‘Anyway,’ I go on, ‘we can decide what to do when we get there, can’t we.’
Which, short of extracting a promise in blood not to pillage Dewhursts, is the best I can do to promote culinary restraint. ‘And now,’ I say, ‘I have a favour to ask you.’
So I distil Colin’s message into manageable parts – in fact, mainly the part where she will be required to look after the children for the twenty four hours between me speeding off to Brighton (where Kite are playing at the Rock Up Front festival next Friday) and the arrival of their father on the Saturday afternoon, ready to speed them across the channel for their annual fix of horizontal rain and garlic infested roadside frites vans.
She homes, as I’d known she would, onto the part that involves access to said ex-husband without the complicating factor of truculent (sic) daughter.
‘Oh, that’ll be no problem at all,’ she assures me. ‘We’ll have a lovely time. Perhaps Richard could come for lunch. He must be very proud of you, dear.’
Bah!
‘Richard doesn’t know.’
‘Oh.’
‘And I don’t want you to tell him.’
‘But..’
‘Because it isn’t his business.’
‘But why are you going to Brighton, dear? I thought you’d already done the photographs for that newspaper.’
‘I have, but they want a few more. This gig -’
‘Gig?’
‘Concert. It’s part of some sort of charity roadshow. There will be lots of bands playing, and quite a few TV celebrities involved. And I think someone Royal…..Mum? Are you still there?’
‘Royal? Actually Royal? Which one? Not Princess Anne, I hope. I’ve never been keen on her. I’ve always preferred Princess Michael of Kent. I always like watching her on the tennis. Or is that the Duchess of Kent? Will you get to meet them? Goodness, how exciting…’
‘I don’t know. My brief is to shoot Kite. I really don’t know much more until Colin firms up the details. I imagine there’ll be some sort of aftershow, so I suppose….’
‘Ooh, Julia, you sound so glamorous! Just wait till I tell Minnie! Now we’d better crack on. I’ll put Max on the Z-bed and Emma in the spare room. Would you like the sofa or the li-lo?’
Chapter 20
Our Holiday
Sunday
Sun, hot, lovely, lovely, lovely day etc.
I start the day feeling an unexpected seepage of positive mental attitude into loathsome depression/angst /fear of metamorphosis into second rate single parent combi. (Why? Bizarre pre-menstrual turnaround?)
But it is short lived. Only fifteen minutes into the M4 corridor and am already experiencing in-car turbulence vis a vis selection of musical accompaniment. Decide to stamp authority on situation (and, therefore, hopefully, remainder of holiday) by declaring all knobs/stalks/buttons etc. as total exclusion zone and conducting said mission statement as 95 decibel tirade. Put Kite; Flying High on, volume twelve.
Fifteen minutes into Kite; Flying High suffer sudden and debilitating attack of parental guilt, as Max apoplectic about perceived favouritism towards sibling. Agree to drawing up of musical accompaniment rota, in tolerance-friendly fifteen minute cycles. Heated debate over inclusion of Radio Four’s Desert Island Discs, as is forty five minute programme but also family travelling tradition (Unlike Early Learning Centre Favourite Nursery Rhyme Cassettes – a point of some pride chez Potter). By time have browbeaten offspring into sullen acceptance, programme is already at disc six, and guest’s voice is tantalisingly familiar yet infuriatingly unidentifiable. Decide must be ageing theatrical (boring) luvvie and submit instead to fifteen minutes of Throb FM.
Five minutes in, experience pang of wistful regret that never quite mastered Richard style of mobile parenting, i.e. SHADDUPPPP!I’MDRIIIIVVVINGGGGG!!!!!
followed by occasional ejection on to roadside for reinforcement purposes.
Later
Rest of population of South of England are clearly trying to go to my Mother’s house also. Sit in now stationary car, dispensing wine gums, and try to conjure mental picture of sitting in Mother’s garden, developing tan, with large glass wine plus Pringles, buzz of bees, scents of summer etc. Start and make stop again, this time at Happy Traveller, to partake of nutritious grease/chips/milkshake lunch, but coincide with coach party of Ghurkas – none have assimilated concept of queuing, but they smile so engagingly as they shunt relentlessly forward that instead of grousing and bitching everyone nods and smiles and says ahhh.
Much later
Arrive at Mother’s just as sun slides behind big cloud and nip forms in air. Sit in mother’s kitchen drinking tea from leaky art-deco effect ‘Potty’ teapot, listening to buzz of moribund striplight, drinking in scent of giblets boiling etc.
Monday
Rain
God. Offal problem already underway. Mother has almost inexhaustible supply of animal organs with which to prepare meals (sic) for remainder of holiday, and produces frozen wodge of pigs liver from freezer as we breakfast. Emma (still very tense/taciturn etc) announces,
‘I can see I’m going to spend the week vomiting, Mother’ and flounces from room.
Mother entertains Max with mild (fifteen minutes or so) rant about powdered eggs, bread and dripping, digging for victory etc. Plus expresses concern about volatile nature of youth of today/additives in orange squash/ rays that emanate from Sky satellite dishes causing leukaemia clusters.
See-sawing between mad, mad, mad at Richard and sensing seedling of self esteem in place concerning Brighton expedition/resurgence of proper career etc. But very damp at night. Wake in blue funk with bolt of terror about incontinence possibility, then recall properties of plastic li-los. Will camp on sofa from tomorrow.
Tuesday
Rain
Am good parent. Did museum combo today. Started with Natural History; dinosaurs (crap), sea life (crap) bugs(crap) followed by fossils (really crap). Had lunch in purpose built indoor picnic area (cheapskate sad family). Moved on to the newly re-vamped/ restyled (awardwinning?) earth galleries (okay), and did earthquake simulation exhibit (crap plus like, really bad taste, Mum).
Moved on once again, this time to more feverishly interactive exhibits of Science Museum. Paid extortionist on door, did engines (crap), miracle of reproduction (flicker of interest but ‘Mum, don’t! if touched moving parts.) Home to Croydon via Covent Garden and Piccadilly Circus, where did Goth Heaven type shops (wicked) and Trocadero (cool).
De-railment near New Cross afforded excellent opportunity to instil in offspring sadly lacking as yet sense of appreciation for heritage/history/culture, plus wealth of enriching experience visit to nation’s finest museums brings.
‘But it’s boring’
‘No. it’s…’
‘Boring.’
‘Tsk. You say that now, but you’ll thank me for it later. Look at what you’ve learned today…’
‘Mum, we do learning in school. This is the holidays.’
Wrong tack. ‘Not learned then. Discovered, been amazed by….’
‘You’re right. I had no idea there were so many styles of Doc Marten. Why can’t we live in London. Cardiff’s so crap.’
‘....the wonders of science and that amazing…’
‘Boring, boring, boring, boring…’
‘You wait till you’re parents. You’ll be bringing your own children to these places one day…’
‘What for?’
‘To look, to discover, to…’
‘...be bored.’
Hah. Offspring will regret thinking museums-with-Mother outing worst that can happen to them. Will be taken next week to Musees instead, where will understand only one word in fifty seven (Emma on German option at high school) and will be forced to listen to father recounting key points about Storming of the Bastille etc. Hah.
Eve.
Peak Experience Moment when Emma (screaming) found large blood vessel in nutri
tious brown stew offal type dinner.
‘That’s an aorta, that is,’ said Max.
Not a totally wasted day, then.
Wednesday
Low cloud, threatening rain
Shopping in Croydon. Not crap, as determined to make up for suspect parenting qualities by showering large chunk of promised pop photography fee on grateful (salivating) offspring. Return home from biggest, brightest shopping experience in South (apparently) with Tongue Twisting (or something) almost hang-out-looking-cool-by-themselves type K-Swiss trainers, and whole bag of seriously desirable Bench garb. Rashly quote cost. Mother speechless and dribbling.
And uncharacteristic and alarmingly frank telephone message from Richard, via Mother;
‘He says can you ring him as soon as possible, and to tell you he’s very sorry, and please can you talk. Julia, does this mean that Richard and you are talking…And are you and he are considering….’etc. etc. ad nauseum.
Clever ruse on his part to commission Mother as running mate, as some half hour after putting her straight, am still subject of big sighs and wistful expressions. She will, any time now, get-photographs-out.
Eve.
Much hyped visit to local community centre to admire exhibits at Croydon Seniors Pottery Workshop Annual Show. Mother announces only seconds before arrival that I am to be guest of honour and that not only am I to present the prize in the ‘freestyle’ category, as befits my new status as deeply fashionable person, but also that I am expected to give small pottery related speech (huh?) though strictly, of course, in my capacity as lay pottery fancier.
To this end, I spend some time taking my cup of disgusting tea for a turn around the trestles, and deep breathing to quell growing panic that I may too, some day, want to spend whole chunks of remaining time on planet gouging nooks and gullies from lumps of wet mud. Is there a sex thing at work here, I wonder? And will I get to do more of the real thing before it comes to this?
Freestyle winner turns out to be elderly man in checked shirt, knitted thing (jerkin?) and Hush Puppies the colour of baby poo. Unfortunately, his abstract piece, though painted mainly blue, looks so excruciatingly like a penis plus chicken skin testicles that am forced to feign paroxysm of coughing to disguise involuntary guffaw. Finally settle on,
‘Well, Mr Bledshawe, it’s nice to see such imaginative and contemporary looking work coming out of Croydon SPW. Is it ..er..splut…representational, at all? And..er..does it have a …ahem…name?’
He fixes me with a glassy grin.
‘It’s called Cold Phallus, he says.
Am tense and tetchy with Mother to degree that cannot resist pointing at small flower type thing on way out, saying,
‘And what’s that one then – My clitoris; a study?’
Unfazed, she leans to read the card with the details.
‘Barbara Pickles, ‘ she reads. ‘Hmmmm, it could well be.’
Later
Mood is deflected from unpalatable mental pictures of octogenarian sex games by copious anasthaesia-by-wine and by arrival, by courier (no less), of tickets/brief/itinerary/hotel accommodation details, from Colin. But still go to bed and dream of lonely pensioner vigorously (and fruitlessly) masturbating, by weak orange glow from one bar electric fire. Arrive with soup, cheese sandwich and benevolent expression and find it is actually Richard.
Thursday
very hot, very sunny, very little chance that maternal coast enthusiasm will be deflected
Mother up pre-dawn to hard boil eggs and make up flagons of squash.
Avoiding kitchen out of respect for integrity of stomach contents, spend gruelling half hour with children saying things like ‘you always love picnics once we get there’ and ‘but Eastbourne is so cool these days. They have joy riders now, you know’ and even ‘how about one hour’s unlimited pier access plus five pounds each?’. Then spend more productive thirty seconds shouting ‘GETUPGETWASHEDGETDRESSEDGET ONWITHITORELSE’ while Mother out of earshot in toilet.
Coast idea soon seems ill-judged, as sit in crawl of maternal hatchbacks on A22 knowing full well that will sit in similar crawl of maternal hatchbacks again on M23/A23 on way to Brighton tomorrow. Arrive in Eastbourne and find parking space a mere 1.6 miles from sea front.
Children mutiny, then rally, as realise route seaward involves walking past Skate Shack, Sport Locker, RamRomGameShop and MacDonalds. But are thwarted in their quest for a Big MacBreakfast by approx. one million European language students clogging exterior and knocking old ladies’ glasses off with neon backpacks.
Noon
Arrive on beach to find tide hurtling in at warp speed, and spend some moments in scientific appraisal of shingle wetness, in order to establish parameters of remaining beach availability. (As do not wish to sit within ten yards of any of other eight billion people on beach, in traditional sociable British style.) Finally make camp of twelve towels, two folding chairs, plastic sheet of dubious origin, cool box, carrier bag of crisps, mother’s Sun Lotions handbag, and £1.99 badminton set bought on prom. Spread picnic food in wide and daunting arc around us.
Noon plus ten minutes
Make new camp on higher up bit of beach.
After lunch (and departure of offspring to deposit £10 in pier management savings account) decide swim is called for, as blazing Eastbourne sun (hotter than Saharan sun, apparently) is melting the aspic in the pork pies and dessicating my contact lenses.
Begin process of strip to new sports-style bikini and audible gulp causes sudden realisation that there is something Mother does not know.
‘Ooh!’ she gasps, ‘that looks painful. Did you get a boil, or something?’
Ah,’ I reply. ‘Not a boil, exactly….more a…more a… ring…’
‘In your tummy button? Ugh! that’s absolutely disgusting!’
‘It’s fashionable. I think it looks rather nice…’
She picks up a Kit Kat and snaps it asunder.
‘Fashionable?’ she splutters. ‘The Third Reich was fashionable.’
Chapter 21
I feel kind of insulated this morning. I’m in a bit of a bubble. My personal escape pod (or, rather, Time-Of-Your-Life-Mondeo-Escape-Coupe) is speeding me on down shimmering tarmac, off to my new incarnation.
I had a call from Richard last night, half way through dinner. I have avoided speaking to him all week, of course, because I fully expected to shout at him – which would have been inappropriate and ill-advised given the constant proximity of mother plus offspring. But I had to speak to him last night because he called to organise things with Emma and Max. I shut the kitchen door firmly and took it in the hall.
‘Look,’ he said, plunging straight into what he now obviously feels is his role as committed father, moral arbiter etc. ‘I don’t think it’s very productive to keep this up, do you?’
I said, ‘I’m sorry?’ I still had a sprout in my mouth, so was caught off guard.
‘I mean this aggressive stance you’re taking all the time.’
Such breathtaking loftiness. I swallowed the sprout.
‘I’m not sure productivity is the issue here, but if you mean aggressive in its common usage as the word to describe not returning a telephone call then, yes, I’m being pretty damned aggressive.’
‘You see? That’s exactly what I mean. I can’t talk to you any more. I only wanted to apologise for Friday, but you seem intent on…on…’
‘On not being apologised to, quite frankly. I didn’t want to talk to you because I was very cross with you and…’
‘And, as I am happy to admit, quite justifiably so. I was out of order, I know I was out of order…’
‘And I wasn’t particularly interested in hearing your apology. Been there, done that.’
‘God! Julia, do you not have even the slightest sense that I might be suffering here too?’
I did. I do. Not sure (don’t care) about the Rhiannon position, but my guess is he’s not getting any more sex th
an I am. Tetchy, tetchy.
‘No. But I’m glad you’re taking the kids away for the week. It’ll be your first ever bit of proper single parenthood. And in French. And I hope it gives you an insight into what it’s been like for me for the last few months, even though it doesn’t involve work or Sainsburys or packed lunches or anything. Oh, and don’t let Max go anywhere muddy in his new trainers. Oh, and don’t worry if Emma doesn’t speak to you. Oh, and my mother is expecting you for lunch tomorrow. I reminded her that sautéed kidneys were your absolute favourite.’
When I stopped speaking there was complete silence. I thought he had hung up, but finally he spoke.
‘Why are you being like this?’
To my credit, I thought for a moment before answering.
‘Because, ‘I said at last, ‘it makes me feel better.’
He laughed then. Not a big laugh or anything, just a small, ironic, unexpected, ‘huh’ type laugh.
‘Funny,’ he said. ‘But it makes me feel better too.’
Bastard. What did he mean by that?
There’s some sort of sea change going on in my life all of a sudden, but I can’t quite put my finger on what it is. One thing’s for sure though, and that’s that Richard doesn’t like me any more. I don’t mean doesn’t love me, because I think he still does. Loves the wife he was unfaithful to, at any rate. I just don’t think he can cope with the me I’m turning into. And I am changing. I feel like I’m becoming a more vibrant and successful version of my former self. That my potential – creatively, socially, emotionally – has been unlocked by the trauma of my relationship with Richard, and that all of a sudden I’m in control of my own future. Pretty scary stuff for your average bloke, I guess.
I find I like my new self very much. In fact I would say I’m almost in love with myself right now, which is bizarre. I’m finding a sensual pleasure in my own body. I like the ring in my belly button, like watching myself as I dress in the mornings, like to stroke my own shoulders, caress my own arms. Like to touch myself now, with no thoughts of loss or loneliness. Really like that I can make myself feel good on my own. Curiouser and curiouser. Mad old bag stuff.
Julia Gets a Life Page 17