The Mum Who'd Had Enough

by Fiona Gibson

  As I’d parked up, another disturbing thought had hit me: my mother-in-law, Judy, was dropping by that evening. The realisation caused me to leap out of my car, hurry to L’Ondice at the end of our road, and virtually hurl myself at the wine fridge at the back.

  ‘Oh, you’re lucky to have caught me,’ Judy announced, eyeing my clinking carrier bag as I strode into our hallway five minutes later. ‘I’m just leaving, love. What a pity …’

  ‘Such a shame,’ I agreed. ‘I’m so sorry!’ We hugged briefly, and my gaze met Nate’s over her shoulder. He was wearing the nervy expression I’d become accustomed to seeing after I’d had a session with Rachel. I caught him scanning my face for clues. ‘I thought you were staying for dinner?’ I added, greeting Scout as he hurtled towards me.

  Judy shook her head. She wears her silvery hair in a pixie crop, and was kitted out in her go-to attire of chambray shirt and navy chinos. As rangy as a racehorse, she exuded no-nonsense chic. ‘I’d love to, but I really don’t have the time. Still so much to do before the trip.’ She frowned. ‘Shame I’ve missed seeing Flynn …’

  ‘Yes, he’s out at the cinema with friends.’ I paused. ‘I hope you have a fantastic trip. Has Raymond been hill-walking before?’

  ‘No – but he’ll be fine,’ she said firmly. Having divorced Nate’s late father when Nate was a teenager, Judy is partial to setting tough physical tests whenever she starts seeing anyone new. You’d never guess she is seventy-two; her face is virtually unlined, her blue eyes bright, her figure enviable. ‘Anyway, how was your … appointment?’ she asked as she pulled on her jacket.

  ‘Appointment?’ I frowned, confused. Surely Nate hadn’t told her about Rachel?

  ‘Nate said you had an appointment after work.’ She studied me, unblinking. ‘Nothing … worrying, I hope?’

  ‘Oh, no, not at all!’ I felt the blush whoosh up my face.

  ‘Not … ill are you?’ She tried, unsuccessfully, to hide a glimmer of hope.

  ‘No, no – I’m absolutely fine.’

  Her stare was piercing. Right up to retirement, Judy was a science teacher, and I bet no one lit their farts with a Bunsen burner in her classes.

  ‘I, er, just had a massage,’ I fibbed.

  ‘A massage?’ she gasped, as if I’d said ‘colonic irrigation’.

  ‘Yes, just a little treat for myself …’

  ‘Oh, I do admire you, Sinead. I really do …’

  ‘Why’s that?’ I asked, genuinely perplexed.

  Her mouth flickered with amusement. ‘Putting yourself first like that. It’s very commendable, I have to say …’

  ‘Well, er, I—’

  ‘… Although I could never justify spending that sort of money on myself. I’d feel so guilty, so decadent, that it would cancel out any enjoyment I’d gained from the massage …’

  What would she have thought if she knew I’ve been forking out – weekly – to have my head examined?

  ‘Er, Mum,’ Nate cut in belatedly, ‘a massage isn’t that big a deal, you know.’

  ‘Ha. Isn’t it? I wouldn’t know. Never gone in for those pampering scenarios myself – but each to their own.’ She flashed a bemused smile. ‘Anyway, I’d really better go. Bye, Bella, darling!’ But Bella was far too interested in gnawing Scout’s disgusting fluorescent rubber hamburger to even glance in her owner’s direction.

  A stillness settled over us after Judy had gone.

  ‘Well, that was nice, as usual,’ I muttered.

  ‘Oh, you know what she’s like.’ Nate adjusted his wire-framed specs. At forty-three, with wavy caramel hair and intensely brown eyes, my husband still manages to fall into the ‘cute’ category. Due to his height and long, long legs – he’s six-foot-four – there’s something endearingly gangly about him. If he were in a film, he’d be the kindly teacher who helps a colleague carry her unruly heap of books and box files – and bingo, they’d fall in love.

  While he started to make dinner, I went to investigate the bathroom, which I meant to tackle the previous night. As expected, it had still been strewn with socks, pants and several T-shirts belonging to Nate and Flynn. Both of them are phenomenally untidy. Nate’s music magazines were piled messily on the bathroom scales, and the washbasin was daubed with toothpaste and shaving gel. Of course, none of that needed to be dealt with there and then. What I should have been doing was hanging out with Nate, chopping parsley and chatting companionably, instead of moving on to hoover our bedroom and prickling over a massage I’d never had.

  ‘Ready, love!’ he called from the kitchen.

  I trotted downstairs to see he’d poured our wine and set out our bowls of pasta very prettily, with salad in a glass bowl and a fresh loaf. Although I have always done the lion’s share of the cooking, Nate had started to make dinner on Rachel days. It was as if he was trying to make things right.

  ‘This looks great,’ I said, at which he muttered something I didn’t catch. We started to eat in silence. I heard the front door fly open; Flynn was home. I jumped up and bounded over to hug him as if he’d just traversed the Himalayas, rather than sat in the Odeon for two hours.

  ‘Hey, Mum.’ He laughed and bobbed down to greet Scout and our visiting hound. ‘Hi, Bella-baby. You always smell so good! No anchovy breath on you. Not like our stinky old Scout. You look blow-dried as well. Does Gran blow-dry you?’ Flynn adores animals and nagged for a dog until we finally gave in. Scout is our second, acquired to help us over the heartache when Larry, our beloved lurcher, died last year.

  ‘So, how was it?’ I asked eagerly.

  Flynn’s lazy grin stretched across his face as he straightened up. He has inherited his dad’s features: the full, wide mouth and dark-chocolate eyes, plus the light brown hair with a defiant wave. ‘I was only at the cinema, Mum. Not sitting an exam.’

  ‘No, I know that. What was the film again?’

  He mumbled the name of an action thriller I’d never heard of. Nate and I haven’t been to the cinema since something like 1926.

  ‘Was it good?’ I enquired.

  ‘Uh, yeah?’ He shrugged.

  ‘What was it about?’

  He peered at me as I sat back down at the table. ‘You don’t want to know the whole plot, do you?’

  I laughed. ‘No, of course not … so, have you eaten?’

  ‘Yeah, we got pizza …’

  ‘School okay today?’ Nate asked stiffly.

  Flynn threw him a baffled look. ‘Have my real mum and dad been abducted?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ Nate frowned.

  ‘The two of you, grilling me like you’re distant relatives instead of my parents. Shall we sit down and talk about what I’d like to be when I grow up?’

  Nate and I laughed uncomfortably, and Flynn sniggered and escaped to his room, away from his weird, quizzing parents.

  I tried to tuck into the pasta I’d barely touched. ‘You’re not upset about Mum, are you?’ Nate ventured.

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ I said quickly, gaze fixed on my bowl.

  ‘You know what she’s like. So bloody sanctimonious. God forbid anyone should enjoy themselves—’

  ‘It’s fine, Nate.’ I looked up. Tension flickered in his eyes.

  ‘You don’t mind having Bella to stay, do you?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I exclaimed. ‘Why would I?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ he replied. ‘I just wish I knew what you and Rachel talked about, that’s all—’

  ‘It’s not about a well-behaved collie coming to stay!’ I blurted out.

  ‘What is it, then? Why can’t you just tell me what’s wrong?’

  Pink patches had sprung up on his cheeks. What did he think was wrong? He knew about my visit to the GP, and the antidepressants – although he hadn’t taken the trouble to talk to me then, to try and find out why I was so down, so close to tears much of the time. Depression: a taboo word, as far as Nate’s concerned. Brush it under the carpet, that’s his stock response to anything remotely uncomfortable. Thr
ee-point turns, emergency stops: he’s fine with that kind of stuff. But emotions are messy and scary and he prefers not to have to deal with them. It was clearly bothering him that I’d been sharing my own feelings with someone else. It happened every week, this post-Rachel probing.

  He still wouldn’t let it drop, even as we cleared up after dinner. ‘How long d’you think you’ll carry on with this?’ he asked, washing up with unnecessary vigour.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘I mean, there’s no grand plan—’

  ‘And you won’t share any of it with me? The stuff you discuss with this stranger, I mean?’

  ‘Well, it’s kind of private.’ I was doing my best to remain calm.

  ‘So private you can’t even tell me?’

  ‘Nate, the whole point is that it’s not you …’

  ‘Whoah, great, thanks a lot!’

  I stared at him, almost laughing in disbelief. ‘If it was you I needed to talk to I’d just, well – talk to you …’

  ‘At least that’d be free,’ he thundered. ‘You wouldn’t have to drive over Solworth either—’

  ‘Oh, right, so I’d save the petrol money as well!’

  ‘Yes, you would. Have you checked our bank balance lately?’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake …’ I stared at the man I’d once loved to distraction, and who was now glaring at me, his face mottled red, his T-shirt splashed with dishwater. ‘You begrudge me the four pounds fifty or whatever it costs to get there and back?’

  ‘Of course I don’t—’

  ‘What’s wrong with you two tonight?’ We both swung around to see Flynn standing in the doorway.

  ‘Sorry, son,’ Nate blustered, looking away.

  Flynn snorted. ‘What were you shouting about?’

  ‘We weren’t shouting, honey,’ I said quickly.

  He blinked at us. ‘Yes, you were. And what’s four pounds fifty?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I exclaimed, looking at Nate for confirmation.

  ‘Nothing’s four pounds fifty,’ he said with an exaggerated shrug, while our son exhaled loudly and strode away, as if concluding that his parents really had lost it this time.

  Nate and I fell into a sullen silence, and only much later, when we were watching TV, did he attempt to make conversation with me.

  ‘I meant to tell you, I got her again today,’ he remarked.

  ‘Which one?’ I asked.

  ‘You know. The one with a tiny fringe that stops above the eyebrows, like your old college mates used to have?’

  Ah, the art-school-mini-fringe. ‘You mean Tanzie? The one who’s failed, what, ten times now?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s the one. And it’s eleven, actually.’

  ‘Poor thing,’ I murmured. ‘I can’t believe she hasn’t given up by now. If I were her, I’d resign myself to a life of blagging lifts and using public transport—’

  ‘No, you wouldn’t,’ he insisted. ‘Anyway, that would never happen to you. You passed first time! You’re so capable, nothing fazes you—’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said bitterly. ‘I just soldier on, never needing any care or looking after—’ Without warning, my eyes welled up. I turned away before Nate could see.

  ‘Tanzie usually just accepts that she’s failed,’ he went on, as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘Nadira and Eric say the same – we’ve all had her, over and over. But this time there were floods of tears. Inconsolable, she was …’ He sighed loudly and shook his head. ‘Anyway, I’m shattered. Coming up to bed?’

  ‘In a little while,’ I replied. ‘Could you set the mousetraps before you go up? I saw another one this morning …’

  ‘That’ll be the same one as before,’ Nate remarked.

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘Well, what did it look like?’

  I shrugged. ‘Small, furry, greyish-brown …’

  ‘Yeah, that’s the one I saw.’

  I stared at him, aware of my anger starting to bubble up again. I suspect it’s permanently there, simmering just below the surface. ‘I didn’t spot any distinguishing features,’ I retorted, ‘and it wasn’t wearing a T-shirt with its name on. I think we must have quite a problem – an infestation, actually – seeing as they’re appearing pretty much every day …’

  ‘No, what I mean is, it’s probably just the same one that keeps reappearing,’ Nate declared, with a trace of smugness.

  My chest was tightening, and I was aware of veering dangerously close towards what’s commonly known as ‘overreacting’. At least, that’s what it’s called when it’s a woman. When it’s a man, he is merely ‘making a point’. ‘I’d say it’s more likely that we have dozens,’ I went on, ‘and they’re all shagging away behind the fridge …’

  ‘Now you’re being ridiculous,’ he snapped.

  ‘Am I? Shut up for a minute and listen.’ I put a finger to my lips.

  ‘I do not want to hear mouse-sex happening …’

  ‘Neither do I! And I’ve told you I can’t bear to deal with mousetraps. I know it’s silly, but I just can’t bring myself to do it—’

  Nate stifled a yawn. ‘I’ll sort it tomorrow, all right, love? It’s been one hell of a day. Did I tell you my last candidate of the day called me a wanker?’

  ‘Really?’ I looked at him. ‘That’s terrible. I can’t imagine why anyone would do that. Now, could you please just set those traps?’

  Chapter Four

  Nate

  Somehow, I manage to drive our son to school as if I am just a normal bloke, fully in charge of his faculties.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Flynn barks as I pull up outside the main school gate.

  ‘Dropping you off,’ I reply, affecting a cheery tone.

  His eyes narrow, beaming displeasure. ‘Mum never stops here. She always parks round the corner, by the church.’

  ‘God, yes, of course – sorry. Don’t know what I was thinking—’

  ‘God …’ Swivelling only his eyes, Flynn scans the vicinity to assess whether any of his associates have spotted us. Luckily, we appear to be too late for that. Muttering something I don’t catch, he grabs his beloved but terribly shabby leather rucksack from by his feet and clambers out of the car, banging the door behind him.

  With the engine still running I watch him loping up the wide stone steps. Skinny and tall – he’s well over six feet – he still walks with a slight twist to his hips. His left side is weaker than the right, although these days you can barely tell, as years of therapy have helped immeasurably. He tires easily, that’s the main thing – although he’d rather carry on regardless, out and about with his mates, than admit it.

  He glances back, looking appalled that I am still sitting there, as if I am wearing a fluorescent green comedy wig. What would he make of that terrible email, which effectively signals the end of family life as we know it? Although I’m not quite sure why, I have brought his mother’s list out with me; I can sense it, glowing radioactively in my trouser pocket, virtually burning a hole in my hip. Perhaps it’s in the hope that I’ve merely imagined this morning’s events, and when I check it later it’ll read:

  Ketchup

  Loo roll

  Milk

  Outside school, a couple of other latecomers are shambling up the wide stone steps behind Flynn. It’s a proud and well-kept Victorian building, a state school with a broad cultural mix. Flynn has always gone to mainstream school, with extra support when needed, all closely monitored by Sinead; she’s fought his corner all the way. ‘She’s a powerhouse,’ her old college friend Michelle reminded me once, and of course I agreed. There was a pause, and Michelle added, rather belated, ‘And you are too, of course!’

  I watch as the other boys scamper up the last few steps to catch up with my son. How carefree they look, how breezy and laid-back, unencumbered as they are by tax returns and remembering to put the bins out. Sure, they might have flunked the odd maths test – but they haven’t yet failed at anything terribly important, anything that might mark them out as po
or excuses for human beings. The boys stop and laugh loudly at something (thank God Flynn can still laugh – for now) and disappear into the building together.

  I should have been a better, more proactive and useful man, I realise now. Sinead has deserved more from me. No matter how challenging it’s been bringing up Flynn, she has never once moaned or expressed a jot of self-pity. She adores being his mother – considers it an absolute privilege – and has often said that, where our boy is concerned, she would not change a single thing—

  Bang-bang!

  My heart lurches.

  ‘Nate?’ A thin blonde woman, whom I vaguely recognise, is rapping sharply on the driver’s side window. ‘Nate,’ she repeats, leaning closer, ‘are you okay?’

  I fumble to lower the window. ‘Erm, yes – I’m fine, thank you.’ I assume she is something to do with school, but I can’t remember her name. Sinead is so much better at that stuff than I am, efficiently filing the names of every teacher and medical practitioner, every cub leader and all the parents and their children and their pets that we have ever encountered in her colossal brain. A powerhouse.

  ‘It’s just … you shouldn’t really be parked here.’ The woman winces apologetically. ‘You know. The yellow zigzags …’

  ‘Oh God, yes. I’m so sorry!’

  Still bending at the open window, she is smiling now. ‘I’d have thought, being the driving test guy …’

  ‘Yes, I should know better, shouldn’t I?’ I laugh stiffly.

  ‘I’ll forgive you. In fact, I should thank you really.’

  ‘For committing a parking offence?’ I gawp at her.

  ‘No,’ she laughs, exposing large, bright white teeth. ‘For finally passing my mum …’

  I blink at her, uncomprehending for a moment.

  ‘Her driving test. Her third go, it was. She was lucky to get you—’