt mothers everywhere.” Like she’s some bloody oil painting herself? Face like a cat’s arse.’

  He pushes a cup of tea in my direction.

  ‘You all right?’

  I shrug my shoulders.

  ‘Never nice reading about how “desperate and unkempt” you are. Must say my self-esteem has taken a bit of a knocking.’

  He edges a bit of doughnut my way too.

  ‘Jools love, it’s a funny old situation you got yourself caught up in here but you did good. That bloke’s a prize tosspot if ever I’ve seen one.’

  ‘So you don’t think I embarrassed myself?’

  He smiles. ‘Oh yeah. You look a state, girl, you’re not even wearing socks. But you stood up for yourself. That’s all I’ve ever told you kids to do.’

  And with that he picks up the plate of doughnuts and heads into the living room.

  ‘Your brother here?’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Adam. The git was supposed to help me plumb in my new dishwasher.’

  I nod and he wanders off. The mumbles of morning greetings and excited grandchildren echo through the walls as I sit in our cold kitchen and watch the windows steam up, tears in my eyes, from what I’m not exactly sure. There’s a strange, nervous excitement that bubbles through me, almost overwhelms as I read the headlines mentioning Millie and our adventures in Sainsbury’s. Until I get to The Sport and read:

  JEALOUS EX-LOVER ATTACKS TV CHEF MCCOY

  I laugh. And cry. Each emotion doing its best to outdo the other.

  By 8.30, the tears still make my eyes glow so Matt leaves to send Hannah to school and drop Adam home, while Dad stays to help to look after the boys and spend time with me because I’m ‘looking all fragile.’ This involves stuffing me with more doughnuts, offering to make his famous chilli con carne for dinner, and skimming the news channels for mention of me and my McCoy-based antics. I make BBC Breakfast and Dad rings in to give them an earful only to be put on hold for fifteen minutes and give up. We watch though as Kate Silverton calls me the ‘leader for the revolution against middle class food snobbery’ to which Dad cheers a little. On Lorraine the TV chef of the day, who is actually quite pleasant and who I’d gladly watch as he’s very into puddings, is apparently not a fan, which upsets me a little. He tells the viewing public that I’m one of those mums who thinks cooking and buying organic is a chore but can actually be quite cost-effective. To back up his claims, he bakes a simple fish pie that he costs at a fiver whereas my fish finger supper cost me much more than that. But he doesn’t know that fish fingers were on offer for a pound. Dad tells me his fish pie looks like a dog’s dinner and that he doesn’t know me, he doesn’t know that I cook other things. My lamb chops are apparently very tasty. I smile back at Dad for trying to cheer me up and stare at the empty plate once piled high with doughnut.

  At about nine-ish, the boys get up and I’m fixing them some toast because I’ve eaten all the doughnuts when Ted comes zooming into the kitchen.

  ‘Hon, you want to throw up again?’

  ‘Nope. Grandpa says you’ve got to come now. Now, Mummy.’

  He grabs my hand and drags me into the living room and there on the television is Clifton Primary in the background: familiar cars, faces, and landscapes behind a female reporter’s head. The boys gawp at the screen.

  ‘The woman’s name is Jools Campbell and it’s been reported that three of her children atten
d this school, Clifton Primary. We’ve asked some of the other mothers today what their opinions on the matter are and whether they are reflective of the parents here.’

  ‘Mummy, why are they at our school?’

  I have no words. The soundbites come thick and fast, between parents and teachers and someone who I think is the school caretaker. First up, bloody hell, is Jen Tyrrell.

  ‘I try and give my children organic all the time. I mean, you only want what’s best for your kids, isn’t that right?’

  Then it’s another mother.

  ‘Organic’s very good and all but I can’t afford it most of the time.’

  A random stranger.

  ‘She was a bit hysterical but I know what she means.’

  A familiar face! Pooja’s mum, Sivani, in that dusky pink fleece she always seems to be wearing.

  ‘She’s a lovely woman. I think Tommy McCoy was wrong to criticise her. I know her kids and they’re lovely. She’s lovely. Her family are lovely.’

  Overdoing it with the lovely maybe, but I shout thank yous at the screen, making a note to get little Pooja round for tea one day. Then, Christ … Paula Jordan appears with a flick of her hair and pashmina.

  ‘All my family eat organic. We’re vegans. It’s a lifestyle that suits our family very much.’

  Dad sneers to see her face.

  ‘I know her. She’s been round here before, right?’

  I nod, not wanting to tell him she was here only last night.

  ‘She seems a little proud of herself.’

  The boys get a little overexcited to see her on the screen and start putting their peanut buttery fingers all over it to point out friends in the background. I see Donna at the gate staring over and waving, before strutting over to have her say.

  ‘Jools Campbell is a friend of mine. And I’m glad she said what she did. The bloke’s a …’

  She scans the children around her in order to self-censor.

  ‘The bloke has no idea. He really doesn’t. He should try living off my budget for a week. He really should.’

  Thank you, Donna. My eyes crease around the edges to take it all in.

  ‘Mummy, are you famous?’

  I have no answers. Especially when I see our little red Fiat Punto pulling up outside the school. Too late, they’ve been tipped off.

  ‘Mr Campbell? Matteo Campbell? Can we have a word?’

  Matt looks infinitely better on screen than I do. Maybe it’s the combed hair or his doey eyes but he’s also very good at standing his ground and controlling the furore around him. I see parents freeze in the background to take it all in. Tuesday mornings at Clifton Primary just got a whole lot more interesting.

  ‘I really have nothing to tell you all. We’re shocked at the absurd amount of attention the situation has received.’

  I see Hannah wrapped around Matt’s lower half, her big blue eyes scared, one hand shielded across her face because of the lights.

  ‘Hannah? Hannah, is it? What do you think, darling?’

  Matt says nothing, like a true professional, and ushers her towards the school gate where Mrs Whittaker stands, resplendent in florals, and uses her rather large bosom to form a fortress into the school entrance.

  ‘Now please, if you will, there are children here and I will not have their school day disrupted. Please leave before I have to call the authorities.’

  She grabs on to Hannah who has tears in her eyes and takes her inside. I’m crying. Tears are rolling down my face, which upsets Ted who comes over to cling on to me like a limpet. The feeling now is to run to the school in my pyjamas and scoop Hannah up. I see it in Matt’s eyes as well as he stands by the gate not knowing whether to follow her in or leave. He turns to the reporter who’s still trying to get a comment out of him. Shit, that’s not a happy face.

  ‘Mr Campbell? Mr Campbell? Where is your wife today? Can I get a comment about yesterday and what she meant?’

  He’s properly riled. His hair is starting to frizz at the edges. He waits by his car door and then turns around.

  ‘Yeah, I’ve got a comment for you. Anyone who insults my wife and my family insults me. Tommy McCoy can get f …’

  The report gets faded out to someone on the news desk who apologises for the disruption to the interview and the words that may have upset some viewers. The boys are suddenly jumping about on the sofa excited to see their father on the television. I’m still crying. Dad has Millie in his arms and looks over at me.

  ‘Well, it could have been worse, love.’

  I give Dad a look as he retreats into the kitchen to put on the kettle.

  Ten minutes later and Matt’s car has pulled up outside the house. The boys meet him at the door, throwing limbs around him as he enters. Dad stands by the living room doorway with a cup of tea.

  ‘Matt, you all right, son?’

  Matt is speechless and stares at me as I stand by the kitchen door looking sheepish, guilty, and pretty much a wreck. Dad takes the boys into the living room to entertain them while Matt marches towards me. He rubs at his temples which he does when the kids are running around the house and his brain can’t quite take it any more. It makes me burst into tears and crumple into a chair. Matt comes and puts an arm around me.

  ‘Don’t cry, you. This has just become bigger than needs be. But we have to think about the kids. I’m going to ring Mrs Whittaker to apologise formally. She did really well with all of that.’

  I nod.

  ‘Oh, and my mum rang.’

  Great. Really fucking great. Gia Campbell. Matt’s Italian Catholic mother who dislikes me enough already given how I corrupted her only son and made him settle for a life more ordinary. Given her English is about as good as my Italian, I’m unsure how to make the customary explanatory phone call.

  ‘Don’t worry. She was just worried. I covered for you. I think she was concerned seeing all our faces on the television.’

  ‘All our faces?’

  Matt turns the screen to The Sun website where they have drawn up an interesting article comparing my life to Tommy McCoy’s using columns and, disturbingly enough, family photos.

  ‘Where the fuck did they get the photos?’

  ‘Facebook?’

  The Sun is being incredibly kind, though. Apparently, I beat Tommy as two of my kids are twins, they have better names, and I speak on behalf of many mothers out there. However, Tommy beats me in the looks stakes, the fact he has oodles of money, and is a far superior cook. It pains me to see our kids up there being used for this exercise.

  ‘Aren’t there laws against this sort of thing? Invasion of privacy?’

  Matt shrugs his shoulders as he returns to my Gmail inbox.

  ‘You know, I was thinking on the way back. Some of these emails were from magazines requesting interviews. Maybe we should say something, draw a line in the sand. I mean, some of them even offered to pay.’

  With the house mortgaged to the hilt and credit card bills to pay, this gets my attention and I sit down in front of the screen. I scan the page and there are the names of familiar women’s magazines, papers, and one e-mail from the producers of a daytime filler show. Matt is scanning and deliberating the contents of each one.

  ‘Here. These people are saying you could do a phone interview. This might be good. Get us some closure.’

  Matt has a point. I indicate to a name on the screen.

  ‘Who’s she? Luella Bendicks? Sounds like a porn star name.’

  Matt scans through the email, cupping his fifth cup of tea of the day.

  ‘A publicist, apparently. Can offer comprehensive media training and representation.’

  ‘I like her name.’

  Matt gives me a look. Now is not the time to make decisions so lightly. He points back at the phone interviewer and starts making notes on the back of The Sport while hastily reading the article about me being Tommy’s ex-lover. He laughs. For the first time today – though I’m not sure if it’s because he thinks the story ludicrous or becau
se of the fact that I’d never be able to obtain a lover of such calibre. I cast a look over his scrappy notes:

  - state for the record the surprise that this situation has blown out of proportion

  - jest about physical appearance, stand by your comments in a more dignified way without shriek ranting

  - defend the fact that your children eat very well without Tommy McCoy’s help.

  He picks up the phone and starts dialling. We’re doing this now? I haven’t even brushed my teeth. Not that it matters, but I re-tie my hair and straighten my pyjamas so I can talk to John Elswood, freelance journalist at large. It’s a very dependable name. This will work. In fifteen minutes’ time, my eloquence and his articulate journalistic stylings will stop this matter being drawn out any more.

  ‘Johnno Elswood?’

  Johnno’s Estuary accent throws me, making me slightly nervous.

  ‘Yes. Hi. Yeah, I’m Juliet Campbell, you … errmm … you emailed me earlier this morning about an interview, maybe, perhaps …’

  ‘Yeah, shit. Crikey, thanks for getting back to me. How’s it going love?’

  ‘Ummm, yeah. It’s certainly been a crazy twelve hours. I’ve really been shocked that it’s been blown up into such a big thing.’

  Matt puts his thumbs up as he watches me speak.

  ‘Well, let’s start with the first thing. How would you like to be paid for this?’

  Matt and I forgot to talk money. I sound hesitant, not really knowing what the going rate is. He speaks before I have the chance to suggest anything.

  ‘500 quid sounds fair, eh?’

  ‘God, yeah. Whatever, I guess.’

  I hear the click of something in the background as he launches into the questions. My hand seems to be gripped firmly to the side of the table.

  ‘So, in your own words, love … just tell me what happened.’

  ‘Well, I guess it’s like you saw it in the video. Tommy tried to get me to be part of his TV show and I think he did so in quite an offensive way.’

  ‘Offensive how?’

  ‘Oh, like just the way he assumed that because I had fish fingers in my trolley it meant that’s what I gave my kids to eat all the time. It was the assumption that irked me a little.’