How Could You Do This To Me, Mum?

by Rosie Rushton

  Jon hurtled out of his room.

  ‘With Sumitha, yes,’ he retorted. ‘Why do you have to talk like that? I don’t imagine Mrs Banerji calls me ‘the English boy.’

  ‘No offence meant,’ said Henry, holding up his hands in mock surrender. ‘They’re just as good as us – almost!’ He tittered.

  ‘You make me sick!’ shouted Jon.

  Peter Turnbull poured himself a Scotch and thought how much he was looking forward to an evening with Laura. Christmas had been a fairly disastrous event – through no fault of his whatever – and all he wanted now was a quiet chat with his daughter and a chance to get everything sorted once and for all. He’d had such a difficult year one way and another and he was feeling very fragile and stressed out. Betsy wasn’t helping – he had always thought she was a compassionate, feeling sort of person but lately she had been really intolerant and snappy about his moods. And as for her children, they seemed to find fault with everything he said or did. He couldn’t understand it because he had bent over backwards to be good to them. Laura had never been like that – but there again, Laura was special and he had to admit that he didn’t think Betsy had quite the right approach to raising kids. He’d tried to talk to her about it but she wouldn’t listen. Betsy had been rather miffed that she and her children were not included in the invitation.

  ‘We’re a family now, and your beloved daughter has got to accept that,’ she had said. ‘It would be a good opportunity for Sonia and Daryl to get to know Laura better.’

  But Peter remained adamant. Tonight was for him and Laura. Tonight was the first stage of his master plan.

  Chapter Twenty

  Laura Makes a Stand

  ‘Now look, Mum,’ said Laura on Saturday morning when her mother appeared, somewhat bleary-eyed at the kitchen door. ‘This is what you have to do. This box is for empty cans, this one for plastic bottles, this one’s for rags . . .’

  ‘Hang on, hang on,’ said her mother, putting her hand to her head. ‘I can’t have all these cardboard boxes cluttering up my kitchen.’

  ‘Oh, that’s right, opt out!’ snapped Laura, sticking the last label on a battered box. ‘Look Mum, do you want this new baby to have a world fit to live in? I mean, think about it – think about energy and wasted resources and—’

  ‘OK, OK,’ said her mother. ‘I’ll make a deal with you – two boxes in the corner by the washing machine, no more. Any others will have to go in the understairs cupboard out of my way.’

  ‘Oh yes – then it will be out of sight, out of—’ began Laura.

  ‘Laura!’ said her mother

  ‘OK,’ said Laura.

  ‘I’ll be out this morning,’ said Laura later while they were eating breakfast.

  ‘Where are you off to this time?’ said Melvyn. ‘Some mind-extending activity like shopping, is it?’

  Laura threw him a withering glance.

  ‘If you must know, I am going on a protest.’ It sounded rather good, she thought.

  Melvyn and Ruth shot enquiring looks at one another.

  ‘What sort of protest, exactly?’ asked Ruth.

  ‘Outside Leehampton Labs,’ said Laura. ‘Did you know they squirt shampoo into rabbits’ eyes and make rats eat hair gel. It’s terrible.’

  ‘I’m not altogether sure that these protests are a very good idea,’ Melvyn began.

  ‘Says who?’ sneered Laura.

  ‘Says me,’ asserted Melvyn. ‘I went on a few when I was at university – anti-nuclear campaigning, that sort of thing – and half the time, they ended with some small group brawling with the police and earning the whole campaign a bad name.’

  ‘Well, this isn’t going to be like that,’ insisted Laura. ‘Daniel’s been before and he says . . .’

  ‘Oh, Daniel,’ interrupted Ruth, sighing. ‘I might have known he would feature somewhere.’

  ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ said Laura.

  ‘Oh nothing,’ said her mother. ‘Merely that I imagine all this recycling and sudden concern with the welfare of white mice has something to do with your crush on . . .’

  Laura looked at her mother incredulously. ‘What are you on, Mum? What’s with all this ‘crush’ business? You’re so old-fashioned. I have not got a crush on anyone – I just care about the world and what is happening to it. Your generation have ruined our planet and my generation have to pick up the pieces. And I am going to the demo, whatever you say!’

  Ruth sighed. ‘Well, I suppose . . .’

  ‘Great. See you then.’ And stuffing the remains of her toast into her mouth, she grabbed her jacket and placard and fled before anyone could stop her.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It’s My Birthday and I’ll Cry If I Want To

  ‘Happy birthday, sweetheart!’ Ginny gave Chelsea a big hug and gestured towards the kitchen table which was piled high with parcels and cards.

  ‘Many happys, love,’ said Barry, giving her a peck on the cheek and grabbing an earthenware cookpot from the dresser. ‘I’ll talk to you properly tonight – must dash – I’m marinating some rabbit over at the unit and it mustn’t sit in the wine too long.’

  Great, thought Chelsea. Now I come second to a dead rabbit.

  Chelsea’s eyes flickered over the packages and her heart sank. There was nothing there that was the right size to be an iPod, even a mini one. A tight knot of disappointment settled in the middle of her chest. Somehow she had thought that, despite all their protests, her parents would come up with the goods in the end. They always had before. Which all went to prove yet again that they didn’t love her any more.

  ‘Aren’t you going to open them?’ cajoled Ginny pulling back a chair and sitting at the table. ‘Look, this one is from Dad and me.’

  Chelsea ripped off the paper and opened the box. There was a gold pendant in the shape of a crescent moon and a pair of gold star earrings. Wrapped round them was a cheque for twenty-five pounds. Barely enough for a pair of jeans, thought Chelsea.

  ‘They’re lovely, Mum – thanks,’ said Chelsea, trying to sound enthusiastic.

  ‘Here, let me do the clasp for you,’ said Ginny, going behind Chelsea and lifting her hair out of the way. And look, love, I am sorry we couldn’t get the iPod but things really are very tight just now. As soon as I’ve negotiated this rise with Hot FM and Dad’s business starts to pay more, we’ll think again. OK?’

  Chelsea nodded. She didn’t trust herself to speak.

  ‘Open the rest of your cards, then,’ encouraged Ginny So Chelsea dutifully looked through missives from her aunt (cheque for fifteen pounds, not bad) and godmother (cheque for twenty-five pounds, even better) and grandmother (mini-rucksack, pretty cool for someone in their dotage). There was a big parcel from Geneva with an African tribal mask and a wall hanging, and a note from Warwick saying, Happy birthday, present when I’m rich! When she had opened the last one, she couldn’t help herself any longer. She burst into tears. ‘Oh, Chelsea love, what is it?’ said Ginny.

  Chelsea had a little sniff and said nothing.

  ‘Oh my God, is that the time?’ cried her mother, glancing at the clock. ‘I’m supposed to be at a meeting for eight forty-five.’ She grabbed her briefcase and looked at her sobbing daughter. Suddenly it was all too much. Whether it was frustration or maternal guilt or the fact that her column for the paper was only half written and she didn’t have a worthwhile idea in her head, or whether it came from merely trying to juggle half a dozen jobs on four hours’ sleep a night, she didn’t know. But something inside snapped and she shouted, ‘For Pete’s sake, Chelsea, grow up. OK, you didn’t get what you wanted, but that’s life. And it’s time you started realising that in the real world things don’t always turn out hunky dory. I’ll see you after lunch.’

  Chelsea stared through tear-filled eyes at her mother’s retreating backside. She’d left without even giving her a hug. On her birthday. And it wasn’t fair. She wasn’t crying about the present. She was crying because none of her friends,
not even Laura, had remembered to send her a birthday card.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Anti-Climax

  ‘Let’s walk to the labs,’ suggested Daniel. ‘These placards are a bit dodgy to fit on the bus – let’s see yours.’

  Laura turned her placard round.

  ‘That’s brilliant!’ enthused Daniel. ‘You really are good with words – how do you think things up?’

  Laura shrugged. ‘They just sort of come into my head on their own,’ she admitted. ‘I’m going to be a novelist one day.’

  Daniel grinned. ‘You sound like my sister – she never says, “I want to be an actress,” always, “I am going to be an actress”.’

  ‘Well, you have to be positive,’ said Laura. ‘I didn’t know you had a sister.’

  ‘Mmm, Alexa – she’s twelve,’ said Daniel. ‘She’s at your school. She wasn’t at our party – she was staying with the cousins in Sussex for the weekend.’ He looked again at Laura’s placard. ‘Er, is that meant to be a rabbit?’ he asked tentatively.

  Laura pulled a face. ‘Yes, but I’m useless at drawing.’

  ‘Me too,’ admitted Daniel. ‘Still it’s the words that matter.’

  Jon draws brilliantly, thought Laura. Maybe next time, I could . . . stop it, she told herself.

  ‘How many people are going to be at this thing?’ she asked Daniel.

  ‘Well, at least thirty from college,’ said Daniel. ‘And maybe some from the art college as well – and Leehampton Animal Activists probably. Hey, we cross over here.’

  He slipped his hand into hers and it felt rather nice. Laura smiled at him.

  By the time they reached the laboratory gates, there was quite a crowd of protesters chanting and waving placards. There were also half a dozen policemen standing chatting by the perimeter fence.

  Daniel went up to a thickset guy in cord trousers and a purple anorak who was looking intently through thick-lensed spectacles at a clipboard.

  ‘This is Laura Turnbull, she’s never been to one of these before,’ he said. ‘Laura, this is Gavin Pykett – he’s the chairman of our college animal rights group.’

  ‘Hi, Laura,’ said Gavin. ‘I think you two better go over there by the side entrance.’ Gavin gestured towards a padlocked entrance. ‘There’s some big meeting going on this morning and we reckon the chairman of Leehampton Labs will be arriving any time. We’re going to block both entrances.’

  Laura and Daniel headed off and sat down on the kerb-side.

  ‘Laura – it is Laura, isn’t it?’ Laura looked up. Standing beside her, muffled up in a bright tangerine duffel coat and several scarves, was Jon’s mum. Laura’s eyes widened in astonishment.

  ‘Hi, Mrs Joseph – what are you doing here? I mean,’ she added hastily, not meaning to sound rude, ‘I didn’t expect to see you at something like this.’

  Anona laughed. ‘Why not? I get pretty incensed about all this experimentation on animals, I can tell you. So I decided to join the art college animal rights group – and here I am.’

  ‘Brilliant!’ said Laura. ‘I wish my mum was that motivated.’

  Anona grinned. ‘I reckon if I was seven months’ pregnant, I’d opt for staying at home, too. Hey, that’s a great slogan,’ she added, peering at Laura’s placard. And with a wave she strode back to the main gate.

  I wonder if Jon is here too, thought Laura, looking around hopefully. Stop it, she told herself again and turned her attention back to Daniel. He put his arm round her shoulder and she tried to fall in love.

  Five minutes later, on a signal from Dave, everyone sat down. The gates were blocked with bodies four deep.

  They sat there for half an hour or so. Nothing happened.

  Gavin came over to them. ‘Something odd is going on,’ he said. ‘The police aren’t bothered about us sitting here – usually they are cajoling us to get up by now.’

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’ A grinning policeman ambled over.

  Daniel glowered at him. Laura grinned tentatively.

  ‘Waiting for the delegates to arrive, are you, sir?’ said the constable, turning to Gavin. ‘Meeting’s taking place over at the company’s Swansea branch. Been a bit of a waste of time for you, hasn’t it, sir?’

  After that it was all something of an anti-climax. Daniel was really peeved. ‘Now you’ll think that we’re just playing at protest,’ he said sulkily, ‘It’s a right pain this happening; I was really looking forward to a good ruck.’

  Laura looked up in surprise. ‘What do you mean – a good ruck?’ she said.

  ‘Oh, nothing – I just like to feel we are achieving something,’ he said. ‘Still,’ he added, ‘there’s always Fettlesham Downs next month.’

  ‘Fettlesham Downs?’ said Laura. ‘Isn’t that the new industrial estate the other side of town?’

  Daniel nodded. ‘That’s where CurePlan has opened its new medical laboratory. They test vaccines and new drugs and all sorts of stuff on animals and a crowd of us are going over.’

  ‘I might not be allowed,’ ventured Laura.

  ‘Oh well, if you are going to let your parents stop you doing what you know is right, then I suppose . . .’

  ‘No, no – I’ll tell them. You’re right – they have to learn. They are terribly complacent,’ she added confidingly.

  ‘Mine too,’ agreed Daniel. ‘It’s their generation. So you are on for it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Laura, ‘yes, I’m on.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Jon Remembers

  ‘Mum, I’m starving – where have you been?’

  Anona pulled off her scarf and hung her coat on the hall peg.

  ‘Demonstrating at Leehampton Labs,’ she said. You’ll have to make a sandwich; I haven’t been shopping yet.’

  Jon sighed.

  ‘Oh Mum – but you always used to make sausage pie on Saturdays. And you haven’t made a cake for ages,’ he moaned, peering into the empty cake tin.

  Anona shrugged and filled the kettle.

  ‘There’s more to life than baking cakes,’ she said. ‘I saw Laura Turnbull at the demo. She’d done a great placard: Do you want beauty with no thought for the beasts? Clever, I thought. The rabbit picture wasn’t up to much, though,’ she chuckled.

  ‘Laura can’t draw to save her life,’ said Jon. ‘I didn’t know she was in to all this animal rights stuff. Mind you, give Laura something to argue about and she’ll go for it.’ He grinned.

  ‘You used to see a bit of her, didn’t you?’

  ‘Mmm,’ he said. She was fun, he thought. There was something fiery and fiesty about Laura. Of course, Sumitha was wonderful, no doubt about that. Still . . .

  ‘But, of course, you’re spoken for now, aren’t you?’ His mother smiled.

  ‘Mum, get lost,’ said Jon. And threw a wet tea towel at her.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  What’s in a Name?

  ‘So how did the protest go?’ enquired Melvyn as Laura walked through the door.

  ‘Fine,’ said Laura shortly. She was not about to admit that not a lot had happened and that it had been something of a waste of time.

  ‘And everyone behaved?’ persisted Melvyn. ‘No nasty elements or anything?’

  ‘Not unless you consider Jon’s mum a “nasty element”,’ retorted Laura, hurling her coat on to the stairs.

  ‘What’s Anona got to do with it?’ asked Ruth, sticking her head round the kitchen door.

  ‘She was there, if you must know,’ said Laura triumphantly. ‘So you can hardly complain, can you?’

  ‘Anona Joseph? At the demo?’ Melvyn sounded astonished.

  ‘Yes, because she happens to be a caring person who isn’t content to sit at home while dumb animals are crucified for the sake of commerce!’ declared Laura, feeling rather proud of that piece of vehement rhetoric.

  ‘Well, what she does is up to her,’ argued Melvyn, looking a bit taken aback. ‘I’m still not really sure I approve of you going.’

  ‘O
h, terrific!’ shouted Laura. ‘Well, I didn’t exactly approve of you consorting with my mother or getting her pregnant, but it didn’t make any difference, did it?’ She threw her placard down on the hall floor and stormed off.

  ‘Maybe it’ll be different with Tarquin.’ Melvyn grinned.

  ‘I wouldn’t count on it,’ commented Ruth.

  Laura hurtled into the kitchen. ‘Who’s Tarquin?’ she said, throwing an empty toothpaste carton into the box marked, Cardboard.

  ‘Oh, you know,’ said Ruth adopting the age-old maternal technique of acting as though everything was thoroughly wonderful. ‘If the baby is a boy we are thinking of calling him Tarquin.’

  ‘You are thinking of doing what?’ yelled Laura. ‘You can’t do that – it’s awful! I am not going around with a brother – half-brother,’ she corrected herself, glaring at Melvyn, ‘– with a name like Tarquin and that is final.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Ruth.

  ‘Well, it may be a girl, of course,’ suggested Melvyn. ‘Then she will be called Viola.’

  ‘Viola!’ spluttered Laura. ‘Viola! What are you on? Where on earth did you find a pathetic name like that?’

  ‘I played Viola in Twelth Night at school,’ said Ruth.

  ‘I suppose,’ said Laura, ‘we should be thankful they didn’t do Othello. Otherwise you’d be calling it Desdemona.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Pressure Over the Pasta

  ‘What has she got on?’ whispered Barry to Ginny as they walked into Lorenzo’s.

  Chelsea, who was wearing a black mesh top, red miniskirt and purple beanie, the result of an afternoon shopping on her own in town, snapped, ‘I heard that – what’s wrong with it?’ She hated buying clothes without her friends to back up her judgement and she wasn’t at all sure about the top.