‘A real gentleman,’ Mother said, ‘beautiful manners, and so considerate. I wrote and thanked him afterwards.’
‘There you are,’ said Father, ‘I knew you’d remember in the end.’
‘I didn’t say I’d forgotten,’ Mother snapped, ‘I said you did nothing as usual.’
‘Wasn’t much I could do lying on a road with concussion.’
‘You didn’t have concussion,’ Mother said, spitting out the word with a contempt that took Angela’s breath away. ‘Concussion! A knock on the head and a cut eye. It was me that was really injured—two months in plaster with that leg and never really right ever after—and all because you couldn’t look where you were going.’
‘Oh no,’ Father said, and the teasing had gone from his voice, ‘no, lass, no—I was looking where I was going all right, no doubt about that—nobody could have seen that water in that dip that night.’
‘And you were going too fast.’
‘I was well within the speed limit—if I hadn’t been you might have been a goner.’
‘Might have been as well,’ Mother said.
‘Look,’ Angela said, ‘look at those lambs—Tim, look, aren’t they sweet? Ben, stop—let’s get out and look at them.’
Mother’s face was red and mottled and her mouth puffed out as though she were blowing air from within and refusing to let it escape. She would not get out of the car to see the lambs—would not even look at them through the car window. But Father got out and walked the length of the field with Tim and because she was so upset Angela went a few yards from the car herself, committing the unforgivable sin of leaving Mother alone.
‘Why is Grandma so angry?’ Sadie said to her, as they leaned on the gate. ‘What was that all about?’ Angela wearily went over several explanations in her head, but the story of Father’s and Mother’s antagonism, and yet their devotion, was too difficult to encapsulate. She could not even begin to make Sadie see why they acted as they did, nor could she describe to her daughter why it was so much worse when she herself was with them. Mother’s unhappiness and discontent flowed like a poisoned stream through the clear field of Father’s fond memories flooding them with ugly, brackish cynicism that polluted his nostalgia.
‘It’s difficult,’ she began at last, ‘Grandma doesn’t like to admit that—’
‘Look,’ Sadie said, ‘there’s a black lamb.’
‘Was that a deliberate interruption?’
‘What do you mean—I just saw it, that’s all—you’re so touchy.’
‘I thought you wanted to discuss Grandma’s anger.’
‘Oh, that—it doesn’t matter—it’s funny, isn’t it?’
‘Funny?’
‘Oh god—forget it.’
Sadie climbed the gate and strode off towards the others. Angela stared after her. She looked round. Behind, Mother’s white head peeped above the back seat of the car. She wished she could stay all day leaning on the gate in the sunshine.
Seven
THEY PARKED AND had coffee and cakes at the nearest café. Mother was not going to come in but Angela assured her it was an extremely tasteful café—nice crockery—no horrid plastic tables and spikey chairs that were impossible to sit on. And Mother approved. They sat at a table in the window and guzzled and she said ‘very nice’ after her Danish pastry which Angela had cut into pieces for her so that she would not spill crumbs down herself through taking too large a bite. Father did not come in. He said he had an errand to do and marched off looking important. He had not been gone five minutes before Mother, who had said ‘good riddance’, was saying ‘where do you suppose he’s got to?’ and watching the door anxiously. ‘I know where he’s gone,’ Ben said, ‘it’s a surprise.’
Father had gone to inquire if there were still horses to be hired to ride on the moor. There was no need for him to have gone ahead to ask, but it was all part of the treat. He liked to hang about the stables and watch and make deductions that could have been anticipated by a simple direct question. It puzzled all Angela’s children, who had not been brought up to subservience and who could not see that there was any element of nervousness in gruff, rude, domineering Grandad. ‘Why don’t we ask the man?’ Angela would frequently hear them saying and back would come the answer, ‘No need to ask—we’ll just watch and see.’
He was back, beaming, just as they emerged from the café. ‘Plenty of horses,’ he announced. The boys went off eagerly with him while Ben drove the others round. By the time they got there, Father had selected a horse and all three boys were fighting over who was going to ride which pony.
‘Do you want to ride, Mam?’ Father said, with that same awful wink he had already over-employed this morning. She turned away from him in disgust, tugging at Angela’s arm, but Angela made her wait, made her sit on a seat and watch them set off. Ben and Max went first with Father and then the rest behind. They were all laughing and shrieking and countermanding Ben’s orders the minute they were issued. ‘Silly things,’ Mother muttered.
Together, they trudged along the bridle path, Angela pausing every five yards to admire something or other in order to give Mother a chance to rest. Mother worried about getting her shoes dirty but Angela pointed out that the ground was exceptionally dry. ‘For you, maybe,’ Mother said, ‘but when you’re old you have to take care.’ ‘I’ll get you some Wellingtons,’ Angela joked, ‘real gumboots.’ ‘I can’t wear Wellingtons,’ Mother said, ‘not with my feet.’ The seat on the side of the path was occupied. As they approached Mother said, ‘People on that seat—no good hanging about—nowhere to sit.’
‘There are only two people,’ Angela said, ‘and it is a very long seat.’
‘We can’t intrude,’ Mother said, hanging back, ‘and I don’t like sharing seats anyway—come on, we’ll go back—I didn’t want to sit down—it was your idea.’
‘Yes, it was,’ Angela said, ‘and it still is and we’re going to sit on that seat,’ and she dragged Mother towards it and the two ladies already there were perfectly charming and invited Mother to share the Dunlopillo cushion they had so thoughtfully spread along the seat and Mother had an agreeable conversation with them about damp and rheumatism and Angela had ten minutes to look around and soothe herself.
The riding party was just returning as they settled themselves once again on the bench inside the stable door. They were still making a great deal of noise as Ben attempted to manoeuvre his horse into position. ‘Listen to them,’ Mother said, ‘what a row.’
‘They’re enjoying themselves.’
‘Should do it quietly—disturbing folk.’
‘They aren’t disturbing anyone, Mother.’
‘They’ll come off if they aren’t careful. And your Father shouldn’t be on a horse at all, not at his age. Behaving like a kid.’
‘He likes horses,’ Angela said, thinking she had not seen Father look so jolly for a long time.
‘I like horses,’ Mother said. ‘I always liked horses, better than he did. But I know when to stop. What would happen if he fell off, eh? What would he do then?’
‘Mother,’ Angela said, ‘they are not going to fall off.’
Nor did they. Amid cheers, Ben successfully tied his horse up and helped Grandad and the children off. They were all flushed and boastful, swearing they had ridden ‘almost’ across the moor, each child loudly proclaiming they had ridden the furthest and best. Even Sadie joined in, and Grandad caused trouble by saying she was the best of the lot.
‘What a time you’ve been,’ Mother said, ‘we’ve been frozen.’
‘You should have come, Grandma,’ Tim said.
‘Grandma can’t, pet.’
‘Why not? Grandad did.’
‘Grandma can’t manage on and off horses any more.’ Tim accepted the answer without interest. If Mother had hoped to earn a ‘poor Grandma’ she was disappointed. He did not know Mother had always found reasons for not being adventurous. ‘I can’t’ had been Mother’s stock reply to all offers of excitement.
‘I can’t, I won’t, I don’t want to.’ How Father had ever got her onto a motorbike was an impenetrable mystery.
They drove round to the other side of the moor towards Kilmar Tor, looking for a place to picnic. Angela was fussy. She would not consider a lay-by, or one of the public parking places where other people had already set up tables and chairs and were busily boiling kettles. They stopped five times and each time she got out and inspected the prospective site only to reject it as unworthy. There were loud exaggerated groans from the children. ‘Does it matter where we eat?’ Sadie complained, ‘I’m starving.’ ‘So am I,’ Mother said, a little defiantly. ‘Grandma’s hungry,’ Sadie said, accusingly.
‘It must be perfect,’ Angela said, not to be swayed, ‘sheltered and warm and secluded and with a view.’
‘You’ll never find it,’ Mother said, ‘not if you look till doomsday.’
‘You leave her alone,’ Father said, happy to drive on forever through the countryside he did not see enough of.
‘We’ll just go a little further,’ Angela said.
They went much further. They left the main road and went round the back of Kilmar Tor and by sacrificing a view of Brown Gelly they found a glade the shortest possible distance from the road that satisfied all the rest of Angela’s stringent requirements. Then began the laying down of ground sheets and transportation of chairs and rugs for Mother and Father and the ceremonial bearing of the picnic basket itself. Three times Angela tested Mother’s chair, draped all round with car rugs, until she pronounced it snug enough for a newborn baby, and then Mother sat down (as if on a throne) still maintaining she would just as soon eat in the car, and then the unpacking of the food began. It took Angela twenty minutes to set it out on a red and white checked cloth but when she had finished they all agreed it had perhaps been worth waiting.
The sun shone, the breeze was a mere murmur, and there were no flies or wasps to disturb the calm.
‘You shouldn’t have bothered,’ Mother said, mouth full of chicken, ‘a few sandwiches would have done.’
‘It was no bother,’ Angela said, ‘I enjoyed it.’
‘All that money,’ Mother said, ‘the expense—chicken and prawns, they’re expensive to start with.’
‘We don’t do it every day,’ Angela said, ‘this is a special treat.’
‘It’s very nice,’ Father said, the last piece of veal-and-ham pie washed down with Guinness. ‘Very, very nice. I don’t think we’ve had a picnic like this for a long time, have we Mam?’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Mother said, ‘we’ve never had a picnic like this, you know that perfectly well. When did we ever have picnics, anyway?’
‘Oh, often,’ Angela said, quickly, before Father could take up the cudgels. ‘I remember going to Port Point in the train with a carrier bag full of food—and sitting stuffing ourselves on the sea front.’
‘Biscuits and cheese,’ Mother said, ‘and a hard-boiled egg.’
‘Delicious,’ Angela said, ‘it’s the eating outside that matters.’
‘Then you should just have done the same today,’ Mother said, ‘instead of rushing round exhausting yourself getting all this spread together.’
‘I didn’t exhaust myself,’ Angela said. ‘Tea? Coffee? The hotel gave me big flasks of both.’
‘Mam will have tea,’ Father said.
‘No I will not. I’ll have nothing. I’ll only want the doings if I drink anything.’
‘We can stop at the next village,’ Angela said, ‘there’s bound to be somewhere you can go.’
But she refused. She closed her eyes and put her head back on the cushion behind it. Father made a face that was difficult to interpret. Angela, heavy with the knowledge she had somehow let Mother down, began to tidy up the picnic things.
When Sadie had friends to tea, Angela sat down with them and joined in the conversation, not wanting to be a remote figure in the background who dispensed food and drink and cramped everyone’s style. Sadie said nobody else’s mother did that. She said other mothers just left everyone to it and she said this in such an aggrieved way that Angela was left in no doubt as to what she ought to do. But she did not do it. She sat down and talked to Sadie’s friends and they responded and it was really rather pleasant. She liked getting to know them. She talked to Jane about her dog and to Laura about her year in America and to Kate and Emily about their families. Sadie tended to interrupt and show off. Angela never let her get away with an exaggeration. ‘Really, Sadie,’ she would say, ‘you know you didn’t like apple picking. You said it was boring and moaned all day because there was nothing to do stuck in an orchard.’ Or when Sadie condemned an outing she had clearly enjoyed Angela would put the record straight. Afterwards, Sadie would burst into tears and say her friends would laugh at her. ‘You might have agreed with me,’ she would burst out, ‘you didn’t have to spoil what I was saying and make me look stupid.’ ‘You didn’t have to lie,’ Angela would say. ‘But you should be on my side,’ Sadie would shout. ‘You’re never on my side—always against me. Other mothers are on their children’s sides.’ So Angela stopped having tea with Sadie and her friends. She could not bear to be a party to her daughter’s more extravagant fantasies, and equally she was not willing to pay the price of spoiling them. Sadie had challenged her loyalty and left her confused as to where it lay.
On the top of the Kilmar Tor they all collapsed onto the ground, panting and groaning with the effort of rushing the climb. The children were impressed by themselves and so Angela, disparaging their achievement to tease, reeled off the list of hills she had tackled before she was twelve, all with Grandad. That amused them—they could not imagine Grandad climbing anything. Angela said if it had not been for Grandma he could have climbed Kilmar Tor with them all that day.
Always, it was a case of if it had not been for Father, Mother would have done this or that, and that if it had not been for Mother, Father would have done one thing or another. But they had married, not after any whirlwind courtship but after a four-year engagement at the responsible ages of thirty and thirty-four. Mother, at thirty, had married Father because she was afraid she would never have a home or children. That was what she claimed, driven into a corner by a shrill-voiced young Angela crying ‘Why did you marry him?’ Not for love. She never said she loved him. She said she wanted to have children and to have children you had to get married and Father asked her. Nobody else asked her. At seven, Angela was too young to feel the pain of a confession that later tormented her—a confession Mother need not and ought not to have made to her small daughter and yet a confession she was eager to offer. Angela did not even know if it was true—oh, she did not doubt nobody else had asked Mother to marry them, but had she really no feeling for Father? A woman of such honesty, a Christian who prayed so hard for guidance? Fury had raged in Angela’s heart—the desire to smash and crash the house to pieces, the dreadful urge to hit Mother, to bash her and scream at her for this humiliation, this lack of expectations, this willingness to take second best because nothing else was available. Thoughts of what she might have said to Father, of bargains she might have made with him, were unbearable. Father should not have accepted her terms, if he knew what they were. He should have resisted Mother, who only wanted to be a mother.
From a long way off they saw Mother and Father as they descended down the path they had climbed. They were walking backwards and forwards across the small area of even ground. Father had folded up the collapsible chairs, which rested against a giant boulder, a glaring patch of artificial colour against the greens and browns. He looked up and saw them and waved. He pointed them out to Mother and Angela knew she would be saying ‘I can’t see them, I can’t see a thing with my eyes, no good pointing anything out to me.’ But she stood leaning on Father’s arm, craning upwards, and then lifted her hand in a faltering fashion and waved a handkerchief. They all shouted and yelled and waved back, jumping up and down in the air the better to be seen. ‘I couldn’t see you,’ Mother said when the
y were down, ‘but I heard you.’
‘Well,’ Father said, almost as soon as they were all settled in the car and on their way back, ‘that’s it. A lovely day. Thank you very much, very nice. We’ll soon be back in St Erick now. How many more days have we got?’
Nobody said anything. Angela yawned. Trewicks were always home in spirit by the middle of any holiday just as they thought of Christmas on the beach in August and of Easter sweeping the snow in January. The silence seemed to annoy Father. ‘Home again, home again, jiggety jig,’ he said loudly, and then, ‘Well, have you enjoyed your holidays, Mam?’
‘Very nice thank you,’ Mother said, automatically, her lips hardly moving. She had retreated into herself. Angela saw how mild and benign she was feeling—she would not react, however hard Father pushed her.
‘What have you liked best, then?’ Father persisted.
‘Oh, everything.’
‘That’s not much of an answer,’ Father said. His tone was dangerously jocular. ‘I don’t think much of that.’ But Mother was quiet. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘where shall we go next year? Eh? The world’s our oyster.’ Mother’s continued silence and the lack of response from everyone else made him restless. He fidgeted with his seat belt and fiddled with the window. ‘We could turn left here and go round that way,’ he said to Ben. ‘I think I’d prefer going straight back,’ Ben said. ‘Oh well, just as you like. You’re the driver. You’re the boss.’ He kept quiet for a few miles and then began to whistle ‘It’s a long way to Tipperary’.
‘Do you know that song—eh?—Max? Saul? Do you know it?’
‘Yes,’ Max said.
‘Join in then.’
‘Don’t want to.’
‘Nobody seems to want to do anything,’ Father said, ‘nobody’s got much crack today. Cat got all your tongues?’ When nobody replied he said, ‘Like riding in a bloody hearse.’
It was very rarely that Father swore, especially in front of children. That was one of Mother’s more spectacular victories. So violent did Father always seem, so given to roaring and shouting throughout her childhood, that Angela had been surprised later on to discover that his supposed foul language was a figment of Mother’s imagination. Mother had made damn and hell and bloody seem foul, that was all. Any of those words made her burst into horrified tears and it was her shock and distress Angela remembered. That had not changed. The moment Father came out with his bloody, Mother shivered and frowned and pressed a hand to her mouth, the way she did when she was upset and afraid of showing it. But she said nothing.
Mother Can You Hear Me? Page 12