That there Shaun, was Goddamned pissed - as the Yanks would have put it.
Goodo.
Once we had Shaun’s agreement to get the loan, things felt like they were on more of an even keel. Lydia came home the next day. It was a Thursday morning and she had been dropped off by Julia and Malcolm, who were on their way for a long weekend in the Dales. I had arranged for them to park Liddy at her school during the lunch hour, which served two useful purposes; firstly, it meant that they could be on their way to their hotel more promptly and secondly it allowed me to avoid any awkward conversations as to why I had been hanging around with the Prime Minister’s posse.
I had been looking forward to seeing Lydia, but the girl was grouch-personified when I collected her from the after-school club. And on picking up Matthew from the day nursery next door the two newly reunited kids simply hurtled themselves headlong into the latest back-of-the-car sibling conflict. This one centred around whether Matthew should be allowed to listen to Thin Lizzy, or whether Lydia’s preference for Starlight Express should prevail. I screamed at them both;
“For God’s sake! You’ve only been together for three seconds and already you’re making this car sound like downtown Beirut!”
Which I realise is a rather 1980s expression, but I don’t get to read the papers a lot these days.
Matthew said;
“Do beetroots live in our town? I never saw no beetroot in Holmfirth.”
His sister hissed;
“We don’t live in Holmfirth, you little beast. How many times do I have to tell you? Don’t you understand anything about towns and villages and even what your own address is or… Ow!”
Matthew had thrown an empty carton of apple juice at her.
“Oi! Just zip it, will you?” I barked. “We’ll be home in a few minutes and if I see any more of this kind of behaviour once we get through the front door, there’ll be no more special permission from your headteacher for extra holidays away from school for you, Lydia.”
“Huh,” from the back seat.
“And it’ll be muesli for breakfast for you, Matthew!”
I glanced in the rear-view mirror. Matthew was already looking traumatised at the thought.
Lydia gave me her usual scowl and folded her arms. She glared out of the window and I noticed that she stuck her tongue out at a passing cyclist, who wobbled his bicycle in surprise. I chose to ignore her behaviour and, instead, slammed some Robbie Williams onto the car stereo. Now, whether Robbie’s artistic integrity would be offended if he thought that I’d used him as a compromise between ‘70s heavy metal and camp musicals, I don’t know. But it did the trick on a quick mood alteration. And by the time Lydia had kicked her school shoes off and dumped her bag on the hallway floor, she cheerily declared;
“Oh well. More school tomorrow. And it’s my spelling test. Hey – I wonder, Mum… if you ended up dying – like daddy did - if I’d get a whole year off?”
I like to think that she inherited her lack of diplomatic skills from Adam, rather than from her mother.
On Friday morning, the newspapers had more or less dropped 'Badgegate' and had resurrected the previous week's stories about the dispute over funding cuts between northern local authorities and the government. Shaun and Michael’s names were scattered throughout, with the alleged ‘spat’ between the Greater Manchester authorities and Whitehall. For some reason, Shaun seemed to have been appointed as ‘Anti-Westminster Spokesperson’ for the Mancunian Mafia. My sister found the whole state of affairs to be hilarious and I was the recipient of numerous texts and emails along the lines of:
VICKY: Ha! Russell Girls keeping press alive this week… Lydia’s religious obsessions & now the boys r fighting over her ma
ME: V funny
VICKY: Yehyeh – they say it’s @’cuts’ but we all know it’s @ who gets 2 feel u up
ME: Don’t b crude
VICKY: Ha. Gone r yr leftie credentials. Yr contributing 2 Murdoch empire now.
ME: Go & do something useful. Listen 2 The Archers
VICKY: Archers? Ur so RURAL these days
ME: Oh fuck off. Some of us r at work.
VICKY: I’ll forward that 1 to Mum, eh?
The following week passed quickly, but it felt like an age since I had seen Michael in London. Lydia asked about him several times. Would he like to chat with her on the telephone so she could advise him more on the best musicals to listen to? Could he get her her own House of Commons business card? That kind of thing. I felt a little bit antsy that she would mention ‘Michaelmas’ to her teachers, to the parents of her friends. Or even worse, perhaps, to my parents. But small children are rarely concerned with the same priorities as us adults. For Lydia, when her next wobbly tooth might appear and whether Matthew had stolen her joke dog turd and hidden it somewhere mysterious would always end up being the most pressing issue of the day.
Michael claimed to have had a ‘bugger of a time’ all week. The more senior members of the Cabinet had been summoned by the Prime Minister to Chequers for a few days;
“Where no – before you ask – we didn’t engage in dressage or clay pigeon shooting or whatever I know you’re going to accuse me of.”
“I wasn’t going to accuse you of that, Michael. I was simply going to ask you how your little jollies at the taxpayers’ expense went.”
“Ah, well. It was worth every penny, I can assure you. I’m a big fan of Chequers.”
“Who wouldn’t be? Still. Doesn’t exactly sound like a ‘bugger of a week’ – hanging out in the middle of the Buckinghamshire countryside in an enormous mansion. Wish I could take the women from Sisters’ Space somewhere like that for a bit. Do us all some good.”
“Well, I’m sure that the government would love to offer it to them, Rachael - but your lot scared the hell out of me when I met them, so heavens knows how the PM would react to them. The poor chap is terrified of his own wife – never mind a troop of marauding Mancunian man-haters.”
“Careful, Michael.”
“Ha. Sorry. But no – really. We had lots of fruitful discussions about various bits and pieces that the Party has had to be fielding over the last few weeks. And no, Rachael, none of them were to do with God or Satan or anything that your daughter might unwittingly have caused a row over. Not to worry.”
He returned Up North on the Thursday tea-time and had already been nailed by Graham the Griper for various constituency duties the following day. We had planned to go out for dinner together that evening, but it transpired that my mother had enrolled on a sugar-crafting class and that my dad was incapable of coping with both Lydia and Matthew on his own. Indeed, the thought of even having to spend ten minutes alone with the two of them, usually led their grandad to make a hasty retreat to his allotment to lie down on his emergency picnic blanket with a packet of dry roasted peanuts and a crate of Special Brew for comfort.
So, Michael tentatively suggested that;
“Why don’t we all meet up? You, me and the children.”
I mentioned a local soft play facility, not far from his constituency home, but his immediate reaction was;
“Christ, no! I’ve seen those dreadful places. They’re full of screaming kids. And no doubt dozens of parents who’ll want to kneecap me because my government hasn’t reinstated universal Child Benefit, or provided them with free nipple shields on the NHS or something equally crucial to parenting.”
Instead, we arranged to meet at tea-time at a local ‘Family Friendly’ restaurant, halfway between our two homes. Although I was looking forward to seeing him (my heart giving Skippy the Bush Kangaroo a run for its money) having the kids in tow was certainly not my ideal kind of arrangement. I threatened both children with;
“If I have any misbehaviour from either of you today, there'll be no more sleepovers at Grandma’s. Ever.” Which was a bit of a hollow threat – as banning them from the odd night at Mum’s would simply be cutting off my nose to spite my face.
“Who are we going to see aga
in?” asked Matthew as we pulled into the pub car park. Lydia replied;
“Michaelmas. Mummy’s old friend. Me and Mum saw him in London.”
“Yes – but he’s not old!” I objected. “He’s only er… I think forty-seven.” I couldn’t quite remember. The last time Michael and I had discussed ages we had been well into our second bottle of wine. I wondered whether I should grab my phone and do a Wiki on him. But I have never been a fan of Net-induced nosiness.
“Well, he’s old to me,” said Lydia. “And you’re getting a bit too old too, Mum. ‘Cause you can’t remember the ages of your friends anymore.”
“That’s exactly the kind of smarty-pants remark that I don’t want to hear from you for the next couple of hours.”
“Ja, Mein Fuhrer.”
“Liddy! You shouldn’t say things like that! Has Grandad been making you watch ‘Dad’s Army’ again?”
“No. That’s just what he always says to Grandma when she’s going on at him.”
We were already fifteen minutes late. I fretted as I looked for a parking space. I couldn’t see his Prius or any swanky-looking government cars. Just your usual Volvos and Mini-Coopers. Perhaps he had parked round the back. Or perhaps he had given up waiting for the Russell clan and was already heading back to Mottram. But as we entered the restaurant, I heard Lydia shriek “Michaelmas!”
He was behind us, following us in. Clad in bike leathers and boots and very nearly about to be bowled over by Lydia as she hurled herself at him.
“Gosh, well. This is all a very nice welcome, Lydia. But, erm. You can let go now.”
He was standing all-rigid. He didn’t seem to know what to do with his arms. Should he try and unravel Lydia? Or would that come across as being rude and unfriendly?
“Hello there,” I said. And then whispered; “I won’t kiss you in front of these two. You know.”
He smiled stiffly and nodded.
“Sorry I’m a bit late. I ran up against a bit of a problem with the starter engine on the Triumph…”
He tailed off, remembering the bike issue. But it was difficult to look all serious and sensitive when a small child was trying to jiggle you up and down.
“Oh dear… So, who’s your Special Protection today? Trevor?”
“No – Trev’s on leave for a week. I’ve got Ross today. He’s over there. He followed me over from Mottram. He’s terribly shy though. So, don’t expect a peep out of him.”
Ross had already found himself a seat at the bar where he was keeping an eye on things. I gave him a little wave. He gave me a little smile. Leave it at that, I thought. Big blokes carrying firearms who claim to be shy. Why push them to be sociable?
“But I like Trevor!” said Lydia, still doing her boa constrictor act. “Why couldn’t it be him today? We could sing ‘Annie,’ together. I know all the words now. For every song in the whole flippin’ musical!”
“Lydia, let go of Michael, please.”
“No. He loves it, don’t you, Michael?”
“Well, er. It’s very nice. But I think I’ve had my fill for today.”
“Lydia! Let go!”
“No! It’s nice to show that you care about people.”
Michael was looking decidedly uncomfortable. I snatched Lydia’s hands and began to prise them away from him. Liddy recoiled.
“Well, you don’t have to pinch me, Mum! I was letting go anyway – ‘cause Michael smells of old shoes!” She wrinkled her nose up in disgust. Michael was doing his best not to look too offended as he said;
“Well, perhaps it’s the smell of the leathers, Lydia.”
“Whatever. It’s odious and well pongy. And anyway, isn’t leather just like you wearing a load of dead animals all over you? That’s well freaky.”
Michael replied “I’m afraid that I don’t have much of a choice, Lydia. Until they invent a more substantial material that keeps one safe in the event of a road accident, then…” He trailed off.
“Let’s go and find a table, eh?” I gave him my broadest smile, trying to reassure him that I wasn’t at all bothered by his comments. But then Matthew intervened. My youngest was usually rather standoffish with strangers and wasn’t one for speaking until he was spoken to. Often, he would just growl if an adult that he had never met before asked him a question. But he suddenly poked Michael in the leg with a lightsabre that had accompanied him to and from preschool and nursery that day.
“My daddy’s got a motorbike,” he said.
“Has he? Er… I mean has…” Michael was struggling as to whether he should use the past or present tense in relation to Adam. I had managed to find a passing waitress who directed us towards an empty table whilst Lydia decided to help the conversational flow.
“Honestly! Matthew is so stupid, Michaelmas! He’s talking like... he can actually remember his daddy. Matthew’s rubbish! He’s forgotten everything about him already. He’s dead, Matthew! You shouldn’t talk about him, like he’s alive or summat. You little idiot!”
We had reached the table now and I had also reached the end of my tether.
“That’s enough, Lydia!”
Matthew whacked his sister over the head with his lightsabre and snarled;
“Well, you’ll be dead too!”
Michael looked appalled. Lydia grabbed a handful of Matthew’s hair at which point I had to physically separate them; “Enough of that! The pair of you!”
Five minutes later and both children were in their respective Time Outs. Lydia had been made to ‘stand in the corner’, where she was busily dead-heading potted geraniums on a shelf next to her. Matthew was at the other side of the room, facing the floor-length windows and being forced to look at the car park. I noticed that he was flashing his belly button at passing customers.
“Yes,” I said breezily to Michael, feeling a little bit more in control of the situation now that the kids were not so much in my face as previously. “I’ve tried every kind of disciplinary method going, but at the moment, I’m using Time Out.”
“Does it work then?”
I noted the doubt in his eyes as we both looked over at the kids. Lydia had managed to catch Matthew’s eye and was drawing her finger across her neck in a cut-throat gesture. Matthew responded by pursing his lips and spitting at Lydia.
“I’m ignoring them,” I told Michael. “The hardest thing to do – but apparently the most effective - is ignoring bad behaviour.”
“Are you supposed to ignore… well. Actual… spitting though? That’s a bit…”
I was getting irritated with him now. Although, if I am going to be honest, the frustration was mostly directed towards myself. I was horribly embarrassed at the performance that the kids were pulling on me, despite my earlier pleas, bribes and threats. And I was annoyed, too, because I honestly couldn’t remember if spitting was on my list of absolutely un-ignorable behaviours for this week. Hitting and biting definitely were. But as far as spitting and saying hurtful things? I had forgotten.
But Michael answered his own question. “Still… things are very different in terms of discipline these days, in comparison to when I was a child.” I decided to head him off at the pass.
“Yeah, bring back the old thumbscrews and the rack, eh?”
Michael reached over the table and stroked my knuckles with the tip of his forefinger.
“Actually, I was thinking more of the Scold’s Bridle when it came down to Lydia.”
“Ha-ha. And how typically anti-female of you, Michael.”
“Come here. A quick kiss whilst they’re not looking…”
But before our attempts at lip-aerobics across the table could be fulfilled, a sullen-faced teenage waitress slammed four dinner plates down in front of us.
“Needketchuporsaucesorowtliketha?”
“I’m sorry?” said Michael. I translated for him;
“Do we want any ketchup? Or any sauces?” Michael looked blankly at the waitress. She was tinkering with a false fingernail.
“Why would we want ketc
hup or sauces?” he asked. “We’ve both got the masala.”
The waitress looked at him as if he were an imbecile and then nodded at the Kiddy Specials for Lydia and Michael.
“Chipsnsausages.”
I smiled and requested the ketchup.
Lydia and Matthew had noticed that their meals had arrived. They both voluntarily abandoned their Time Outs, with Matthew complaining that Lydia should have had two minutes longer than him; “It’s one for every minute of her life!” he whined. He was right, but I couldn’t be arsed discussing it with him.
“Just eat your chips, spanner-boy,” Lydia hissed. The waitress slammed the ketchup onto the table and Lydia grabbed it, squeezing long, laborious laces across her food. Matthew seized the salt cellar.
Michael swallowed a forkful of his curry and addressed my daughter;
“You know, Lydia, you’re supposed to taste your food before you add any sort of… seasoning to it.”
Lydia had already shoved red-splattered food into her mouth and with gob open and chewed grub on display, managed to fire back at him;
“Well, you’re supposed to wash your hands before you eat. But I didn’t see you do it.”
Michael looked at me. I wondered if he expected me to tick her off again. I didn't do it, however. Perhaps because of Bev, I’ve developed an aversion – a low tolerance threshold – when it comes to commentary and criticism about other people’s food choices.
Matthew had already troughed his way through quite a bit of his food, although rather too much of it had landed on his lap because he was insisting on multi-tasking; lightsabre in one hand and head in the clouds.
“No singing whilst you’re eating, Matthew.”
“But it’s AC/DC. My daddy likes AC/DC!”
“Here he goes again…” said Lydia. She prodded the side of her temple and made a circular movement with her forefinger; “Tap tap, whirly whirly – cuckoo-cuckoo. Hey, Michaelmas – what do you do… you know – what sign or what noise do you make – to show that someone’s a total spanner?”
Cuckoo in the Chocolate Page 20