Mother Can You Hear Me?

by Margaret Forster

  ‘How can it do me good if I hate it? And what do you mean “do me good”?’

  ‘All the fresh air—’

  ‘—god!—’

  ‘—and just getting away from the dirt and noise of London and having time to really relax.’

  ‘But I like the dirt and noise—I like London—I don’t want time to relax—it’s boring down there with nothing to do and nowhere to go. You don’t even like having me with you, you know you don’t.’

  ‘We couldn’t leave you behind anyway, not alone in this huge house.’

  ‘Why not? I could have Joanna and Sue to stay.’

  ‘No. You’re not responsible enough. Take last week when we were all out—you didn’t even notice the downstairs sink was overflowing. If we hadn’t come back when we did there would have been a flood.’

  ‘Then can I stay with Sue?’

  ‘No. You’re always accepting other people’s hospitality and never returning it.’

  ‘Oh, Mum—you’re so ridiculous when you say things like that. Sleeping on somebody’s floor isn’t hospitality.’

  ‘And eating their food?’

  ‘I’d get my own food.’

  ‘You don’t do that here—you’re here every meal time with your tongue hanging out and if there isn’t a three-course meal you’re mortally offended.’

  ‘But why are you forcing me to go?’

  ‘Because—because I want you to—and I don’t think the alternatives are acceptable—and it would disappoint Grandma and Grandpa if you didn’t.’

  Father had regularly forced them to do things as a family. He forced all of them to go for a family walk every Sunday evening. They hated it. They would spend the whole week trying to fabricate cast-iron excuses and when they failed they would all line up with scowls on their faces, hands thrust deep into pockets and feet ready to trail as they were marched out. Father didn’t seem to care what their attitude was—all that mattered was their presence. They would walk up to the woods, strung out in a line behind Father, who alone knew their destination. If their sulking spoiled his pleasure he never mentioned it. When they got back in the house he would say ‘That was grand now.’ Never once did he try to explain what he got from executing this exercise.

  Irritation at being cast in the role of coercer made her bad tempered on the telephone with Valerie, who rang only to express admiration for what she was about to do.

  ‘Mother is so excited,’ Valerie said, ‘she can’t stop talking about it.’

  ‘Don’t,’ Angela said, ‘I can’t bear it. You know as well as I do the whole thing will be the most terrible anti-climax.’

  ‘Oh, it might not be—it might be lovely—the sun might shine, you never know.’

  ‘I do know.’

  ‘Anyway, I think it’s marvellous and I know Mother and Father do too. And you’ll have the children to help.’

  ‘Valerie, don’t talk rubbish. Children are never a help.’

  ‘Well, Mother just loves to be with them.’

  ‘She doesn’t. Within minutes they drive her crazy and then I have to spend all my time keeping them apart.’

  ‘At least it will be a rest.’

  ‘That’s very unlikely.’

  ‘Would you like me to come and help then?’

  ‘I would hate you to come and help. It would only make the situation worse.’

  ‘Thanks very much.’

  ‘Don’t be so touchy. You know what I mean, or you ought to. Anyway, it would be a waste—save yourself for another time when I can’t manage it. They can come to you later in the summer when Mother is stronger.’

  ‘They’re always welcome,’ Valerie said.

  It took Angela’s breath away—Valerie saying something like that—about Mother and Father being welcome, about looking forward to having them—and coming out with similar platitudes and refusing to admit they were lies. Even after Mother and Father had been to stay with her she kept up the pretence. ‘They had a lovely time here,’ she would say. ‘Father was quite happy pottering around the town and Mother enjoyed the view.’ It drove Angela mad. Father had told her how he hated Manchester where Valerie lived. ‘It’s a filthy big town,’ he would say, ‘dirt and noise, disgusting. Don’t know what she wants to go and live there for—no peace, nothing.’ And the only comment Mother had ever passed about the view she was reputed to enjoy was that it made her dizzy, living in a flat so high up. There were vague mumblings from both of then—quickly stifled—about not getting enough to eat because Valerie didn’t eat enough herself to feed a sparrow, and about the terrible heat that stifled them in her sixth-floor flat, and of how they feared the lift. Nothing they said added up to having had the good time Valerie maintained they had had. The only explanation Angela could come up with was that either Valerie needed to keep up the myth because the truth was too distressing, or that she simply did not know what the truth was. In which case she was exceedingly lucky.

  ‘Sadie,’ Angela said, ‘sit in the back please.’

  ‘Do I have to?’

  ‘Yes, you do.’

  ‘I’ll be sick if I sit in the back.’

  ‘So will I,’ Angela said firmly, ‘and I need to be in better shape than you today.’

  ‘There isn’t even room in the back.’

  ‘It’s your fat bum,’ said Max.

  ‘Fuck yourself,’ Sadie said.

  ‘Stop that language,’ Angela shouted. The whole street could hear them. ‘Just get in and shut up. There’s plenty of room.’

  ‘When will the first stop be?’ Tim said.

  ‘Oh god—we haven’t even started yet.’

  ‘I just want to know, that’s all.’

  ‘In two hours’ time.’

  ‘Two hours? But we usually stop in one—we usually—’

  ‘Oh shut up—I don’t know when we’re going to stop—when we need to, that’s when. If only you would all be a little more grown up.’

  ‘Listen who’s talking,’ Sadie said.

  ‘Look,’ Angela said, turning round to face her. ‘I am tired and fed up and I don’t like doing this any more than you do so it’s hardly surprising I’m bad tempered—’

  ‘Just don’t take it out on us.’

  ‘I’m not taking anything out on anyone—’

  ‘Yes you are.’

  ‘—I’m just asking for a little consideration, that’s all—a little understanding—some ordinary sympathy—’

  ‘Oh, god.’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you very, very much.’

  Sadie burst out laughing, and tears of humiliation came into Angela’s eyes.

  She had put herself into a ridiculous position, just as Father used to—throwing the hat out so ostentatiously that all her daughter wanted to do was be sick into it. She had whined and whimpered and begged for mercy in those sanctimonious tones that made nonsense of what she was asking for. Mother had never done that. Mother would be grey-faced with visible exhaustion yet never let out a single moan. She would be carrying all the worries of the world on her poor shoulders yet never try to unload them. It was Father who pointed out the obvious and made them all jump to help Mother and they hated him for the way in which he did it. ‘She’ll be dead before you notice,’ he would shout, and ‘you’ll appreciate her when she’s gone.’ It had thrown them into a panic, rushing to get things for Mother, forcing her to put her feet up, swearing they would be better children. And she had just sighed and said she could manage and that had cut them to shreds.

  Sadie, however, had laughed, and rightly. Angela was compelled on the long journey down to St Erick to admit that her attitude was ludicrous. It was crass and stupid to roar in a bull-like way that you were tired—nobody could believe it. It was contemptible to say she did not want to go to St Erick and to boast that she was being dutiful. Nobody ever called forth compassion in that way. She knew Sadie despised her double standards and failed to see her motives were honourable. She had always hoped that by being open about all her joys and t
roubles she would achieve a depth of understanding with her children that Mother had never had with them, and that when they grew up that harmony would remain. But she had been mistaken. Exposing her own anguish only severed communication.

  She sat half mesmerized by the traffic on the motorway wondering what would happen if she simply abandoned all her responsibilities. Suppose she were to stay in bed and let them all get on with it? Suppose she were never to telephone or write to Mother again? Suppose she were to do only those things she wanted to do and fret only about herself and wait for others to look after her for a change—what would happen? She did not want to be so important. She did not want to control anyone’s destiny. She wanted to fade quietly into the background and have no one at all relying upon her. But she could not do that. She was a Mother, and Mothers stood like rocks, immovable and solid, while all the rest eddied around them.

  ‘You’re shivering,’ Ben said.

  ‘I know. I think I must be getting a cold.’

  ‘That’s all we need.’

  He had not meant to be unkind. He never was. But in her fragile state the remark was enough to start her crying again and she had to take refuge in a fit of pretend sneezing until she had finished. Mothers did not cry in front of children.

  ‘Filling the car with germs,’ Sadie murmured, and rolled down a window. A blast of cold air whipped across Angela’s neck and brought her out in goose pimples.

  Five

  MOTHER’S OPEN SUITCASE, put out on the bed for Angela’s inspection when she arrived, was a poem. Angela told her so, said she was lost in admiration, but Mother was uncertain whether she was being mocked or not and stood frowning while Angela checked the contents at her insistence. Everything had been arranged perfectly. Every garment was wrapped in tissue paper, the sleeves and pleats of skirts and dresses interleaved with yet more, and all the jumpers and blouses were folded carefully to prevent unnecessary creasing. No wonder Father had been in a bad temper ever since they had arrived. Clumsy, except with nuts and bolts, he had been compelled to stand for hours doing exactly what Mother had said to her beloved clothes. She suddenly became a tyrant, ignoring his furious protests that he had done his best and could do no better—he must do better. With her one good arm she showed him how to do it and cursing and swearing he tried to obey her instructions. Shoes were wrapped in newspaper and secured with elastic bands, then wedged round the edges of the suitcase to form a wall which contained the softer things. Toilet articles were in two different waterproof bags—one for talcum powder, face cream and ointments, the other for soap, facecloth and denture powder. Mending things, without which Mother never travelled so great was her fear of snapped elastic or lost buttons, were neatly contained in a small zipped bag like a pencil case. A hair brush and comb, in a cellophane bag, nestled in one corner and a bag of curlers and hairpins in another.

  ‘All present and correct,’ Angela said, ‘it would make a customs officer cry with pleasure.’ But Mother did not want her to be facetious. She was not happy with the number of stockings she was taking, nor with her decision to take only one coat, a heavy tweed coat. Suppose it turned out warm, what would she do then? Angela’s airy reassurances were not reassuring. Perhaps she ought to take a light coat too. Angela agreed, readily, but Mother was annoyed by her refusal to agree that it was important to have the right clothes. Mother would have liked Angela to have been as concerned and anxious as herself. ‘It really doesn’t matter,’ Angela kept saying, ‘take anything you like—take all your coats if you want.’ ‘Oh, don’t be silly,’ Mother snapped. But in the end a decision was made and the lid of the case closed and locked and strapped with a big leather strap, even though it would only be going in the car with them for twenty miles.

  Father sat in the front with Ben, ostensibly to direct him. Ben, who had driven to Port Point scores of times, had no objection to feigning ignorance. ‘Turn left, turn right, keep straight,’ Father loved to shout, even if every direction he gave was quite obvious. He knew shortcuts that Ben claimed put a hundred miles onto every journey but then Father liked to turn the simplest journey into a trip down memory lane. There was no road he had not ridden along on his bicycle, no village where he had not had a drink. The entire county of Cornwall was intimately known to him and his proprietorial air gave Angela great pleasure.

  But it irritated Mother, who sat in the back with Angela and Sadie while all three boys squashed into the rear of the estate car with the luggage.

  ‘Oh shut up for heaven’s sake,’ Mother muttered as Father reminisced, ‘they’ve heard that a thousand times.’

  ‘Never mind,’ Angela said, ‘it’s a good story.’

  ‘Is it? Eh? Oh, well then, sorry I spoke,’ Mother said, jealous, twitching horribly, ‘Oh well, if you think so.’

  ‘It keeps him happy,’ Angela whispered, disloyally, and squeezed Mother’s gloved hand.

  ‘I remember the year that pond over there was frozen solid in June,’ Father was saying, pointing out of the window.

  ‘Rubbish,’ Mother said, quite sharply and loudly.

  ‘Who’s rubbish?’ Father said, ‘It’s a fact—it was 1946—no, must have been ’47—’

  ‘There you are,’ Mother said, ‘can’t get it right,’ and she nudged both Angela and Sadie and smirked. Father for once did not rise to the bait, but went on telling Ben and anyone else who cared to listen about the great freeze-up in the middle of that summer he could not quite place. Mother’s showing off had failed in its object, which was to publicly humiliate him and goad him into making a fool of himself. Angela sighed with relief at a small crisis passed but knew Sadie would be disappointed—Grandma and Grandad were to her comedy characters whose repartee she relished and looked for.

  It began to rain as soon as they turned onto the main road at Camelford, hard lashing rain that had a hailstone or two in it and could not be argued away. ‘Just a shower,’ Ben murmured, but his windscreen wipers could barely cope with the torrent. Mother shrank from the sight and sound of it and cast beseeching looks at Angela. ‘It won’t last,’ Angela said confidently, ‘better to get it over with now, then it will be fine when we get there.’ ‘Oh, no bother,’ Father agreed.

  He must have heard Mother say, rudely, ‘What do you know about it?’ but he rose superbly above the taunt. Nothing was going to dim his pleasure. As they drove on the rain redoubled its efforts and they had to slow down to a crawl. A smile fixed on her face, Angela’s thoughts were of instant death for them all—a sudden, merciful extinction from the face of the earth before any of them knew what was happening. Hysteria at the approaching horror of a week near Port Point in the rain began to grip her and she had to keep swallowing hard to stop herself screaming.

  ‘What will we do if it rains all week like this?’ Saul shouted from the back of the car. ‘What will we do, Mum?’

  ‘Oh, lots of things,’ Angela said, ‘don’t you worry about it. There won’t be a dull moment.’ Ben smiled at her through the driving mirror.

  ‘Like what?’ shouted Max.

  ‘We’ll play games,’ Angela said, ‘I’ve brought lots with me—’

  ‘I can’t play games,’ Mother interrupted, ‘not with my eyes—and I can’t hold cards either.’

  ‘We’ll play games that don’t need good eyesight or involve holding cards,’ Angela said. ‘I-spy and—’

  ‘Christ,’ Sadie said, very softly.

  ‘We can wrap up and have a blow along the cliff,’ Father said. ‘You’ll never notice the rain once you get going.’

  ‘I can’t walk,’ Mother said, ‘not in this, bad enough at the best of times but I couldn’t stand up to this.’

  ‘You might not have to,’ Angela said, ‘let’s face it when it happens.’

  But Trewicks faced everything before it happened. They were frequently grieved to find that what they had suffered in advance had never actually materialized. Depression would overwhelm them at the merest hint of disaster and only begin to lift when their worst fe
ars proved justified. That cheered them up. Trewicks were quite splendid in catastrophes, absolutely magnificent in the midst of tragedy just so long as they had predicted it. More than anything they hated people who professed to live in the present, who did not cross their bridges before they came to them, who believed the worst might never happen. Knowing all this, born and bred to this fearful philosophy, Angela sensed Mother and Father’s deep disapproval of her attitude. They loathed her cheerfulness, even Father who was being so cheerful himself. The difference was that he was being cheerful in spite of thinking everything disastrous whereas Angela was not admitting disaster had overtaken them. Though Mother and Father appeared divided about the effect of the rain, they were united in despising their daughter’s refusal to face facts. They wanted her to look at the rain and sink into deep gloom. They wanted her to say things that Trewicks said, ‘Just our luck’ and ‘No good hoping.’

  Because this was how she knew they felt, Angela did not speak again for a long time as they drove towards the sea, fearing to cause conflict when there was enough already. In the back, the boys were unnaturally quiet, as though awed by the deluge outside. Angela was lulled almost to sleep by the close atmosphere in the car and the slow pace they were driving at and the rhythmic wheezing of Mother’s breathing. She made a hole in the steamed-up window and peered out at the fields, each greener than the last, a dozen or more shades from a brash emerald to the subtlest sage. She wondered if she ought to remember out loud cycling past them when she was a child, head down, off on her solitary pilgrimages to Port Point, forty miles, there and back, her legs burnt with wind and sun and weary with pedalling her Raleigh Sports up so many hills. She had made those bike rides because they were something to achieve—often, before she was even at Westdowns, she was tired and had no real desire to go on to Port Point, where in any case she would only lean on her handlebars for a little while before returning, but Trewicks did not give up. She had said to herself that she would cycle to Port Point and so she must.

  ‘I used to cycle this way,’ she said at last, when she felt the silence becoming deadly.